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“Alexandra.”
The tip of her tongue, enticing and pink, moved from the roof of her mouth to her lower teeth. Her name dripped from her lips. Ukrainian beauty distilled by a generation, blended with California gold; fair skinned, unblemished by the hard sun of the Southern State. Alexandra was a creature of the North; kissed by fog and fern. A wood nymph from the Redwoods.
I met Alexandra, by chance, at her parents home in San Diego over a Fourth of July weekend. I was a friend to her older sister, Katarina.
But that’s a different story.
Katarina warned me in advance, “She’s an Earth Momma- a wild woman. I think she rarely bathes. She never shaves. She’s hot stuff at Humbolt University. I hate her.”
* * * * * * * * * * * » Read the full Alexandra
Chapter I
Up and Coming
“Sandy Jamieson here.”
“Hi Mr. Jamieson. This is Curtis Green from Fairgreen Ford. I’ve good news. The car you’ve ordered- it’s just come in. Our man’s going over it. Can you…”
“I’ll leave the office in fifteen.”
“That’s great. But the car won’t…”
“Thanks Mr. Green. Bye.”
I pressed the com button. “Tina, can you come in here for a moment?”
She brought in her steno pad. “Mr. Jamieson?” She wagged her pencil.
“No memo. I just want to tell you how much I’ve appreciated your efforts over the past year. I wish you all the best on your new job.”
She lowered the pad. God I’ll miss her sweet face. Twenty-two and natural blonde. She reminds me of the front end of my brother’s ’58 Cad.
“Have a seat Tina.”
Chapter 1
Laura
I am a product of the seventies, when erotic encounters consisted of stolen kisses in darkened rooms while the door remained opened. For me, sex was learned in lazy strokes and in the written word. Xavier Hollander and Penthouse Forum- these were my guidebooks into the world of perfumed mystery that haunted my waking and sleeping thoughts. Over desired and under loved, my right hand grip became a silent weapon.
This explains why I never once dropped a tennis racquet.
Those were the days of crocheted bikinis with bulging bottoms and quivering tops, when girls had long hair scented of musk and patchouli. Hip huggers truly hung on hips, belly buttons were bare and devoid of glitter and metallic bits and we took pleasure in spying the depths of a girls navel. The only women ever seen with tattoos were those who traveled with elephants and clowns. In those days women were not enhanced surgically, but rather with the skill of an airbrush.
Chapter 3
I closed the bathroom door and flipped on the fan.
Her voice muted, “Sandy- where are you?”
Carly gave me her wicked smile and dropped to her knees. In one swell swoop, her lips wrapped around the head of my cock. “Sweat mother of god.”
“Sandy are you in the bathroom?”
“Hi Stace. I’m on the pot. I’m sick. Had to be something I ate.”
Carly’s teeth- she could open a side business as the worlds first orally skilled Mohel.
“Sandy, do you need anything?”
I ran my fingers through Carly’s hair. Her hand crept along my ass. “I want to lie down.” Carly flicked her tongue over my knob in a series of pirouettes. God, if she ever took up yodeling…She lay back and pulled me towards her.
I am a woman of silk. A woman of satin and pearl.
I surround myself with all that is female and soft and delicate and resides in the world of ethereal darkness. I am the lingering perfume that ravages you in your dreams, and later clings to your lips and tongue as you sit in your little work space and ponder the meaning of life. I am the mystery that haunts the minds of those I pass in street or shop. I am a wraith that walks in shadow, shrouded in black, panty-less. I delve into minds, producing images of silken tongues and ecstatic eyes, racing hearts and late night shouts to a deaf God. I am the reason the dead smile.
In my daily life, a manly man inevitably appears. But I have power. I see the look in his eyes. I hear the smile in the nights voice of his girlfriend or wife as he walks away. Even though I never speak, I know he will fuck her tonight. And the while, think of me.
Chapter I
Up and Coming
“Sandy Jamieson here.”
“Hi Mr. Jamieson. This is Curtis Green from Fairgreen Ford. I’ve good news. The car you’ve ordered- it’s just come in. Our man’s going over it. Can you…”
“I’ll leave the office in fifteen.”
“That’s great. But the car won’t…”
“Thanks Mr. Green. Bye.”
I pressed the com button. “Tina, can you come in here for a moment?”
She brought in her steno pad. “Mr. Jamieson?” She wagged her pencil.
“No memo. I just want to tell you how much I’ve appreciated your efforts over the past year. I wish you all the best on your new job.”
She lowered the pad. God I’ll miss her sweet face. Twenty-two and natural blonde. She reminds me of the front end of my brother’s ’58 Cad.
In the spring of my life, at about age 13, I found myself with an overwhelming curiosity about women. Raised in a strict environment where sex was never mentioned my access to photographs or literature was non existent. I did, however manage to trade, at great sacrifice for several black and white seminude photos ripped from a cheap men’s magazine. These brought some satisfaction but the models were clad in shorts and the vagina was still a great mystery to me. I tried to envision what it must look like without success.
Carolyn was a girl in my neighborhood. She was a year older and flowering. Earlier we had been playmates and even bashfully called ourselves girl friend and boyfriend but there had been no physical contact, not even a hug. One hot summer afternoon, having nothing to do, I went to the neighborhood swimming pool. Carolyn was one of the handful of people there. She was laying out in a grassy area wearing a pink two piece bathing suit. I sat beside her, my eyes drawn to her soft budding breasts. I’m sure she noticed and bent over to give me a better view. My hormones were in overdrive. We chatted for a while and I lay beside her.
The boys I grew up with in my neighborhood were a good bunch of guys. We were heavily into sports and played football or baseball nearly every day, year round, in the fields and open lots near our homes. We were always swapping “pussy stories,” lies mostly about our conquests and adventures with girls we knew. Joe, R.I.P. he’s been dead many years, could tell the wildest tales and considered himself an expert at seducing the young virgins of our town. The only problem was that Joe was full of shit and everybody but him knew it. One afternoon 10 or 12 of us were playing football in a lot near a housing development. We all took notice of two young ladies walking by and watching us. They were familiar faces from our school but we really didn’t know them. As dusk began to close upon us the game broke up and Joe and I began the long walk back to our homes. Along the way we encountered the two young ladies who were walking in the same direction. Joe signaled me that he was going to talk to the taller girl which suited me just fine because I found the shorter girl more attractive. Her name was Brenda. She had short sandy blond hair and big brown eyes.
She was waiting for me when I got there right after school. We sat on the couch and kissed. My hand went unopposed to her thighs and then to her panty clad pussy. She opened her thighs slightly and my fingers traced the moist opening through her little panties. Her tongue darted in and out of my mouth and her breathing increased. My fingers found their way under the legband and into the soft hair. Down they went into the moistness, over her outer lips searching for the opening. Dipping my middle finger slightly into the hot sticky cauldron and up over where I suspected her clit was and then back and forth letting the slick liquid work it’s magic. Her arms were around me and our lips were locked. She pulled away for a moment.
“You know I’m a virgin, right?” she asked.
“Yes baby, you told me that.” I answered.
“I almost did it one time last year with the guy I told you about. I wanted to but I got scared. We did some other stuff.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of other stuff did you do?’
She closed her eyes as the shadows of spring crossed her face. Our train pounded out the kilometers with the cadence of a noontime fuck. Lost in the throb and sway, her forgotten fingers pressed into the skin of an orange. I sat across from her in the little compartment, and watched the mist rise from the prickled skin, staining her starched blouse.
I drew on my pipe; the smoke lingered in fat hazy clouds under the French sun. I took out my pad and began to write.
The first scribbles–the intercourse of pencil and pad–were interrupted by my lover’s voice; “I still feel you inside me Henrí.” I looked up at my orphan of the storm. Marianna’s hair, brown and fresh, washed by my hands only that morning, was tied up, revealing the whiteness of her throat. If I didn’t know her, I would have mistaken her for a schoolgirl.