tagErotic CouplingsRiding the Moonpath

Riding the Moonpath


The hotel's pre-dinner free yoga class was only sparsely attended - one stunning redhead, one older-but-not-elderly woman, plus two brunettes and a couple of men obviously paired with them. Plus Herman, of course.

The instructor was a slender blond young woman, pretty, well-trained, a good teacher. Nice sequences of poses, good corrections. She was also a fiend for inversions – the class was now over 8 minutes into a ten-minute headstand. Because of his experience, the instructor had put him – the only student so chosen – on her own side of the room, so they were facing the gaggle of students.

Herman wasn't close to being tired yet – he was used to this, and enjoying the view. In fact, he was quite happy with the effects of gravity-reversal in headstand on the women's breasts. Shapes and textures- regardless of the owner's age - altered in unusual ways. He let his eyes roam, trying to be discreet, expecting that the other less experienced students were probably quivering by now and therefore preoccupied with just staying vertically upside down.

The two younger brunettes dropped first. Then their two men. A minute later the buxom young red-head he'd been watching most closely. The instructor came down, stood watching.

That left Herman and the older woman. He hadn't paid her much attention during the quick round of first-name introductions – Anita something, Anita Goldberg he thought – her signature was on the sign-in sheet just above his own. Pleasant, friendly, obviously well-educated and intelligent were his thirty-second impressions. Anita was considerably older than he, and built with Jewish-momma solidity, attractively thick-bodied without going to fat, solid wide hips, perhaps five foot four, five-five max. She was also seriously busty and carried them high – higher by far than usual for someone her age. And, too, of all the women in class her breasts were the largest, yet whilst inverted they deformed the least.

Herman studied her for a few seconds every now and then, face to face, upside down. Occasionally their eyes would meet, she seemed to smile slightly although it was hard to tell, inverted. Even at her age she was genuinely pretty, though, of that he was certain. Most likely as a young women she had been a real beauty. At her age and weight she should be DONE with headstand by now, long-since down, he thought.

More discreet study. She had very-carefully-coifed mid-length gray hair – when she went upside-down, it had shifted somewhat less than had her breasts - to the extent such a comparison is possible. Oddly, although obviously decades older than the rest of the class, she was the only woman student who chose to wear shorts so that the instructor could see muscles and joints clearly. Such clothes were one subtle mark of a more serious student. Her exposed skin was everywhere taut, even the backs of thighs and knees. Not just taut, but a simply gorgeous texture, especially on her face – Herman had seen the redhead, herself over-tanned already at twenty-something, taking second and third envious glances during warm-ups. Not a trace of arm-wattles. Her face was almost unlined. Perfect teeth behind nicely shaped lips carrying just a trace of pale lipstick, her only visible makeup. No jewelry at all.

He wondered what her actual age was? Clearly well beyond his own 36, but how much was a mystery – that mystery being, he knew, precisely what women at her age most wanted to accomplish!

The two of them finally came down at the instructor's order, and Anita's breasts resumed a more normal shape and hang as the class all stood. If she'd distributed the same mass and measurements on a 6-inch-taller frame, she might have approached his "ideal" – although he really had no such Platonic woman-image. He just liked women in all their variety. For all his notice of Anita, as the class stood with gravity the right way round again, he found the redhead more distracting.

At class-end during the cleanup melee he considered briefly which, if any, of the women he might hit on if he could generate a reason – the redhead was his obvious choice if he had to pick but she did seem a bit stand-offish. At any rate, Herman rejected the idea as being inappropriate, rude, and probably unproductive anyhow. Hotels really were not as good a hunting ground as is often portrayed – certainly not this older beachside businessmen's hotel. Besides, he was between significant relationships and not really eager to re-start the process – which really meant just that he was not yet excruciatingly horny.

Several of the students joined him in the elevator, punched buttons, none higher than 20. He reached for the high thirties, looked around enquiringly. Anita smiled at him and said "Thirty-nine please."

"Mine, too" he replied. Thirty-nine was largely reserved by the hotel for frequent guests who had developed a long-term habit of staying there – as had Herman. But he'd never encountered Anita before, of that he was sure.

Alone together enroute from 20 to 39 they complimented one another on the long headstand. He asked casually "See you tomorrow for more? I'm going to take the six AM class instead of the PM."

She shrugged, smiled at him and said "Certainly. I'm free, it's a little vacation, my schedule is open. I can do either class, so if you'll get up early, in time for it, so will I. Just promise you won't fink out on me! It's nice to have a familiar face in class."

He promised.

He handed her through the elevator door – she moved with a subtle dancer-like grace. Their rooms were at the same end of the single long hallway that ran parallel to the beach across the street. His room faced the ocean, hers inland towards the city and its framework of distant mountains. They entered their rooms simultaneously, with a short goodbye and reminders not to forget their appointment. After years of visits, Herman knew his way around the neighborhood. He went out for dinner (Cuban – a personal favorite) and returned with a bottle of fine merlot, expecting a slow and contemplative finish to his long day.

He stripped, showered, did a quick razor touch-up of his shaved crotch, a little erotic fillip he'd indulged in since age 20. Then it was just jockey-shorts, the hotel's robe, and the wine.

Nine PM, half a glass into his wine, he was sitting on his balcony facing the full moon and its glittering moonpath, with the sweep of the city wrapping outwards to the limit of visibility both left and right, when the city vanished. From horizon to horizon the lights blinked out simultaneously with a synchronized abruptness that was visceral, almost audible.

He snorted to himself – Mother Nature, probably, just showing who is really in charge. He didn't envy the city's power engineers one bit.

The full moon was so bright he could almost see colors. It was fairly low already, and shined right into his room now, illuminating it reasonably well, but he went and got his emergency flashlight from his briefcase, checked it. The batteries were new, it worked fine.

He sat back down in the balcony chair, sipped his wine, watched the moon and glitter-path – there had to be a nice but very gentle breeze offshore, making lots of capillary waves and nothing larger, to get such an effect. And, too, there was the moon herself: without the city's sky-shine, she was genuinely spectacular. As were the suddenly-visible stars. Lots of kids down there, he thought, probably had never seen the stars. Good for them to have a chance. He used his thumb to measure angles – a couple of hours to moonset. Nice. He stood, leaned over the balcony, could see not a glimmer of light all the way down the front of the building.

Then there was a short, sharp, unidentifiable noise from the hallway. Opening the door, flash in hand, he found himself face to face with Anita, wearing her own hotel robe. She was squinting into the dark from behind a very tiny - and completely useless - keychain light.

Herman greeted her: "Ah, Miz Goldberg, fancy meeting you here! Any idea what that noise was?"

She shook her head, eyed him in the dim glow of her miniature light and said "I have no idea whatsoever. And you, Sir, have the advantage of me. How did you know..." She stopped, paused. "AH, yes, the signup sheet. Of course. You're very observant, aren't you? Good memory, too!"

She extended a hand, which demanded a formal introduction. He shook it, then bent forward and kissed it dramatically. "Herman Schmidt, a votré service, Mam'selle!"

"Oho. A good Jewish boy!"

He released her hand and laughed. "No, sorry, not a trace even back beyond the sixth generation. My parents each had a special person named Herman, hence the name – my mother's favorite uncle, and my father's copilot in the Air Force. But the assumption is common from the name, and my Jewish friends all say I have lots of the characteristics both social and otherwise..." He paused, smiled into the dimness and said "Hell, I've even been properly circumcised, and by a real mohel, too. My friends have declared me an honorary Jew, which pleases me, but that's about as close as I intend to get to any religion."

She shrugged: in the umbra of his light beam, underneath her robe, her breasts moved entirely differently than they had on the yoga floor – obviously they were being held in a totally different bra. Or, perhaps, none at all?

"Oy, oy! Too bad for me, maybe! Well, here's another mild adventure, isn't it!? You should see the city from my balcony, it's all GONE. I've been coming here for over 20 years and never before such a thing. Come see it! Or am I being stupid, asking you to come see something that has just disappeared? Come anyway, take a look at least!"

She turned, led him through her room to the balcony. The city spread out ghostlike before them, illuminated by the moon and autos. Here and there a few emergency lights pricked the dimness. They stood and watched for a minute in silence.

"Beautiful. And the sky, too, isn't it? Such stars!" Anita asked.

Herman nodded, then realized she couldn't see him and muttered "Yes indeed." A minute later he broke the ensuing silence, asking inanely "Well, Anita... it looks like you're traveling alone on your vacation. And light, too, only one suitcase and a small one at that. Or perhaps you're going to meet someone later? A husband, perhaps?" Then, embarrassed, he muttered "Sorry. I don't mean to pry, none of my business of course. Just making talk, I guess. Consider it noise."

She faced him, thought about it for a second, and shrugged: her breasts again wobbled slightly beneath the dimly moonlit robe – if she noticed him noticing the wiggles, she didn't let on.

"So my new Herman-not-quite-a-Jew continues his observations, does he? No offense meant and none taken. You're right, I'm here alone." There was a longish pause that made Herman uncomfortable, as if he'd committed a social faux-pas. But then she continued: "Sinatra's song, Strangers in the Night, you know it?"

He nodded.

"Who knows how quickly they'll repair the lights, we may have a long evening together. So - perhaps a capsule summary biography is in order, one minute for each of us, just as an introduction. A good conversation starter and guide. Okay?"

When Herman nodded, she said "I should go first, since I proposed it. I, Mister Herman-not-a-Jew, am the original JAP – you know, Jewish American Princess. My husband Morris, may he rest in peace, and I came here several times a year for over fifteen years, both business and vacation, always alone because we never had kids. Then of course he up and dies on me seven years ago – on my sixtieth birthday yet! Some present, no? But then, he was twelve years older than me and had a bad heart even from childhood. He lived longer than either of us expected, really. Was a businessman, dealing in fancy cloth. It was his idea to put me through law school early in our marriage, back when I was still just a girl, and now I'm a retired superior court judge can you believe it? Nowadays I do binding arbitrations as a consultant. It's fun, pays well, hard work and as much or little as I want. Keeps my mind from rusting shut. I usually come here on business, but occasionally for old times' sake it's just vacation, like this trip. Your minute begins now!"

Herman was impressed, said so. "I won't take a whole minute. I'm an oceanographer, research scientist, here for a conference, but it's a favorite place. I come here a lot. Thirty-six, no kids, never married in fact. I'm sorry about Morris."

She smiled up at him in the dim moonlight reflected onto the balcony by the darkened city and said "Thanks for the condolences. It's been a long time, people heal. Short bio, yours was. But you left out the fact that you're a confirmed heterosexual... unlike so many of my real-Jew male friends, especially the intellectuals."

He looked at her: "Correct. How'd you know?"

She smiled broadly. "You pay a lot of visual attention to women's boobs, my new Herman-almost-a-Jew. No homosexual male does that. QED."

He let the comment lie fallow, turned their attention back to the view. Finally, embarrassed, he muttered "Accept my apologies, please. I thought I was being more discreet than I obviously was. Sorry."

She was gracious, almost coy: "What's to be sorry about? I myself do like looking at the occasional attractive male. It should please and flatter a lady my age that you took so much interest, even upside down! No embarrassment on my part. I should, and I do, thank you!"

A few seconds passed: he said "Well, nothing much seems to be happening out there – power engineers are busy, I bet. We should take all possible advantage of the occasion. Do you drink wine, Miz Goldberg? I happen to have an open bottle of very good merlot on my balcony. The bottle is more than I can drink by myself and will spoil if not drunk soon. I'd love your company, I know I have a second clean glass available, and the view is utterly incredible from my room's balcony. Do you know what a moonpath is?"

She looked at him with the oddest expression, then smiled and said in a low, musing voice "Oh, yes indeed, I do know what a moonpath is. And I do like wine, and I will happily accept the invitation. If I don't have to dress for the occasion, that is."

He grinned at her, said "We're equally dishabille, madam. State dinners would probably be more productive and interesting if the participants dressed this way. Allow me!" He took her arm, led her across the hall and through his moonlit room.

Seated in his balcony chairs, they oohed over the moonpath as they savored the wine. He explained the capillary wave field and its effects on the light.

Anita went pensive for a few minutes, then sighed deeply and looked over at Herman, both of their faces clearly visible in the moonlight. "Mister Herman not quite but almost a Jew, that moonpath is spectacular. Thanks for inviting me – I'd forgotten, almost. When I was a girl, my family had a little cabin by a lake, and I had an attic room with a window that let me look out at the moonpath during summer months. I did that a lot. Stared down the path and daydreamed. So this is very, very nostalgic for me, and in an especially nice way." She patted his knee and ended with "Thank you for bringing me over to see this. It's truly beautiful."

Moments later, Anita stretched her arms overhead, winced, and muttered "Ow!" Herman looked quizzical, she lowered her arms and told him "So much headstand, and all those arm-stands too, in one ninety minute class. That woman is a positive hog for the upside-downs, isn't she? My trapezius are almost on fire!"

Herman set down his wine, stood, stepped behind her chair, hovered his palms just above the offending regions. "Happy to do a little massage if you'd like. I'm not a pro, but I do have some idea how to do it, and a little experience. Permission to touch?" Anita nodded: he started. He got the pressures just right: "Wonderful!" she told him.

Then as he worked her traps she began to rotate her head in a circle, loosening her neck muscles. On the third rotation, now tilted far off-axis, the back of her head encountered his hip, swept slowly across his crotch, up and onto the nearly full erection that had built up over the past minutes.

She paused, her head against the bulge, then tilted her head even farther back to look up at him. She didn't miss how the movement of her skull along his cock made his breath hiss briefly – nor the fact of his hands stopping. Both items were unexpected, and both pleased her inordinately. "What's this, my new friend Herman?" she asked softly.

Herman had no idea how difficult it was for her to take advantage, even this minimally, of what really had been an accidental contact.

"Well, little girl..." Herman began with a wicked grin, "...that is what's called in the vernacular a hardon. It's either a symbol or a symptom of my being strongly sexually attracted to you. It doesn't have to mean anything beyond that, but it's not something I have complete conscious control over, you know!"

She rolled her head back and forth gently. Still looking up at him she said quietly "Sexually attracted? I'm plenty old enough to be your grandmother. Such an attraction sounds, well, strange. Maybe rising to perverse? Weird at the least. Don't you think?"

Herman shook his head: "Nope. Not odd, not at all! You're a beautiful, intelligent woman. Age is not a factor in that evaluation. And if you don't believe me, ask yourself, 'Whose boobs did Herman pay the most attention to in class?' – you're an observant person yourself, Anita. Do you know the answer?" She did, but it puzzled her. Herman resumed gently massaging.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and muttered "I can't imagine what you find attractive about them! They're just boobs!"

Herman snorted incredulously and pinched her traps hard enough to make her squirm. "Anita, they are NOT "just" anything! They are genuinely beautiful breasts. Wonderful shape and texture and size, with lovely big nipples. Nipples that make my mouth want to do interesting things to them. Very, very sensual and attractive, your boobs are, Madam. And they fit perfectly with the rest of your body. Great packaging! You are one very attractive, and very sexy, lady. Don't you go "just-boobs"-ing your chest to ME, madam. Not allowed!"

She giggled slightly and said, eyes still closed, "Herman, you're embarrassing me, I'm not accustomed to hearing such things from anyone, let alone such a beautiful and so much younger a man. Anyhow, I can't take any credit - it's DNA that provided the size, the mass. There have been times I regretted their size, you know. They CAN – and do – get in the way. And some very expensive lingerie engineering provides most of the shape and texture these days. But thank you for being so kind."

His hands stopped, his fingertips slid up the back of her neck to her earlobes, paused as if considering something, then slid all silky-warm down the skin on the sides of her throat, underneath the collar of the robe, to rest along the topmost edges of her collarbones.

She hadn't in the least expected this: her breath caught solidly in her throat as electricity seemed to shoot downwards from his fingertips straight to her nipples, who stood up instantly erect, their areolas puckering tightly. Down deep between her legs flared a twinge of zero-gravity whoops, atop a gush of moisture the likes of which she hadn't felt for decades, perhaps ever, something she would have doubted could happen to her. Especially NOW, at this age!

But when after half a second the fingers stayed in place, didn't continue their downward slide, she felt a huge flood of disappointment wash through her – what was wrong? Before she could say anything, relief rinsed away the incipient self-doubt – he was being gentlemanly, that was all, his words proved it. Whispering, barely audible, he asked "Permission to touch?"

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