Mrs. Gillespie

by: PleaseCain

 

Wednesday night and I had a date with Lola.

She said, "I don’t go out weeknights, but you can be here at eight. Wait in the car."

My mother taught me that all good women make a man wait. I had filed my fingernails by the time Lola descended the stairs to the lobby of her apartment building, so I closed my Swiss Army knife and watched her walk. Her legs mesmerized, showcased by a short black dress, and her Sophia Loren hair cascaded over a tan fox jacket. I stepped outside to give her the roses and open her door. When I climbed behind the wheel her smile outshone the pearls dangling from her ears.

"You really are a big, sweet man," she said, patting the back of my hand. I took her little finger between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the clear delicate skin. She had unzipped her jacket, and her cleavage blushed like soft peaches.

I drove to Slim Jim’s, the club where we met the week before, and took her arm as we climbed the stairs. It was a good crowd, somewhat older than the weekend’s. There were plenty of girls, as attractive as on Saturday night, but all eyes turned when I unwrapped my tall Venus, as mine had when I first saw her. The pianobar was full, so I lit her thin cigarette and excused myself to go for drinks.

When I returned I discovered not one but two hangers-on, rough boys in leather coats, Irish pubcrawlers with short-cropped hair and scars through their eyebrows. Her laughter pealed somewhere beyond their black shoulders.

Wordlessly I handed her the glass.

"Gale," she effused and drew me by the waist, "these are some nice boys who were just leaving. It was a pleasure meeting you both." She stood from her chair and urged me to sit, then leaned on my leg and drank, even as one of them remained at our table. She disregarded him, patting my thigh as she unwrapped a finger from my scotch glass and she drew it to her mouth, between her lips. Scowling, he left.

I talk with my eyes. I had never met him but I have my mother’s father’s eyes, blue and bright, and for as long as I can remember I’ve used them, and cultivated using them. It’s how I communicate, it’s what others understand. I didn’t threaten the punk walking away, only asked Lola with my eyes. And she answered in kind, settling in my hands and sliding hers to my crotch, massaging me through my trousers. She lowered her head, offering her neck.

"You like when I hang on you," she purred. "You like to show me off." I hummed through my kisses. "You don’t talk much, do you?"

Abruptly she stood. "Take me home." I helped her into her jacket and followed her outside.

It was the kind of frigid night that swept the streets clear, frozen still but for the steam billowing from manhole covers and the traffic lights changing in silence. Lola huddled close in my Plymouth, her hand beneath my tie, while the bands of light from passing streetlights climbed her shapely legs. Squeezing the icy steering wheel with each drunk driver in each oncoming car, a corner of my mind still wandered, hoping Lola would invite me to her apartment.

* * *

She took my hat and coat and went to pour drinks. It was a nice place, cluttered and eclectic like an actress’ dressing room, filled with European touches. Exotic trinkets decorated bookshelves filled with as many foreign titles as English. In a corner, beside a bin of French magazines, a tall blue vase held a peacock feather. Lola brought my drink while I was reading the glass etching.

I pointed to the vase. "Cairo?"

"Cairo, Georgia," she said. "Why don’t you put on some music. I’ll be back."

I left it on her station, jazz, a lonely muted cornet dancing with a bass, sad yet hopeful, as the scotch played around my tongue. Good scotch, unblended and warm, a perfect accompaniment to the portrait on the wall, a smoldering beauty with magnetic eyes glinting from heavy eyelids and shadowy cheekbones, the chiaroscuro of her face the center of the room. Only as an afterthought did I notice her figure in the beaded gown.

"Marlene Dietrich," Lola said, "the sexiest woman ever." She wore a gauzy pink babydoll highlighting her long legs in matching high-heeled slippers.

"No. She’s only a piece of paper."

"Why, thank you, I think," she said, slipping into my arms. We swayed to the music, warmth-on-warmth. I rolled my thumbs over her back and hips, tasting her soft tongue.

Lola led me to her secret room, her bed glowing by candlelight. She slipped from her shoes and hung my suit jacket, then took my tie, shirt and tee-shirt. She nuzzled my chest while her hands traveled to my waist. My pants fell to the floor.

She guided me to her bed, standing between my legs, and let the teddy drop from her shoulders, covering herself one leg before the other. I took the hem in my fingers and unveiled my prize.

Her body was as stunning as I’d dreamed, her full breasts sloping to pointed nipples, her gorgeously smooth cock curled invitingly toward her tummy. She displayed herself, shoulders back, tossing her hair. I heartily agreed and dipped my tongue in her bellybutton, then slipped my mouth over her prick.

She wasn’t large. I sucked deeply while my hands kneaded her behind and caressed her balls. I concentrated on her loveplum, lapping her cumhole and heart-shaped curves. Her fingers in my hair, she whispered, "You suck my clitty so good," words so perfect I could have cried. I teased her asshole until she gasped and let her girlcum in my mouth, silky smooth around my tongue. We twisted to the bed and necked with deep, cummy kisses.

Holding her hands above her head, I bit her nipples and tugged off my underwear. My cock sprang out hard and red; I painted her nipples with my pre-cum until she begged me to fuck her.

I held her and rummaged in her nightstand, where I found rubbers and lube. I released her wrists to let her open the packet and dress my phallus with the rubber and gel, and watched her reach behind herself with discreet fingers to apply an extra preparation, lips pursed and eyes skittish. Still she whimpered when I seized her ankles and placed them on my shoulders, and pinned her arms so she lay helpless and open.

I sunk inside at once and let her catch her breath before I fucked her, hard, plowing my passion into her warm gripping hole, planting my entire weight, without foreplay or technique. Only fucking. My eyes bored into hers, thinking: you made me fuck you. Her clear brown eyes widened under my gaze, and the dirtiest words escaped her ragged breaths, "my pussy, my pussy, ow, poor pink pussy" but she never averted her eyes.

I stiffened and came inside her.

Lola sighed, "So good, so good, oh so good."

She slid away the condom and cleaned me like a good girl, lathering my cock and balls and migrating still further. I opened my legs to her.

Lola had cute feet and long sexy toes. I took one in my mouth, licking the baby underskin as her tongue twittered along the edge of my hole and she squeezed the base of my hardened root. I tickled her feet until she laughed, until with twinkling eyes she sunk her lips down my shaft. I focused on her feet, dancing in my hands, until the joy welled inside me and finally I guided her closer, exploding into her throat. She sucked until I stopped her, then nestled her head on my chest and slept.

She arose with me at 5:10 and put on some coffee.

When I had dressed, I found a plate of steak and eggs beside my mug. As I ate I watched her, leaning forward with her elegantly wrecked hair, her legs crossed in her kimono, her toes playing on the table leg.

I squeezed her when we kissed. She began undoing my tie and I took her wrist.

"You’ll have to come back for this."

I let her pull it from my collar, because I’d decided to make her Mrs. Gillespie.

 

 

 

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© 2001 by PleaseCain. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.