Blue Monday
A tap on my bedroom door drifted through the fog of my consciousness, followed by a soft voice asking,
"Hey, you 'wake?"
Before I knew what was happening, someone was crawling over me, toward the head of my bed. A litany of alarmed questions raced through my mind as sleep drained rapidly from my body. Is it morning? What day is it? Where am I? Then I felt body heat very close to my face, and my bedside light went on. I blinked my eyes open, and found myself inches from Calliope's charming bush, as she whipped off a large black t-shirt, muttering,
"Ah know you're awake now."
Her body gave a little shiver as I grabbed her soft, round ass with both hands, and pulled her as close to my face as I possibly could without touching her. I closed my eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply several times; each of my warm breaths produced a soft moan. Calliope had an earthy, spicy scent, and an image of waking up on a dewy forest floor, after sleeping under the stars, flashed through my head.
Her labia—the same rich color as her nipples—were already glistening in anticipation, and I began covering them with random gentle kisses, increasing the pressure and length of each one, as her breath came more urgently, rising and falling.
As I shoved her off my chest and rolled over, in a truly comical, ungainly motion, she yelped, then (in quite a passable imitation of Mae West) murmured,
"Oooh, go, Tiger, go!"
Moistening two fingers, I gently parted the beautiful, undulating folds. Calliope's breath grew more insistent, as I flicked the tip of my tongue into her, back and forth, ascending slowly through the delicate, dark pink petals. Her breathy sighs morphed into obscene snippets, spurring me on to work harder and faster. I complied, adding vulgar lapping and slurping noises to the chorus of sounds.
My efforts were rewarded by finding her engorged clitoris, standing out, determined to be noticed. I focused all of my attention on it, running the tip of my tongue all over it, nibbling it with my lips. After a few minutes, I gently wriggled one finger, then another, into that tight, now-somewhat-lubricated passage just beginning to reveal itself below.
A little teasing, deeper exploration, led me to a place that seemed to be [her words] "unusually responsive." Stroking and massaging that spot, I quickly learned the variations of speed and pressure that drew the loudest moans. I began sucking her clit vigorously, as if it was a miniature penis. Her moans became libidinous directives to continue these ministrations, mixed with little, breathy screams. Calliope's hips began to buck wildly, and when I finally used my teeth and tongue to apply a couple of gentle nips to her swollen clit, she screamed for real, her body shaking uncontrollably, and a torrent of effluvia drenched my face, hands, and everything else within range.
Abruptly pushing me away, she rolled onto her side, with her hands covering her face, sobbed a couple of times, and then she was very, very still.
After several minutes, I actually became a little worried, and asked, "Are you...?"
She sat up, looked at me briefly, then closed her eyes, and pulled herself into a tight ball with her head resting on her knees, saying,
" 'Course Ah'm alright. How about you just hush up for one fuckin' minute and lemme relive that in mah head."
"OK, then."
And, after a minute or two, still curled up, Calliope lifted her head and looked at me again, wide-eyed. Then, she reached out her arms and said, quietly,
"C'mere you. Gimme a li'l hug and a kiss."
I did this, completely enveloping her soft little body in my arms, patting her gently, and very awkwardly, not knowing what else to do. Wriggling free of my arms, she took my face in both of her hands, and I saw her grin mischievously. As she pulled me closer, she purred,
"Oh don't you worry, Ah am so not done with you yet!"
Then she let go of me, rolled over and off the bed, and headed for the door, saying,
" 'Sa matter, pussy—I mean, cat—gotcha tongue?" then disappeared, still giggling at her own joke.
Callie and I slipped, perfectly naturally, back into being friends. Just friends. For several months, everything was the same as it had been before her surprise visit to my room. We'd cook and eat together occasionally, watch TV together occasionally, and go out for a beer together occasionally. It was nice.
*****
Tell Me I'm Not Dreaming, pt. 1
About a week ago, you told me you had a surprise for me; then, an hour-ish before the doorbell rang, you said,
"Oh, hey babe, sorry I forgot to tell you—an old friend is in town, and she's stopping by in a bit."
"OK—we didn't really have any plans."
"It'll be fun."
"Might be nice to have dinner with someone new...? I should get cleaned up."
"Her kids are away visiting their father and their grandparents for part of the summer; so I invited her to stay for a week."
"Aaah, so that's the surprise, right?"
"Not exactly..."
And now, SHE is standing at our door, and you say, "Well, are you going to show our guest in, babe?"
She smiles, blindingly, and I am unable to move, or even speak...
<< When you and I first met, she was already a "celebrity" in our fairly large state university community. So far out of my league in popularity, not to mention looks, that I literally didn't even think about her, even though I knew you were friends. I saw the two of you together a few times on campus, but I don't remember ever meeting her. That is, until we were introduced at that legendary [in my mind, anyway] photo shoot in which you invited me to participate. In reality, it was an absurdly contrived, pretentious, art-school kind of happening, but I felt cool to be included. >>
Reaching around me, you grab her hand, pull her inside, greeting her with a bright, "Darling!" (Your other hand just happens to graze my crotch, as the two of you pass me, breaking the spell.) In the foyer, I see you do a hilariously exaggerated—and obviously practiced—air-kiss, then fall out laughing, and head on into the house, still giggling. I retrieve her two heavy, and very-expensive-looking, suitcases, heft them up the stairs, and deposit them in the guest room.
As I trot back down the stairs, I hear you exclaim from our living room,
"Girl, lemme take a look at you!"
"I was just about to say the same."
You both laugh warmly (and, it sounds, a bit conspiratorially), and I hear you summoning me, with a breezy,
"Hey babe, kick off your shoes and come join us in here!"
As I enter, I immediately notice that one of the Eames chairs that ordinarily graces the small café table by the window (our favorite crossword-puzzling spot) has been pulled part-way into the room. This disorganization is not normal. You've obviously started to show off our house, as you love to do, and I join you, trying to figure out what you have in mind. She smiles at me again, and says, warmly,
"Hey! It's been ages—you look great!"
We hug momentarily, and I attempt to return the compliment. [Even in my own mind, it sounds lame, and by any objective standard, needless. Yes, she's that attractive.]
Turning and pointing to a large, framed abstract photograph hanging on the wall nearest us, she continues,
"Wow, I can't believe you guys still have a couple things from that photo shoot—my ex took the ones I had. Bastard. This is beautiful. Can you believe," she says, to me, "that was really almost 30 years ago?"
Though her dazzling smile has left me almost tongue-tied, I manage to reply, briefly, and none-too-brilliantly,
"Thirty years—that's crazy, right?"
<< The picture we're talking about (which I made) is a rather abstract-ed image of the two of you. Tastefully nude, merged in a sinuously balletic, unabashedly erotic pose—you were lovers at the time, after all—it's about camera angles, light, shadow, and color, contorted and asymmetrical. >>
"Yes...one of his favorites," you say, "and mine too."
With a little pirouette-like turn, you wind up behind me. Your arms wrap around me, then you kiss my neck and begin massaging my shoulders and arms, and caressing my chest and stomach. She is still wearing that warm dazzling smile, but I see something else drift across her eyes (is it hunger?). You gesture for her to come closer, reach for her hands, and guide them to the buttons of my shirt, which slides easily off my shoulders. Her eyes widen a bit as she looks me up and down, and I silently thank you for cajoling me into signing up for a regular (and brutal) workout class at the gym. Apparently, I've managed to get back into reasonably good shape.
She glances at you again, over my shoulder, and you say, patting my hips,
"Hmmm, I don't think he's gonna need these either."
She needs no prompting this time, and begins to undo, unbutton, and unzip, then you gently tug my pants off and coax me to step out of them. Standing there, wearing only the de rigueur briefs with which you've equipped me—designed to showcase, even enhance, one's "assets" (again, thanks!). I'm slightly embarrassed. But I'm also more than a little aroused.
You move back to her side, indicating me with a little flip of your wrist, as if you're presenting another picture, and ask,
"Well?"
"Mmm-mmm, I like what I see!"
"Hey, how would you like a drink? Seltzer? Glass of rose? Or... He literally pours THE best martini in town."
"Now you're talking."
"Baby," she says (rather throatily, it seems), and looking me disarmingly, directly, in the eyes, "I like mine wet, and VERY DIRTY. Think you can do that for me?"
"Now?" I turn to you and ask, taken aback [did she really just say that to me?], "like this?"
"Well, I can't very well show you off to best advantage," you say with a smile, "with all your clothes on, now can I, babe?"
"OK, that's fair."
I mix drinks for the two of you, pour myself a small glass of Pinot, and you offer the toast,
"To old friends and new adventures!"
We clink glasses, and you start showing her around.
*****
Fuck and Run
I arrived home from work one Tuesday night, dropped my jacket and work stuff on a kitchen chair, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and flopped onto the couch to rest. I could hear some pounding, punk-ish 80s music blaring in Callie's room—I couldn't remember the band, but I'd heard them before (Au Pairs? Pylon? Romeo Void?). The music suddenly got louder as Callie's door opened, and she came pogo-ing into the room, laughing, and wrapped in a flowery pink-and-white towel. I got a quick, furtive glance at her bouncing boobs, just before she fell onto the couch next to me with a sigh of relaxation, and greeted me with a cheery,
"Hey! How's it goin'?"
"OK, I guess."
We chatted briefly about work, weather, and the rest of the usual mundane things, until she asked,
"So, what Ah really wanna know is—what the heck didja do with the body?"
"Body?"
"Of that poor girl," she said, "y'know, couple nights ago?"
"Really? Are you kidding me?" I had had a date (which was infrequent) the previous weekend, with a flirty ex-colleague, who had (even more infrequent) spent the night.
"Maaaan, whadd'ya think, Ah'm deaf? Ah almost called the cops. Sounded like you were in there murderin' her, or somethin'."
I was speechless, but before I could collect my wits enough to respond, Calliope scooted herself off the couch, laughing hysterically. Suddenly shedding the towel, she grabbed both of my hands, and barked "On your feet, soldier!" then pulled me up to standing. [Did I mention that she could quote from The Terminator?!?] She reached up to kiss me again, then kissed and lightly trailed her fingernails down my chest and stomach. Arriving at the waistband of my pants, she glanced up at me, then dropped to her knees, and started working them down so maddeningly slowly that I almost ripped them off myself. By the time my pants finally fell to the floor, my pulse was racing, and I heard her exclaim (as if greeting a puppy or a baby),
"Well, hi there!"
Calliope began to run her fingers up and down my shaft, tickling it with her nails. It quickly began swelling to fill the tiny hand she was trying—unsuccessfully—to wrap around it. I heard her say, in a low voice,
"Oh mah God!"
<< In my first couple of years of high school, the dumb jocks in the locker room liked to comment on my penis, saying it was "kinda on the shorter side. Or maybe that's normal? I wouldn't know." Back then, the only defense I could come up with was, "And you're so interested in my dick for what reason?" This earned me a bunch of bruises and a black eye.
Statistically speaking, it was totally normal. However, within a few years, it became apparent that my supposed "shortcoming" was offset by a bit more girth than normal (quite a bit, I've been told, along with specific comments like "no fucking way are you putting that thing inside me," and "that must be what having a baby feels like").
Regardless—and more importantly—I was taught that size was immaterial if you didn't know how to use it to give your partner pleasure. [Thank you, Kym!] >>
Eyes closed, savoring every delicate touch of her fingers, I was totally unprepared for the warm, wet caress of her tongue, as she slathered it all over the throbbing organ, and then started pumping with both hands. But when she wrapped her soft lips around the tip, and tried to work it into her mouth, I knew it was over.
Attempting to warn her, all that came out of my mouth was an almost incoherent "Cal— I'm— Fuck." Colors burst behind my eyes and rippled through my body, and I fell backwards onto the couch (in slow-motion, it seemed), panting, shaking and spent.
From somewhere nearby, I heard a wet, garbled exclamation of,
"Jesus f'ing Christ!"
Opening my eyes, I saw Calliope, still on her knees, completely nonplussed, with a viscous white stream trickling from her mouth, down her chin, and onto her body. She half-laughed, causing the rest to leak out of her mouth, and asked,
"Dude, what the fuck? Didn't you, like, just get laaaid? And don't even tell me you never jack that freakin' thing!"
Then, standing up, Calliope looked down at me and began slowly, seductively, smearing my cum down her front, making quite a show of artistically applying it to her hot little breasts. Laughing, and licking the remainder off her fingers lewdly, she flopped down on the couch next to me, and trilled,
"Better be more wherever that came from, dude, 'cuz one of these days I might just make you use that big ol' dick to fuck me. And by that Ah mean, fuck me like there's no tomorrow!"
[Despite the sing-songy voice she employed, I was pretty sure it was a certainty, not a suggestion.] Then, with an exaggerated "Ahhhh," she laid her head on my chest.
After a brief rest, I felt Calliope's hand starting to wander aimlessly over the lower half of my body, gradually circling inward to focus on a specific part, which began to re-awaken from its refractory slumber. She rolled off the couch, ran into her room, and came back with a huge tube of "personal lubricant." Settling herself on the floor between my knees, she said brightly,
"Ah think you just might like this!"
Then, using her little hands (and lots of lube), she massaged me into a state of arousal higher than anything I had ever felt in my life. As my body began to tense, anticipating another release, she stopped abruptly, stood up and kissed me, gave my pulsating cock one more quick, slippery tug, and trotted out of the room. From the kitchen, she called back to me, "Y'all best keep in mind what I said before!" Then she disappeared into her room, and I ran to the bathroom relieve myself.
I didn't see Callie at all for the next week.
*****
Tell Me I'm Not Dreaming, pt. 2
As you return to our entertaining space, you sidle your way around her, slip your arms around her waist, and start to sway, purring,
"Mmm, girl, you know what he likes?"
"No, I can't imag—"
"He likes it when he gets to watch!"
You and she continue to wrap around each other, in and out of a supple slow-dance. Pieces of clothing begin to fall away from both of your bodies, and I glimpse curving planes of richly colored flesh, smooth as silk, glistening slightly in the rising heat of the moment.
Now, the two of you are clad only in the bare minimums, and you do another little flourish and pirouette away, to reveal her fully. Her ridiculously sexy lingerie almost matches her skin tone, and I can see even more clearly that she has added at least 30 pounds to the somewhat skinny frame she had in college. It suits her. [I mean it really suits her.] She is orders of magnitude more striking than she was as a young woman, with deeply sexy curves.
Standing to her right, with your hand out as if to present her, you smile and say, "I think he's seen just about enough for now, unless..." Your eyes meet hers, and you both smile again. Ever so slowly, she crosses her arms, and slips the thin straps of her bralette off her shoulders. With your hands shielding her breasts from my gaze, I follow the downward progress of the lacy confeection. As it slides over the gorgeous rise and fall of her belly, she unclasps it, drops it to the floor, and steps away from it.
My eyes track upward again, taking in a distinct shadow clearly outlined through the tiny, very sheer boyshorts that hug and accentuate her curvy hips. I gulp audibly, trying to visualize the moment when that mystery will be revealed.
As my eyes continue to glide higher, I can't help but gasp, and she smiles slyly [tell me she hasn't seen this reaction before]. Her breasts, quite a bit larger than yours, are café au lait-colored, full, and softly rounded; they show the effects imparted by the tandem forces of time and gravity, but this only serves to make them more incredible. Her small-ish, dark nipples stand out boldly, like the stems of ripe, just-plucked fruit.
Mesmerized, I suddenly realize that you're behind me now, and before I know it, you've wrapped her chic scarf two or three times around my face, completely covering my eyes. As you tie it, gently but firmly, I catch the scent of the perfume that permeates the scarf, and my body quivers. It's Halston. (Of course it is.)
*****"
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