Quicksilver

Dirty-blonde Mitzi and charcoal Shahira, her wide, fluffy Afro tied back, swam lazy laps in the steaming pool. Mitzi saw us. She waved, submerged like a seal, and surfaced near where I laddered down and Nate augured-in with barely a ripple. She hugged me, and then him, a little longer. I tried not to feel jealous.

"Hey Shahira," she called, "Lydia brought this big package back. He even looks better than Romero." She looked hungrily at Nate. "You're going to be a regular here?"

He gently splashed her. "Could happen. Or, looks like. Or, for the foreseeable future." I was glad to hear that.

The Black girl swam over and hugged me. She stretched an arm to Nate. He shook her hand.

"I'm Shahira and you must be the infamous Nate that Lydia rants about. Damn, you look better built than a boxer! You into anything serious?"

"I was on my school swim team in San Diego and worked as a lifeguard, and I'm a bike courier now. No boxing. I never liked people hitting me."

"Smart guy. Nothing like a few dozen concussions to wreck brains. How do you avoid getting wrecked by traffic, y'know, biking downtown and everything?"

"Oh, it's easy. I just assume they're all trying to kill me and I take evasive action."

"I know that story. I've done evasive actions all my life." She grinned and dove.

Nate swam a dozen fast laps. None of us even tried to keep up with him. Then he joined my arm with his and moved us to the pool's center. We wiggled our feet to spin slow circles there, barely fast enough to stay on the surface.

"What's that wargame theme song you mentioned? Is it fit for here?"

He grinned. His baritone echoed in the pool space, to the tune of the 'Colonel Bogie March' from 'Bridge On The River Kwai'.

  ♫   Hitler, had only ONE LEFT BALL   ♫   Goering, had two, but they, were, small.   ♫   Himmler, had something sim'lar   ♫   And Herr Goebbels, had no balls, at all, dum, de dum, de dum dum   ♫

No, that was not fit for the office. I giggled.

We idly chatted with each other, and with Mitzi and Shahira, and with Romero when he dove in and slowed down from his fast laps. Time just flew by. Then Nate said he'd had enough.

"I've had enough," he said. "I'm nearing the prune zone now. You want to stay longer, Lydia?"

"Enough for me too. And besides the dinner we'll eat, Figgy will demand nourishment, too. I'll show you what to feed him."

"Whaaat?" Shahira exuded incredulity. "Your damn cat lets this guy in your apartment? He must have strong vibes." She swam to him and fondled his arm. "Yeah, I can grok that!"

I tugged his other arm to pull him away from her. "Unhand him, wench! We'll be back."

We hit the locker rooms to dry and dress. I toweled my hair and fantasized about tonight. But when I came out, I worried. Nate, wearing jeans and that plaid flannel shirt, was talking on the office phone. Would he find more excuses?

He emerged smiling. Julia was dried and robed now. He touched her elbow but watched me.

"Everything's copacetic, no emergencies or events, and I must admit I'm hungry. Lasagna, you said? Wine, you said? How about a wet washcloth to remove cat hairs from me?"

Julia stared at him. "Figgy sheds on you? You're close enough for that?" She looked at me. "He's a keeper, girl. Cats almost never lie. Unless it suits them."

I blushed proudly. The night was looking good.

=====

I wore my work suit as we walked hand-in-hand to my home. His pack looked deflated.

"Just my dirty work clothes now, and some extra underwear. I left my Speedos in the locker since I'll be back. With you." He squeezed my hand, and indirectly, my heart.

He followed me in my front door. "This dark hall is like a tunnel of doom. Can you do anything more with it?"

Figgy ran up to him, a black shadow in the gloom. "I can barely see the cat." Loud purring revealed Figgy's location.

I led Nate — and Figgy, now nestled in the crook of his strong arm — out of darkness. I shrugged when he could see me. "The landlord doesn't want me to put mini-spots to light any paintings I'd hang here."

"I saw lots of your work hanging in other rooms. Do you paint here, too?"

"The studio's just past my bedroom. I get a nice, soft north light there, the artistic kind. Want to look? Shoes off, first." We dropped them in the nook by the end of the dark hallway and trod into my home in socks and stockings. Figgy's hairs are a bother to sweep up; street dirt is much less welcome.

My bedroom door was open and I was glad I had tidied-up this morning. My studio door was closed, as always. I love Figgy immensely but that studio is no place for a curious, hairy cat.

The easels, work table, and supplies were ordinary. My paintings cluttered the walls. Nate peered at them closely.

"I saw portraits and nudes, and sparse cityscapes and nature scenes, hanging in your living room. Much of it is pretty sensual stuff! Your landscapes all look like thighs and butts and the florals look like boobs and vaginas. Do you exhibit anywhere?"

"Thanks for noticing but zillions of plein air painters infest the countryside. Portraitists aren't rare, either. You think the music biz is cut-throat? The gallery scene is fatally nuts. This is only my hobby, and craft... and a minor obsession, I guess. Some of us do what we MUST do, and I paint because I must."

"Well, I play and sing because I must, but also for a little money. Have you sold anything?"

"It's been pretty personal and I haven't tried. Do you really think I should show these?"

"I've seen lots of 'fine' art in offices, and more in graphics departments and commercial studios, and you have nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe not wild enough for Rolling Stone magazine's office walls, but I'm sure many folks would love to see these. I'll stay alert for prospects."

"Would you sit for a portrait?" I was afraid to ask for a nude pose. Maybe soon...

"Hah! Too bad my guitar's at home. But I'll try this Tom Paxton verse a-capella:"

  ♫   ♫   Way down at a Broadway party   ♫   I met a little lady who was very arty   ♫   She took me home to see her studio   ♫   ♫   Well, she whipped out her paints and she whispered to me   ♫   She said she wanted to 'do me'   ♫   And some of that paint will never come off, I know   ♫   ♫

"No oils, please. If you paint me with tempura, will Figgy try to lick it off?"

*I* sure wanted lick him all over but I wouldn't say so. Not yet. So I only squinted at him and held my hands up, my fingers forming a rectangle as if framing him. He still held Figgy.

"That's tempera, not tempura. I won't fry you. And if Figgy gets oral, I should take Polaroids. But before he does, how would you like dinner? Maybe some wine first? You can watch me reheat the lasagna and chop a salad."

I pushed him out of the studio and closed the door. He followed me to the kitchen.

"Sounds wonderful. But first..."

He carefully put Figgy on the floor, and gently hugged me, and calmly pressed my lips with his for a soft kiss. His moustache tickled me a little.

"Thank you for all this," he said, and kissed me again, no tongue.

I would have ovulated then were I able. Yes, it was around that time of the month. I was on The Pill for protection, sure, but mostly to keep my cycle regular; that was my excuse. I hugged him tighter.

"Okay mister, you're welcome, but let's get it on, alright?"

That damn double entendre just Freudian-slipped from my mouth, I turned my head to hide my blush. Then I pushed away, but slowly. He mostly released me; his hands stayed on my arms, then freed me. I did not try to escape.

"I mean, I'll do-up dinner now. I'll throw the lasagna in the oven and take care of the rest."

I set the oven to preheat. Now I had time to fill.

"Put on some music if you want. Oh wait, I almost forgot the wine. Let me pour some."

I uncorked the half-gallon jug of Almaden Pinot noir and half-filled two wide Burgundy glasses. I gave him one and held mine up. He clinked his with mine and toasted, "To friendship and more." I shivered again. Damn, what he does to me so easily!

I pushed his chest. "Find some music now, then return for my salad-making show. Go!"

He walked to the living room. Figgy followed, the traitorous cat! Music flowed a minute later, that great Ormandy take on Debussy's 'La Mer', one of my favorites! I hummed as he returned and sat at the little kitchen table. Figgy jumped in his lap. Was that cat hypnotized?

"Water music is always good before or after swimming, right? This was almost my theme song."

"I've always loved it. It just feels so oceanic. I'm so glad you put it on!"

"Happy to please you m'lady. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Just stay out of my way for now. I'll feed Figgy, then us."

The oven was hot enough; I closed its door on the lasagna and set the timer for long enough. I pulled the bag of cat kibble from its high cupboard where Figgy could not steal it; he is fat enough already. He immediately abandoned Nate and rubbed my ankles. He has his priorities!

I refilled his food and water; and I braved the bathroom to sieve his catbox litter before anything else. I did the dirty job and cleaned myself thoroughly, then changed in my bedroom from work clothes into better comfort. Thin sweat pants and a chess-queen t-shirt sans underwear felt appropriate. My boobs would swing freely. Now, back to work!

I know he saw my unfettered breasts. But he did not crudely stare. A gentleman, yes!

We mostly chatted about music as I built the dinner salad and set the square Mission-style dining table so we would face each other. All the furniture in there had an Old California look, enhanced by my painted florals and Golden State landscapes. Our glasses emptied as if by magic; I refilled them below their brims and put the half-full Almaden jug on the table for replenishment.

Figgy had finished eating. I knew what came next. I went to the living room and slightly opened the window, his portal to the backyard. He would stay within the high fences, poking around curiously, enjoying the air in reasonable safety. He would not disturb our dining.

Salad into spacious bowls. Lasagna out of the oven and cut for plating, me with a small square, Nate with a rather larger hunk.

"Don't be shy about refills; I know your appetite now." He smiled.

I passed him the bowls and plates for the table. We carried our wine glasses and set them at our places. Before I could pull out my chair to sit, Nate took my arm and pulled me to him.

He hugged me. "Thank you, lovely lady."

I pushed into him, my breasts into his chest. He kissed me, not too hard, not too long. Just right.

We sat. We raised our wine glasses and clinked them again. "To whatever is next," I said.

We exchanged smiles and tucked into our feed. We both ate European style, with the heated lasagna first and the cool salad later. Nate politely but quickly ate his portion; I took his plate for another ample serving, and another soon after. He was ready for salad then.

Our dinner chat was mostly about art. Nate loved the Vorpal Gallery's showings of MC Escher's mathematical masterpieces; the prints on Nate's walls echoed the Vorpal's original etchings. He also loved the psychedelic African scenes of Jesse Allen, a white artist born in Nairobi, Kenya, but his wall lacked those images as affordable prints were hard to find. I loved vivid non-abstract art by many artists but I followed my own vision quest.

We finished, and cleared the used dishes and cutlery. I brought two small dishes of nutmeg-dusted custard from the refrigerator. We spooned our simple dessert slowly. I might have lasciviously licked my spoon.

Nate replenished our wine glasses and we chatted a bit more before a final table clearing. At the sink, I washed and rinsed; beside me, he dried and stacked. Our shoulders and arms brushed. My breasts quivered. I was happy and hopeful.

=====

We took ourselves and our glasses to the living room. Nate had already flipped the Ormandy disk for its two long charismatic waltzes. I chose the next: Ozawa's recent recording of Rimsky's 'Sheherazade', more stormy, windswept music. Were we setting a mood?

We sat close on the sofa and, after sipping, set our glasses on the low table's smooth obsidian top. Grey and gold veins wove through its blackness. I loved this table, and it had been hard to find. I loved Nate wrapping my shoulders with his strong arms and holding me close. I turned so my breasts pressed into him. The girls squirmed a little. He did not seem to mind.

"Are we getting closer?" I whispered. "You can touch me if you... no, where you want. Where *I* want."

I moved his hands to my breasts. "Touch me here." He pressed softly, and mauled gently, and twitched my hard nipples. I moaned. I came, just a little. I wanted more.

I raised my colorful tee over my head, tossed it aside, and returned his hands to me.

"Touch me more. Use your fingers or mouth or whatever you want."

He caressed my breasts and inflamed my nipples with his fingers and thumb... and then with his tongue, lickling gently around areolas and across one nip and then the other. I moaned again and came a little again.

"You too," I said. I moved him away just a little and tugged at the base of his tee, tugging it over his head. I pulled our bare flesh together. He bent a little. We were nipple to nipple, and mouth to mouth, and then tongue to tongue. I think we tasted each others' tonsils. He tasted good, and not only from the wine. I pulled back and emptied my glass. He emptied his. Then he kissed my hungry breasts and sucked my needy nipples.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured. "I'm so lucky I'm here with you." He resumed sucking.

"You're so beautiful, and not just your strong arms and lovely legs," I whispered. "I'm so glad you're here."

Damn, I felt so good — but this was only a start. I lifted his chin so our lips met. Our tongues danced — a samba, I think, a swing so cool and sway so gentle. I went 'aaah'.

I pushed away again and stood. I did not need to pull him up with me; he rose on his own. The tone arm clicked at the end of the record side. I went to power it off, then returned to Nate.

"Let's get comfortable," I said. "In the bedroom. With the door closed so Figgy can be jealous."

He did not disagree, He lifted me in his arms and carried me — like a damn caveman! but gentler — over the door sill, the threshold, of my bedroom, like a groom with his new bride, and he stood me on the Oaxacan woven carpet on my floor, so soft, so real. I unbuckled his jeans and pulled those and his black briefs down. He peeled my thin sweat pants off. We kicked away those unneeded clothes.

We surveyed our naked bodies. He looked fantastic to me! He did not seem displeased with what he saw.

"Nate," I said quietly, "I want you."

"I know," he said. "I've known for a while. I want you too. You're so beautiful."

"What, an old broad like me? I can never—"

"Stop that," he interrupted. "You can be anything. You're a prime woman. I want you. I don't know if I deserve you." His hands stroked my shoulders, then cupped my breasts. I shivered.

"I deserve you," I whispered. "You deserve me. You're the kindest man I've known in so long..."

I shuddered. I held his hands to my breasts and then pushed them lower, down to my fairly flat belly. To my sleek hips, almost too slender for easy birthing. To my thighs, firm now. To my soul.

I freed him at my thighs. He stroked and held me. I moved my hands to his chest, to his belly and hips and thighs, and in between, to his manhood. I held his cock and balls, so warm in my hands. His cock surged without me stroking him. I felt his life in my hands. I almost cried.

We stood beside the bed, each watching as we stroked, and we murmured, humming toneless music, and always watching. But enough was enough! I pulled him onto my bed, to touch me and kiss me as I touched and kissed him.

Enough. I needed him.

"I need you," I said, and pulled his head between my breasts. He kissed my cleavage and moved a knee to spread my thighs. He suckled me again, and licked from my chin to my navel. I giggled. He kissed downward, along my inner thighs, to my knees and back up to my delta, kissing around my thin wild bush. He snorted. I gasped. He licked along my slit. I groaned. His tongue found my labia, licked around them, parted them, probed through, and into my depths. I wheezed.

"You okay?" he asked. I pushed his head back down. His tongue worked me again. Oh ghod!

I've read the phrase, "He licked her slit from taint to clit." That's what Nate did. I was in heaven.

He tongue-lashed my labia, my vagina, my perineum, all my sweet bits, and up to and around my clit, oh fuck! I quivered and shivered, quaked and snaked, and yelled, with my greatest orgasm ever, oh fuck!

I dug my hands in his longish dark hair. I pulled his head up. "I need your cock," I whimpered.

Nate was so strong! He picked me up, spun me around, and dropped my body onto his with my pussy at his mouth and his cock brushing my cheek, my nose, my lips. I opened and swallowed, oh fuck!

His tongue circled my clit. I shook. I took his cock deep in my mouth, then pushed back and circled his dickhead with my tongue, and licked down his frenum, and took him deeper into me again. He throbbed in my throat. I drizzled into his mouth. I could feel my leakage! And he only mouthed me more.

I do not know if he licked me so well for my pleasure, or for his own. A man who gets off by licking a woman to climax is a special sort of dangerous.

I was not as lightweight as I wished but Nate did not seem crushed. I braced my upper body on my elbows; my hands moved from stroking his thighs to holding his cock in place. His hands wandered over my back and sides, my butt and hips and thighs, and down to my feet for just the slightest erotic tickling, oh fuck! And then back up until his hands were between us, holding my breasts, his fingers slightly pinching my nipples, oh ghod!

I do not know how many times I came. I did not feel one continuous orgasm but many shocks, waves crashing upon waves, sweet tides of ecstasy rolling out and back in again, sweeping me away like driftglass. I felt his balls throb and his cock fatten dangerously but I did not want to just swallow his spunk. I wanted to fuck him. I wanted him to fuck me.

I would not let him control this. I rolled off him, off his thick cock and his wise, agile tongue. I rolled around and straddled his hips. I leaned down and kissed his hot mouth. Our flavors mixed. We tasted good.

"I will ride you," I told him. I held his cock, and guided him into me, and smoothly slid down until our pubes bumped. "I will fuck your brains out," I promised.

"We'll see," he groaned. I groaned too. His hands held my thighs as he pushed his hips up. I leaned forward so he could suckle me. I rode him, moving up and down, back and forth and around, shifting angles till his cock hit my clit just right. I fucked my own brains out.

I know he felt me spasm on him, felt my pussy muscles clench his ramrod. I know he wasn't quite there. He pulled me into him, breasts to chest, flesh to flesh, and without leaving me, he rolled us over into the missionary position, a simple motion with my arms and legs spider-wrapped around his body. I held him so close! He found space to move in and out of me, not too fast at first, then speedier, harder, ever deeper.

His mouth stole mine. We shared our tongues, and breaths, and souls, and our juices when he erupted inside me. I felt every molten drop of fiery sperm flood me with flaming passion. I had thought that earlier orgasm was my strongest but now I was overwhelmed! I screamed in his mouth. Good thing he muffled me, or Figgy might have been alarmed.