Twice Ten Point Zero (10.0)

Missy had never had a man say such a sensible thing to her: she had never, in fact, had a talk about anything sexual with anyone except her mother, and that only just tangentially. She managed to say "I keep telling you "thank you"! You come from a very different society. If everyone over there thinks like you do, then it must be nice place to live. But I find it very hard to believe that you can think me beautiful, or desirable. I have never been told such things in my life! My husband was my only man, and since he left I have just taken care of myself and my daughter. And my mother, who is getting old."

Barry snorted gently and said "Sorry to disappoint you, Missy, but although many Americans feel just as I do, others do not. There are plenty of men in my own society who have attitudes that probably can't be told from your husband's. But that's not me, or most of the people I know and like and trust."

She nodded: that made sense. His next statement both embarrassed and pleased her thoroughly: "Missy, I find you extraordinarily desirable. I'll tell you a secret. When you knocked, I was just getting ready to..."

He paused, she looked up expectantly. He grinned, turned quite red himself, which she thought was somewhere between totally ugly and monumentally cute.

"Well, I was going to imagine making love with you and masturbate. And not for the first time, either!" Her instant patented flush told him that she fully understood. "Because I have been doing that, imagining being with you, every night since we met. And you make me very, very sexually needy. So there!" His own flush brightened, but he didn't drop her gaze.

She was so utterly confounded that she could say not a single word. This was incredible: him, imagining making love to HER? Impossible that he could even THINK of such a thing. But how interesting. And complimentary, she guessed, at least in his mind, therefore in hers too.

Abruptly, Barry rose and stepped over to the desk, pulled a pad of hotel stationery from the drawer, took her documents and spread them before him on the desk. He sat for a few moments, then began writing with a strong, swift hand. Missy stood and moved over behind him, where she could see over his shoulder. He had beautiful penmanship.

The letter was short, detailed, and strong. It was not what she would have written but she understood every word, and could see exactly why he said what he said and why he said it in a particular way. He had a great deal of practice at this: she was unbelievably lucky!

He finished it quickly, with signature, title, address, and an invitation for the reader to contact him for further information. He looked up at her and smiled, asked if he had left out anything she wanted to include. Would it do?

She nodded, and whispered again "Thank you!" as he folded it neatly and put it into an envelope. He rummaged through his briefcase and added several of his business cards, then handed the envelope to her. She didn't know what to do, and said so.

He stood up in front of her: he was truly gigantic by her standards, although not nearly as big as many of the tour members. Gigantic, but comfortable to be near, even though they knew one another so little. That was another strange thing: she had never felt such ease in the presence of a man before, especially in a private setting, and even more so after her unfortunate marriage.

He stopped her wandering thoughts: "I think it would be a good idea if you left now. We can talk a lot more tomorrow, after I cool off. You are a very great temptation, and I don't want to get either of us into trouble, and I also don't want to take advantage of you. Which I will definitely do if you stay much longer."

He put his hands gently on her shoulders and said quietly, "Missy, you are a very brave woman. I admire you. I also think you are beautiful and intelligent. I want to help. So, when you start to make all this happen, I expect you to contact me and let me help in any way I can. I am perfectly serious. Do we agree that you will do so? Have I your promise on that?"

She nodded, happy and pleased.

Then he took her face in his hands again. She thought how easily he could squash her head, his hands were bigger than her face, yet they held her with such delicacy, as if she were a work of art painted on an eggshell. She wondered what he would be like if he were excited or angry?!

He whispered almost fiercely to her "So here's my pay for the letter. I get to know you better, we discuss your plans together so they make sense and will work, and this..." He kissed her again, lightly, and so fast that she had no chance to respond. Not that she would have known what to do, since kissing was not in her repertory. No dating, no necking. Lots of movies, though, so at least she could imagine things. And imagine she did, images from film and books whipping past like lightning single-frame shots. But she couldn't move.

Then he turned her around and with a firm pressure escorted her carefully towards the door. He opened it for her, ushered her out into the hall, said softly "Good night, beautiful lady!" and shut the door.

She stood there speechless in the empty hallway. In the dim light of a few twenty-watt bulbs, the line of closed brown doors seemed to stretch to infinity, almost like some abstract version of hell. In her hand was the letter she had so greatly desired and needed. It was perfect. And this crazy big round-eyed man! He wanted nothing for doing such a wonderful thing for her. Nothing! Except to help her in her quest, and to get to know her better. It was unbelievably romantic, straight out of a fairy tale, and it had happened, really happened, to HER.

She shook herself to see if it was a dream, established that it was not, then took one step down the hall. She stopped, considering. Bravery? She didn't think of herself in those terms. Nor beauty. Nor intelligence, really. He must be crazy!

She made up her mind, turned, and knocked gently on Doctor Barry's door again. One tiny rap with her knuckles. Now her heart was genuinely pounding, as if she had just finished a competition floor exercise. Her armpits were drooling wet.

The door opened and her own Doctor Barry stood there before her, towering over her. He looked at her very hard, then before she could say anything, he stepped towards her, half into the hall. There was an amazing bulge beneath his robe, and her fright descended upon her again, but he was holding her by the shoulders and saying "If you come back inside here with me, then we are going to make love. No ifs, no ands, no buts, lady. You have had your chance to escape from me! You can still say either yes or no, so choose carefully. Take your time."

She looked at him, heart thumping so loudly she felt he must be able to actually hear it. Instead of saying anything, she just raised her arms towards him.

He smiled, whispered "OK, so be it!", then leaned down and scooped her bodily into his arms, lifted her into the room with him, turned and shut the door with his foot.

She was torn between being terrified of what she had started, and the desires she was experiencing and couldn't even name for their newness.

He carried her, she thought, as if she were a feather. He stood her beside the bed in the bright light. She whispered "Darker, please?"

He shook his head and replied "Nope. I warned you already that I think you are beautiful, and I mean it. And beauty like yours can't be properly appreciated in the dark. I intend to study every millimeter of your body, to touch it, to memorize it. Besides, it is so much fun to be able to watch one another!"

She flushed: that thought --watching!- had never occurred to her, but she was intrigued. She knew so little, and it seemed like he knew so much. She hoped she was doing the right thing. She wondered if she would ever know what the "right thing" was?

He was slipping the top of her dress down again. He was a fast learner, she thought: one lesson and he had it figured out perfectly, no fumbling whatever. The gentle slither of silk against her nipples felt like fire and ice combined, a whole new sensation. It didn't take long for her to decide she liked it. Then her breasts were completely free. She shivered slightly as his thumbs stroked down their sides, as gentle as a butterfly landing on a flower.

Then he was on his knees before her again, but now his hands cupped her shoulders from behind and pulled her slowly towards him. Her belly trembled, then flipped as he engulfed first one, then the other, nipple with his mouth. She groaned: he inhaled almost her entire breast, sucking and gently chewing. Instincts working perfectly, she reached for his head, pulled him hard against her.

As she wallowed in the sensations generated by his lips and tongue and teeth, his hands were doing wonderful things to the nape of her neck, to her earlobes, to the delicate skin along her spine. Then somehow they were pulling her dress down even farther, it was slipping over the slight womanly flare of her narrow hips, pooling on the floor.

She found herself suddenly petrified at the idea of him being able to actually see her in the nude; her only similar experience had been so totally painful. Rather than step back into his vision, she moved forward to press against him, almost hiding, out of his sight. But the roughness of the terrycloth robe was wildly different from the cool silk, but perhaps even more arousing. Especially with the hard foreign body and warmth inside it.

He wrapped her in his arms, released her breast from the confines of his mouth, pressed her to him, one hand cupping both of her buttocks, the other cradling the back of her head. She kept coming back to how BIG his hands were: the palm by itself could hold most of one of her buttocks. Not only could, but did, and felt as if it were designed for the purpose. Between them, still beneath the terrycloth, his erection made a huge lump against her upper thighs and crotch.

Then he kissed her. She wanted that to happen, but she really had no idea what it entailed, what it would feel like, what to expect. Strangely, her mouth seemed to be on fire, liquid fire. She immediately found that mouths were very nice. No wonder there was so much kissing in movies and novels! She kept her eyes closed, followed him as if they were dancing, he was leading, instructing. Coaching her in this new sport.

He explored her, she encouraged it. Silently, he invited her to reciprocate, and she did. He tasted minty, clean. His tongue-tip left traces of fire on her inner gums, almost all the way to the back of her palate. Better than in the movies, far better than her imagination. This she could get well and deeply into!

Just as she was relaxing a little he picked her up again, cradling her easily in his arms. She kicked to free herself of the tumbled dress now tangled about her feet like a mis-wrapped turban, and shook off her shoes as well.

She was naked now, for she had been ultimately daring and worn no underwear tonight, something she could not remember ever in her life having done before -- a salvageable part of the original now-defunct plan. It felt so nice, too, quite shocking and forbidden!

The panic returned as he faced them towards the big wall mirror. She refused to look at their reflection. He didn't insist, but whispered to her that she should try to get his robe off while he held her. That didn't seem possible, but somehow, with him shifting her weight from arm to arm, they managed. It seemed so silly, but somehow right. He had made her naked, now she was doing him. Symmetry.

The robe fell to Barry's feet and he kicked it away, then stood her on the floor beside him, turned them to face the mirror squarely. She had her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She couldn't stand it if he were to have her husband's reaction to her body. That would devastate her.

From their first touches Barry had decided that this was going to be a virtuoso encounter, for her sake. Therefore, she was going to have to unlock her eyes at her own pace. It was obvious that she had never had anything like a decent erotic experience with a man, quite the opposite. Care and tenderness were needed, and above all patience. The result, if he handled things correctly, would be very much worth the effort, for them both.

Gently, he stroked her all over, using palms and fingertips. His eyes feasted on curves. Muscles. Shapes and textures. Colors, light and shadow, interplays of plane and line and curve. He described to her what he was seeing: she kept her eyes shut, listening, trying hard to see herself as he was describing. It didn't work well, but it was very nice having him describe her in such glowing terms.

Barry murmured "God but you are beautiful" over and over, until her gentle trembling stopped and was replaced by tiny movements of encouragement, like a cat seeking a stroking hand, until the moment when he put his fingertips against her eyelids as if to open them for her. The idea didn't scare her so badly as at first. He stopped behind her, with his fingers still on her lids, and whispered into her ear:

"Missy, I know you had a terribly difficult experience with your husband. I understand. But believe me, you are genuinely beautiful. You can't judge that for yourself, only someone outside of you can do so, and I'm going to be that person. What your crazy, stupid husband said, and how he behaved, were HIS PROBLEMS, not yours, and certainly not MINE!"

He paused: "Now, I'm going to open your eyes for you in a second, and you'll be looking right into the mirror. But I am going to keep my eyes closed until you tell me I should open them. That means you won't need to look me in the face and be embarrassed. I understand that! And while my eyes are closed, I'm going to explore your whole body with my hands and tongue and lips, and I'm going to tell you what I think and feel about it. Your job is to just pay attention to what I'm saying, and enjoy yourself. And to watch us in the mirror -- we are going to make a lovely couple. You'll see!"

"Then, when you feel you're ready, you can tell me to open my eyes, and you can do the same thing for me. I'll be yours to explore any way you want. There is no hurry, you know. Hurrying is the enemy of pleasure between a man and his woman!"

Her heart did a double-take: "His woman?" That's what he had just said: maybe that was just his way of referring to his partner of the moment, to any partner. But it did feel nice! She nodded silently.

The entire universe behind her was filled with Dr Barry, he loomed there like a storm cloud. Where he wasn't actually touching her she could feel the heat of his body bathing her skin. Her mind was in a strange, foggy place: it was odd, but there were no sounds in their universe save those they generated. She could even hear the two-toned whistles of their breathing.

As he began to touch her, she felt swarms of goose-bumps grow and migrate en-masse across her body, realized she had never felt such intense, and pleasant, sensations in her life, and it seemed likely that there must be something inherently wrong with receiving so much pleasure, it just wasn't part of the human condition, it could not be right, moral, proper.

Could it?

Or had she perhaps been mistaken about the details of that condition all along?

Then his fingertips released her eyelids, slid them open, like shutters on their private world, the opening scene, start of the show. There they were, together, in the mirror, tiny woman and big man. Startling, beautiful. He was behind her, eyes closed as promised, looking almost meditative and certainly very happy. He was crouched slightly, pressing his chest to her back, cupping her breasts in his hands, letting her nipples protrude between his fingers. Squeezing first breast, then nipple, back and forth, left, right.

Behind her, against her lower back, his erection made a comfortable presence, its curve fitting the long indentation of her lower spine perfectly. Barry's face was visible above her shoulder. She studied his expression: it was relaxed, concentrating, beatific... and there was no doubt about how much he was enjoying himself. That helped enormously: she had never been told, much less shown, that she could actually please a man with her body, not in any way.

Tentatively taking the initiative she rolled her back slightly against him, making his cock work in her spinal groove. He sighed and smiled, returned the wriggle. She liked the exchange. It was non-threatening, mutual, warm, close. All good things.

His lips tickled her earlobes. She was surprised at their sensitivity. More unexpected sensations! He talked slowly and quietly, describing details carefully, as his fingers explored. She listened, gradually relaxing, eyes following the voice and touches. He explored her with fingers and tongue and lips, all over. Went around her, counted vertebrae with his teeth, cupped her breasts with his hands, let his lips tickle the backs of her knees, then trace the crease of the bottom of each butt-cheek.

He undid the French roll, let her long dark hair fall forward over her shoulders so that each nipple peeked through a veil. That was very artistic-looking: it pleased her, the view in the mirror. Imagine, seeing herself as a living work of art! Very like classical calligraphy, black on near-white.

He told her about her breasts' multiple textures, his fingers raised the areolas into corrugated circles with tiny pylons of nipples in their centers, told how he loved the rough and smooth, her private and special shapes and colors. He described how much he liked her flat belly, compared her navel to an almond in shape, wondered at how she had managed to stay so trim and small.

His hands went slowly down her legs, feet, ankles, backs of knees, the creases of her buttocks. And her bottom gave him rhapsodies: it was very well-shaped to his taste, not the board-flatness along the back which was so common in the local women, but rather with a good protrusion and curvature that made his palms itch to cup it.

She breathed a quick explanation of her size: her family's women stayed small, didn't gain weight and breadth the way so many others did, and she had produced a very small child, only a kilo and a half at birth, the birth had been no problem despite her own tiny size. He moved to kneel in front of her: kneeling, he was almost as tall as she, not quite, and it put his face at just the right level for playing his wonderful games with tongue and teeth, along the underside of her breast, a place she would never have thought to tickle for herself.

He put her hands behind her head, spread her elbows wide, then spent a minute exploring each armpit with his lips and tongue, exclaiming over the length and sparseness of her pit hair. She shivered at the touch: even the thought of this was alien, but the reality seemed so natural and desirable.

She vaguely felt she ought to protest, because after all, truly nice Chinese women didn't do such things (Did they? If not, then why not?) - much less enjoy them, but she kept still. Doctor Barry was doing the evaluation, not she. He had told her to just enjoy herself, and, like every good obedient traditional Chinese woman, she was doing exactly as told by her man. Sometimes, she thought, traditional roles could be advantageous!

Then his thumbs were tracing the edges of her crotch as he sucked on her nipples: down the side-creases they went, softly, carefully, trailing fire. She was shivering as they moved towards what she knew was their target. Then came the gentlest stirring of the scanty pubic hairs at the edges of her vee, like ripe wheat in the first winds of a rising storm, his fingers arrived first, then other things, quite different but unseen.... she couldn't see in the mirror exactly what he was doing because his head was in the way, but it produced the most wondrous, warm, insanely intense tingling, it had to have something to do with his mouth because he was silent now for the first time in long minutes.