Reunion - Maribeth's Fantasy Ch. 01

It wasn't long after our "reunion" after 23 years of losing touch that I learned about Maribeth's fantasy journal. I believe that she was embarrassed to reveal its existence and it was only when I began to share some of my own that she finally revealed that fantasies were an important part of her life and the journal was where she hid them.

When she first chose to share this with me was just after we had returned from a memorable ten day stay in Mexico City. I had shared with her some of my erotic stories that I had begun to write on long business trips, particularly when they were out of country. In one, I wrote about an exclusive sex club in which females were required to be nude at all times and it had revealed a hidden desire that Maribeth thought was unconscious until my fantasy pulled it to the surface.

It seemed to be a key to a lock that opened a whole new chapter in our relationship. The open sharing of fantasy is a wonderful aphrodisiac and we both plunged in enthusiastically.

Maribeth's journal was a 5x7 inch red leather bound folio. The entries were all in her beautiful small script and when she first showed it to me I held it lovingly in my hands for a long moment looking at the gold embossed letters on the cover that simply said, "Journal."

We were sitting at one end of the living room couch in Maribeth's home surrounded by her cats who were being curiously protective. Maribeth, dressed only in the beautiful multicolored silk robe I had given her after a trip to Japan, snuggled close enough that when I opened her journal she could read along with me.

The title at the top of page one simply said, "Prologue." My eyes dropped to the first paragraph and I began to read aloud.

Prologue

So I have chosen to write. Having a memoir has a certain appeal, perhaps it is merely my vanity. Perhaps it is to have some evidence of my existence to leave behind as I have no children. Perhaps it is that I have reached the time in my life where I am looking at my future through my past, and a memoir is my method of re-finding myself. Affirming my identity, if only for myself.

I am not sure how one goes about writing a memoir; I am not given to reading such things. Is it appropriate to consider the present and reflect upon the future before moving to the past? Or should I begin, "Once upon a time...?"

I have no true idea, so I will simply work my way about it. Supposedly a memoir ought to be entirely written by the autobiographer, but I will include the correspondence I've had with my lovers. The letters that were written to me, and by me. There is prose that has been dedicated to me, poetry as well. Shall I include these things? Perhaps I might, perhaps not. My memoir does not have to be written by me entirely, it is my memoir. I am writing for my own gratification and I have been known to be capricious. I think I shall also include my fantasies. In moments alone I have played a few so often in my mind that I have come to regard them not as fantasy but rather as memory.

Yes, there's definitely a place for those.

The question is now, where should I begin? So many things crowd to the front, things that were life altering, or stand out in my memory as special. In my mind, of all my lovers, I miss Gary terribly. My most vivid memories and fantasies are about him. Perhaps I should begin at the beginning, where I lost my virginity and discovered that sex was a wonderful exploration of the senses. Such innocence in my almost juvenile paintings. I still find myself smiling fondly at the thoughts of my naive and delighted virginal love.

No, now that I think about it, the loss of my virginity was not the beginning of my sexuality. It was before I visited Gary in Virginia and he assisted me across the threshold into womanhood. No, it was earlier. In his apartment on Maplewood Avenue that I learned the beginning of sensuality and learned to crave it, to crave all things sensual rather than simply the base act of sex. My introduction to the full eroticness of my body would be the perfect place to begin my memoir. Perhaps debauchery of the flesh is too overwhelming for some, but for me it is the celebration of my life.

Chapter 1: The Beginning of Sensuality

I first met him at a Halloween party at his fraternity. A fellow whose first name was Hal, whose surname I have long since forgotten, asked me to be his date to the party, but he didn't own a car, so he asked Gary to pick me up and 'fetch' me, then shuttle us back to his place.

Besides me, there were two other females in the car, one's name was Vicki, a platinum blonde, but I forget the other, but both seemed to be looking for Gary's favor. On the way, the two girls were giggling something hysterically and whispering'...it'a cherry...a cherry...' I must have had a look on my face akin to SNL's Church Lady. Gary made an attempt to apologize for their behavior, but I was wondering if he was bringing both for himself.

I don't think I saw Hal for fifteen minutes the whole night. Gary did not lack for feminine companionship, but once he asked me for a dance. It was a slow ballad and he pulled me tight against him. I was feeling a warm glow that began in my chest and spread outward. I don't remember much about that first dance except when Gary whispered in my ear, "You're a terrible dancer." It was true, I felt I had two left feet, but he followed his comment with a depreciating laugh which seemed to assuage my embarrassment.

Much later, and to both my surprise and joy, we ended up in an upstairs bedroom making out on top of a bunch of coats that had been thrown in a bed. Gary kissed me like nothing I had ever felt before. Later we went back to Gary's apartment. Norb and his wench met us there and hormones raged for a couple of hours, kissing, touching and 'making out.'. No one, especially me, remembers Hal; he was a very very quiet nonverbal mousy person and I guess I was only 'technically' his date.

Gary and I dated for the next two months, with many dates ending up in his apartment on Maplewood. They were the most enjoyable days of my life. My body had just started to bud into womanhood and I was joyfully getting used to the growing weights on my chest and the creamy feel in my slit when Gary kissed me.

Unfortunately, for me, Gary graduated and was commissioned into the Army. Vietnam ruined our relationship, but I still fantasize about him.

This never actually happened, but I wish it had.

I had chosen to major in psychology because my aptitude for most other areas did not satisfy me. For example, my artistic abilities, while enough to wile away time, were never going to provide a living. I could not abide mediocrity in any arena, least of all my chosen field. Instead, I took my passion and channeled it into the academic side.

It was with this mindset that I began my relationship with Gary. So it is understandable that I often thought deeply about what was happening between us.

Once, I thought of us in his apartment. We had been discussing how men and women view the world differently and we had been discussing art, and specifically the Venus de Milo. I had opined that women might view themselves as Venus. The pinnacle of the female ideal, when Gary asked me a question.

He gently asked, "forget what you thought, what did you feel?"

Maybe I wasn't paying attention, because I tried to be analytical in my response. He used his hand to turn my face to his and looked deeply into my eyes.

"No, inside of you, when you closed your eyes and let your head fall back. What did you feel?" My embarrassed blush stained my cheeks, and I blurted, "Awe."

Gary's hand fell and grasped my arm, and I was suddenly aware that he was the epitome of the male predator, not the kind that hurts women, the kind that seduces them. Had I been a little more worldly, a little more knowledgeable, I would have recognized his movements as such.

Gently, so as not to frighten me no doubt, he picked up my hand. "What did you feel here?" He pressed my fingers to the tip of my breast, brushing across the nipple that was still a hardened point.

Helplessly, I stared into his eyes, shocked and languorous all at the same time. "I looked at the statue, and..."

"... and your nipples grew hard. Tell me what you felt inside, tell me what it was that made your nipples hard."

I closed my eyes, thinking back to my eyes running over the picture, "It was the touch," I murmured. He said nothing while I remembered the erotic pose of the statue. She has such a leonine grace, such a feline sexuality that touched me. "I want to be with her, I want to be her."

I opened my eyes again, snapping back from the reverie that had threatened to overtake me. Gary was contemplating. He watched me as if I were some new piece of fascinating sculpture, a piece of art that he itched to touch. I felt helpless against the sheer magnetism of his gaze. I was too young or too naive to understand it, much less defend against it. Reflecting back on the few moments when our eyes locked, I recognize that this was the pivotal moment of my life.

He lifted a hand and extended his finger, pressing the digit to my lips. His voice was husky and soothing, "What is your name?"

"Maribeth." The feel of my lips moving along his finger was decadent, wrong, and thrilling. My lips tingled and the sensation flowed through my nerves.

My sheer innocence still astounds me. I had believed myself in control and that I knew exactly what I was getting into. In my ignorance, I had thought that there would be nothing more than sex and that would that. Our bodies joined elementally and then on to our separate ways. I fully believed that I could beard the lion in his den and walk away unscathed and unchanged. If I had known what Gary would teach me about myself, would I have still gone to him? I like to think that I had the courage for it. But I will never know.

"I can see how art touches your soul, but I want to know about a different touch, how do you touch yourself?" he murmured, regarding me with burning eyes. Even as ignorant as I was, I recognized the sexuality in them.

I flushed a deep red and couldn't lift my gaze from my tightly clenched hands in my lap. What should I tell him? Some inanity easily tossed off? That I touched myself as all silly college girls must? Or should I tell him the truth? That I enjoyed touching myself? Tracing my fingers along my collarbone, rubbing my cheek on my shoulder, the gentle caress of my thighs touching, sliding my toes down the length of the opposite calf, or a myriad of other small, daily contact to which I was addicted to?

"I touch myself like everyone else does." I had taken the coward's way and chosen to be non-committal.

I met his eyes, shocked that he'd noticed me and even more shocked that knew me so well

"Stand up, Maribethl."

Diffidently, smoothing my carefully chosen skirt, I stood up. I felt more in control standing, but more conspicuous. I wrapped my arms around my middle and tried not to run. "Stand on the rug by the window" he ordered.

After a moment's hesitation, still unsure, I did so. I felt like a statue on display in his apartment, a feeling that made me shy at first. The shyness rapidly became a languor. His expression softened, perhaps a recognition of my sudden arousal. "Take off your clothes. Slowly, as if you were a statue."

I understood what he had meant. The decision to do as he directed was simple and easily made. It frightened me to feel the clashing of the intense desire to do so and the sudden shame that it was my nature.

Even though I did not know it at the time, with the undoing of the first button on my blouse I was acquiescing to becoming his student. Not a student in a school, but a student of my own body. I was accepting the new direction in my life. My index finger gently tracing the slope of my skin from the top button to the next confirmed it. Gary knew what I did not, that I was a sensualist.

"The next button, Maribeth." He sounded impatient to my untutored ears, as if he were as excited about my slowly revealed skin as I was. Entranced by the thought that he might be reveling in my body as well, I slipped the next button from its hole.

With every new button opened, I had new territory to touch. I spread my lapels open and thoroughly explored my chest and my throat, loving the tiny bumps that rose in the wake of my fingers. My eyes shut and my head lolled, perhaps I groaned. More buttons opened until there were no more and my fingers were hampered by the band of my skirt.

Lifting my head, I noticed Gary. He was staring at, unmoving, his eyes following the paths my fingers took. I paused for a moment, fascinated with the silent tableau we represented. Male and female, separated by distance, yet united by arousal. I may have been naive, but my baser instincts were on alert.

I moved my fingers over my belly, watching him intently, then dipped them past the waistband of my skirt. Hesitating a moment, I couldn't find the courage to continue. Cursing myself for a silly girl, my eyes dropped to my feet and tears welled. The couch sighed seconds before I felt his presence. The incredible heat of his body came across my back reassuringly.

"You are a beautiful woman, Maribeth," he murmured, "there is no need for shame."

"I am a slut."

"You are a living work of art. To watch you touch yourself is..." He trailed off, stepping closer. Despite the spare distance between us, he seared me as if he were touching me with a brand. Something brushed the back of my skirt, then pressed more firmly. My eyes widened in surprise as I realized what it was. His erection nudged at my buttocks, then settled comfortably between them.

I shut my eyes when his hands found my bare shoulders. He traced his fingers down my biceps to my elbows, leaving aroused skin in their wake. "You love touching yourself and I love watching you do it. You are a sensual girl, there is nothing to be ashamed of. It's your gift."

Shivering in his embrace, I believed him with all the naive innocence of a girl who had only been exposed to fumbling boys. His fingers found mine, intertwining them gently. Tugging my hands with his, he brushed his knuckles, and consequently my fingers, over my belly. I closed my eyes again, sucking in a sharp breath. The heat of his skin seared me in ways I'd never imagined. I felt a rush of fluid arousal pour through me.

"I want to teach you all about yourself and how to enjoy your body. I want to teach you how to share your body with others," he murmured in my ear. I sighed heavily, loving the feel of his hot breath stirring the sensitive flesh of my neck. My head lolled back against his shoulders and I surrendered myself to him, to his superior knowledge.

"Teach me," I whispered.

"I will change you forever." He was arrogant in his proclamation; he was also correct.

Our fingers moved up my rib cage to brush the undersides of my breasts. I gasped, the nipples tightening almost painfully.

"I will not force you. You must do it of your own free will."

I didn't even have to think about it. I was seduced by my own sexuality and the heat in his. I accepted his challenge, and by doing so, accepted my place as a sexual woman.

Taking his hands with mine, I brushed along my skin to my shoulders. I pulled the straps of my bra down along my arms, until I had to disengage from him to take it off. His fingers traced designs on my bare back while I tossed the garment onto the blouse already pooled on the floor. My fingers went instantly to my breasts, kneading and caressing them. I loved the feel of them, the firm roundness and the sharpness of the nipples. I had blossomed later than my girlfriends and I was both relieved and fascinated by the change it made to my body.

He kissed the point of my shoulder, watching the progress of my hands. It was thrilling to touch myself in front of him, to be as wanton as I wanted. The shyness I'd felt earlier was rapidly evaporating beneath his approving regard.

I lifted my head in surprise, blinking back to the here and now when he moved away from me to sit on the coffee table. His eyes were even with the swell of my lower belly, reminding me that I still wore my skirt. Suddenly I itched to share myself with him, to show him my body and my arousal. Whether he joined in it or not wasn't a factor, only that he enjoy me. I found the buttons to my skirt and undid them. He smiled.

Rather than tear off the skirt as I'd done in the past, I shimmied it down my hips, lowering it by degrees. I enjoyed teasing him with flashes of my forbidden flesh. He licked his lips several times, as if he were trying to restrain himself from tasting my revealed skin, and adjusted himself inside of his pants. My fingers itched to touch him, but I pacified them with my own body. The skirt slid to the carpet unaided when I'd gotten it to my thighs. I stood clad only in my panties, a white cotton pair that fully covered me. I had thought them incredibly sexy when I bought them, though years later I see them as plain and schoolgirlish.

I hooked a thumb into the waistband and tugged them down a little, exposing a hint of pubic hair to his gaze. It was the first time I'd shown any man what lay between my legs. Even for Gary, I had never taken my panties off before, and it excited me incredibly.. I slid them down my smooth legs. The unmistakable aroma of my sexual arousal wafted from the damp crotch. I ought to have been mortified, but the rich, earthy scent made my blood pound.

"Give them to me," he ordered. I froze in the act of dropping them into the pile of my clothes. I couldn't fathom what he'd want with my panties. Mutely, I handed them over to him, secretly thrilled at the thought of his masculine hands touching my most intimate garment.

Gary lifted my panties to his nose and inhaled. I couldn't tell, but I thought his tongue had flicked out to taste them. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I had heard of perversions in men, but hadn't thought to witness them. Gary was tasting and breathing the wet sexuality of my body. The image burned into my mind and still has the power to arouse me.

Without thinking, I spread my legs a little, giving my hands room to slide into the wet space between them. Usually I would stroke myself, paying attention to my thighs, my hips, the curve of my ass, and the sensitive sides of my knees. Instead, I sank my fingers into my sex, parting my labia and rubbing at my clitoris. He let out a guttural expletive and dropped to his knees in front of me, pressing his cheek to my inner thigh so he could clearly see what I was doing.

I found that his eyes on my masturbatory fingers were the most exciting things I'd ever felt. Just knowing that he was between my legs, fully clothed, while I touched myself for both of our pleasures, filled me with a voluptuous heat. My panting cries, normally suppressed for fear of discovery and consequent reprisals, echoed throughout the room. My breathy moans mingled with the soft growls from his throat and the stillness of the room. The sounds became such a part of each other and so mingled with my growing orgasm, that the memory of it will bring a rush of wetness to my panties even now, years away.

"You are beautiful," he told me, running his tongue over my wet knuckles.

My fingers made contact with my erect clitoris and my body convulsed, dissolving in orgasm. It hurtled me into a loud joy where the smell of my vagina mingled with the smell of his aftershave, the touch of my fingers melted into the touch of his tongue, and the sight of the stars behind my eyelids became the sight of him kneeling between my legs to watch my masturbation. I screamed, throwing my head back and letting the orgasm fully overtake and possess me.

It was the first time I had so given myself over to my own pleasure that I had not given a thought to Gary's. His satisfaction turned out to be psychological rather than physical. I learned something valuable, something important. My pleasure, my obvious and uninhibited joy in my own body was an aphrodisiac to him. Indeed it is something most men crave. I did not realize then that Gary intended to teach me, or more correctly allow me to discover, the depths of my being and what was in my soul.