Looking For Gentry (part 1) free porn video

It started with a dare. Just a little one. There was no way she would have known anything I needed. But it had been a long day and it was the sort of thing I was supposed to do, so I bought us a drink and decided to ask about the car. The cops found it, parked in the crab-joint's lot, the day before. A three-hour drive away, there was an examiner from the state in the file room of a small town bank, but no banker in the big corner office. I was supposed to find him. The car was the last thing on my list that day to check. She was the kind of lady who had to give you grief. Short hair, sun- or bleach-pale. Not thin, not heavy; sturdy, I guess you'd say. Tiny lines fanned from her eyes, her skin stretched thin over her cheekbones. In her late 30s, 40s, probably. Jeans, turtleneck, the usual kind of dress-down look beach people go for, winter-time version, though she was just a little fancier: she had put some lipstick on and had a blazer draped over the back of her stool. I couldn't quite read her, but didn't really want to try too hard. A real estate agent in a shabby part of town? A suburban wife who liked her drink a little more than she wanted her friends or her husband to know? It was late afternoon, the place was empty, except for the pale, pierced girl who served us. There were the usual crab-pot buoys, old nets and nautical junk on the dark plank walls. Enjoy your time here by the seashore. Old Norfolk. Old Ocean View. I could hardly wait to get out. "Come here often?" I said. "Great line," she replied, all sarcastic. She had that husky, almost whispery voice that lots of bigger women favor, and the little vowel- warble in her drawl that comes from 'way upcountry. "Never heard that one before. And you're new in town, right?" "Sure," I said. "Whatever." She snorted an angry half-laugh. "Look, I'm not..." "That's for sure," she cut me off. "You're in exactly the wrong place for that." I tried again. "I'm trying to find a guy." "Now that's more like," she said. She lightly touched her cheek. "Though I'm not flattered." I didn't want to play this game. "I'm trying to find a guy," I said, impatient now. "He left his car here, most of the week. Silver Audi. The kind of car would stand out in a neighborhood like this. And why I asked: You come here? Well, maybe you saw it, that's all. I'm not trying anything out on you." "Yeah," she said. "You're not trying." She sipped her brightly-colored drink, gave a long, loud sigh, just for effect. "You do know where you are, don't you?," she said. "Good old Ocean View. Norfolk, Virginia. Home to the nuts and the hookers. And the fags, too, I guess. This place here, for instance. It's for gals and gals, mainly. Maybe some guys and guys. You and me, we don't happen here. Silver Audis? They don't either." Yeah, I thought, but didn't say, yeah, I know Ocean View. I did my Navy time, I was a swabbie. I've staggered down the Avenue at midnight, paid my twenty bucks for a fun time in the alley. I've seen the gray ships slip into the fog, rounding Willoughby Spit, I've been on gray ships, straining for a glimpse of something through the mist. And what was there to see, hard as I looked from something good? Norfolk. Norfolk, one more time. And here I am in Norfolk, yet again, and just to play the game again and hear: "I dunno. Maybe I saw him, maybe I didn't. Don't see a lot of Audi drivers in here. What did he look like?" I rattled it off, like I'd been doing all day, checking around with the Medical Examiners, the hospitals, the jails, the airport. One R. Richard Gentry. Five-eight, five-nine; not a big guy. Maybe an inch or two on me. Age, 35, looked it, maybe more. Already greying some: tough job, running a little bank. Little town like his, it's like running the thousand-dollar- bill printing press. I'd never met him, just his wife. I didn't like him much, though. I think it showed. "Nice," she said, drawing out the word. "I can see why you're chasing him. Though I gotta say, he doesn't really sound like your type, though, sweetie. I don't think I saw him in here. And yes, I come here often." I stood, shoved the stool aside. It clattered against the bar, I had to lunge to keep it from falling over. She seemed to think that that was funny. I think, maybe, that was when she set her hook. She had a way of halfway smiling, she showed it to me now. A little lopsided flash that sometimes seemed to want to cut you, sometimes seemed to want to lead you on. A look that warned you, something unexpected's up ahead, I might push you just a bit, things may not go quite the way you think. Lips that sort of smile, looks that sort of weigh you, make you hope you don't come up short, though why on earth, you wonder, should you care. Not come-hither, not a smile you see a lot in a rundown, beach-side bar, just a funny kind of a lopsided little grin you might see only once in a long while. But, sometimes, I'm a little lopsided too. I could have left, maybe I should have. Sometimes, even now, I wonder. But I just cracked a lopsided smile back at her. "Look," she said. "I don't really know for sure. Show me where the car was. Maybe that'll help." She slid off of her stool, reached round, wriggled into the blazer, grinned when she caught me staring at her breasts. "Come on," she said, and stepped towards the back of the place. "Shorter this way." She grabbed a long wool coat from the stand at the back booth and strode on into the murk, not breaking pace or stopping to put it on. I followed. The wind had picked up and shifted, coming now straight down the Bay, at us from the north. We'd been in the bar, talking, longer than I thought -- the sun was low, shadows from the two- and three story beach-houses just inside the dunes stretched all the way across the gravel lot. I shivered. "You're cold," she said. "Take my coat." She held it open for me. It glowed a deep magenta color in the slanting sunlight. "C'mon, you won't catch anything." "I'm not going to wear your coat," I said. "You're chicken," she said, faking surprise. "It's a girl coat, right. Got cooties? You won't catch 'em. No one's going to see you. No one's gonna care. It's Ocean View, for God's sake. Come on." She shook it just a bit, the way the matador does, trying to excite the bull. I took a step. Caught myself. "I dare you." We weren't even an arm's length apart, she swept towards me, and draped the tight-woven wool over my shoulders. A faint, sweet smell -- flowers, citrus -- floated to my face, was snatched away by the wind. "Chicken," she said, poking me in my ribs. "Put it on already. You're cold ... Look. Here." She put her hand into a pocket, pulled out a fuzzy beret, jammed it on my head before I could react. "You're incognito now. Take my sunglasses. And now, show me. Where was the car exactly?" I pointed to the other corner of the lot. "Show me," she said. She grabbed my arm, yanked me a step or two. "Was it here? Here?" Another step, another. I could hear the sound of the cars passing down the street, the more distant roar of the bridge-tunnel traffic. I heard the voices of a couple walking past. The footsteps of another group. I couldn't see them, I wouldn't turn around. I was shivering but I wasn't cold, not any longer. I felt like the world was narrowing in on me, like something had squeezed my rib-cage tight -- or maybe it was just that she had pulled the coat belt tight around my waist. But I think it was something more than that, more than a belt gripping me, making it a little hard to breathe. I felt like I had blinders on; I could see the corner of the parking lot but nothing else. She was pushing me there, step by step. "It was here," I said. "I think it was here. This is where the cops said it was." "He didn't go to the bar," she said. "Look." She nodded at the little plank bridge that led over the dune. "This is where people park, to get out to the beach. There aren't any other places around here." I nodded. "What was in the car?" she said. "You saw it, didn't you? The cops showed you, didn't they?" I could hear someone else, maybe a couple, coming down the street behind us. A sudden, brutal bark of laughter. At me? I felt my face redden. "Come on," she said, yanking at me again, pulling me towards the little wooden bridge. "Sun's coming down. Let's watch." "There was nothing in the car," I said. "Except his shoes. Wingtips." "Come on." She pulled at me again. "He went to the beach. The answer's on the beach." She stepped towards me, slipped her arm across my lower back, drew me close. "Come on, lover boy. Let's watch the sun go down." **** The clouds were already a deep, lurid salmon against the steel-blue sky. There was no one else there, just but the steady, swishing sound of the waves rolling in, sliding back down the hard-packed sand, like the sound of your pulse deep in your ears. A low whistle of wind, a screech from a wheeling gull. Sitting in the softer sand just at the bottom of the dune, I watched the sky darken into purple, looked at the now-black water of the Bay and wondered why I could not simply get up and leave. She wandered down, closer to the water's edge, and stood dabbling a toe in the sea-foam, as if deep in thought. "Hey," she said. "Hey. Come here." I stood, brushed sand from the back of the coat. Took a few steps, not all the way. We stood, maybe five feet apart, both looking out over the whitecaps. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "What are you doing here, really?" "I told you," my voice tight. "I'm looking." "No," she cut me off. "No. What are you doing. Here. Now. You know he went to the beach. He had to have gone to the beach. He left his shoes so he could walk in the sand. He didn't come back." She stopped to catch her breath. "You don't need to be here, now, to know that." "I'm looking, I told you. Nothing else." "Nothing else?" Now she was looking at me, hard. "I'm not trying anything on you." "Ah," she said, turning her back to me, to gaze back at the waves. We watched them roll in, fall back. "It's getting dark," she said, at last. "It's that time when people put away their daytime work, their daytime worries. It's time to eat warm food in a cozy kitchen, sit by the fire, think about snuggling in for the night." There was something in the way she spoke words that are supposed to speak of comfort, a tone from somewhere in the vast, dark sky, the rolling waves. "Or maybe it's time for something else." she said. "Hmm? Maybe it's time for something new. For prowling in the night a little. For the freedom that the darkness brings. For forgetting all those rules, all that stuff that needs the sunlight and other people's eyes to work. To take a little risk. Just a little one." I shivered. It wasn't from the chill edge in the air. "Why are you here?" she asked, again. "A strange town. A job you've done; you know the answer: He went to the beach, then he went away. You're here. Now. On the beach." She turned. "Alone with me," she said. She stepped close, now, cupped her hand to my ear and whispered: "Time for adventure, now." I turned my face towards her. "Uh-uh," she said. "Not that adventure. Think again, O.K? Let's try it this way: You're here, on this beach. Where your guy disappeared. Poof." She flicked her fingers, as if to scatter dust, flick something small off into the dark. "Poof. And gone. Gone. Pretty cool, isn't it? Wouldn't you like that, isn't that what you're looking for tonight? Isn't that why you are here? Now. In the dark. On this beach. With me." She paused, I could hear her catch her breath. And so was I, straining for air, just a little dizzy. We were on the verge of something that I couldn't see quite yet, something looming out there in the dark. The not- knowing made me nervous, my stomach jumped. And yet, somehow, I think I sensed that I would follow where she beckoned. Maybe not quite to disappear, a puff of something in the dark. Not quite that. But to embrace it, to dissipate, open myself to it, let something new come inside me, feel something new. "Wouldn't you like to be someone else, just for the night?" she whispered. She stepped back. Looked me over, head to toe. "Hey," she said, louder now, that odd half smile on her face. "You're halfway there." I felt myself freeze, try to shrink inside myself. And at the same time, way down deep, I felt myself straining to unfold, expand, into the velvet night. "No," I whispered. "No." "Come on," she said. "Come on. There's a bar full of women, just over there. They're all looking, too. You'd be the only guy in a room full of women." "They don't want a guy," I murmured. "That's what you said." "Maybe they don't. Maybe they just don't know they do," she grinned. "I know a way we could find out. You know it, too. Don't you? Don't you? You could be the only guy and they'd never know. Not until, unless..." "No." "Come on," she said. "It's dark in there. A little this, a little that. You could do it. Have some drinks. Have some laughs. It'd be a adventure, just a little adventure." There's moment, maybe you've felt it. You're going way too fast, the front of the car seems to dip, you can feel the tires slide. You know you're going to spin, you're going to skid, there's not a thing you're going to do to stop it now, try as you will. You never see the black ice on the road until you hit it. Of course you're supposed steer into it, of course you're not supposed to brake. And whether or not you brake, and whether or not you remeber which way you have to steer, no-one will know, not even you, exactly what you did, right or wrong, not until the tires grip again. Or you slam into the trees. You know, in that frozen moment, everything is out of your control. And you know, too, that in a way, it's what you always wanted. She didn't see it. Or she didn't care. Her voice held low and soft, she wooed me still. "We only see the top of things," she said. "We pick a cue up here, another there, in just a fraction of a second. A flash of color, a hint of line. A marker, maybe two." "What you mean?" I asked, though I knew exactly what she meant. "It'd be so easy. No one would ever have to know. Pink, here. Primrose maybe." She tweaked my shirt collar. "Maybe something here," and her finger lightly brushed my lips. "Tighter jeans; lots of guys wear them like that now anyway. Hair?" Even then, I wore my hair longer than I should. "Maybe a brushing, I've got a wig in any event," she continued. "A pin. Poof. You're there. Wipe your face, button your coat. Hand me the wig. Pin in your pocket. Poof. You're you again. Magic." She tugged my hand. "It's all just fool-your eye stuff," she said. "Like the French say: trompe l'oeil. My place is just down here. Just try. It'll be fun." And so the dip, the slide; that thrill of spinning, the queasy fear of what was coming. She tugged again, and I stepped forward. Down the beach, it was hard to say how far we walked. It always seems longer, going on the sand. I tried walking closer to the waves, where the sand's packed firmer, but soaked my sneakers when the seventh wave caught me. She just laughed. We went on. Finally, I don't know how she could tell where, she tugged my arm, nodded at the dune. We scrambled up and over and onto a dead-end street of dark houses. Only one or two had lights on, glowing yellow in the dusk. "Here," she said, fumbling with her key. Her place was up the stairs. Like a lot of places on the beach, it was built on stilts. A steep roof, like a ski chalet. Salt-stained gray clapboards. Downstairs for the car, if she had had one, for the drying swimsuits, folding chairs, fishing rods. Upstairs, you can get a view, means $500 a week, in August. Keep yourself dry when the nor'easters sweep in. Upstairs was nice enough, though a little empty-feeling. Cloth-covered sofa, one armchair. The usual pale blue, pale brown watercolor on the wall: this one had no gulls. The usual little thrill, following someone into her room. She stepped towards me, undid the coat belt. Tousled my hair. Stroked it this way, that. "Mmm," she said. "Maybe not." She circled around me once, then strode off to the bedroom, just behind me. I didn't turn to watch her. "Here," she called a minute later, throwing a pair of jeans out the door. "Try these." She walked back to me, more clothes bundled under an arm, picked up the jeans she tossed and handed them to me. "Come on, now," she said. "I'll turn my back, if you're feeling shy." They were dark, the cloth thinner than mine. Tight in the thighs. I had to yank them hard to get them buttoned, halfway up my stomach. She circled me again. "Not bad," she said, patting me. "Nice ass." She left one hand linger, pushed with the other on my belly. "Push it out a little though," she said, then leaned closer, to whisper in my ear: "Panty line, though. And let's do something about the lump." She unbuttoned the jeans, yanked them down. "Not done," she said, and pulled down my briefs, too. "You like this, eh?" She grinned. She got the jeans off, my underwear, too, somehow. Then, she handed me a stretchy, skin-colored pair of briefs. "No panty line," she said. "It's not really a girdle, but it helps the shape." She pulled the tight elastic up; when she had wrestled it most of the way in place, she plunged her hand in and tugged to push my penis down and back, so fast, I barely felt the burn of scraping. "There," she said, running her hand down my now-tilting-backward groin. "No lump. No one would ever know." The new jeans she handed me were tighter, but buttoned easier, though I still had to pull them farther up my stomach than usual. They were dressier, too, with a palm-sized star, outlined in some kind of glitter, on the butt. "Nice," she murmured, running her hand, just once, up taut denim on the outside of my thigh, to my hip and waist. "Fits nice." She unbuttoned my shirt, eased it off. Before I could move, she started pulling a soft, pale yellow sweater over me. I closed my eyes while she gently pulled it into place. I could feel it hug my middle, a fluff of soft around my neck -- glancing down, I saw a cowl-like color droop from collarbone to the top of my chest; the bottom of sweater just grazed the top of my pants. "Hold your arms out," she ordered. She had a dark, patchwork suede jacket now. Its arms felt tight on me, the bottom touched halfway down my thighs from a flaring waist. The turned-up collar touched my ears until, tsk- tsking to herself, she folded it back down. The lapels reached nearly my armpits. It shouted girl. "Don't look yet," she said. "Two more things." She fussed at my hair again, muttered to herself: "No, not quite. It isn't going to work. Let's try the wig." It was a long and pale mass of wave and curl, falling to my shoulders. I shook my head. Strands of hair swept past my eyes, I had to flick my head again to clear my view, run my fingers through. "Sit still," she said. "Close your eyes. Pucker up." She touched a lipstick to my mouth, swiftly drew it once, twice, three times. I felt the creamy smoothness flow across my lips, a tiny smell, almost like sweet medicine. She pulled my arm to haul me to the bathroom just behind us. The light from the living room left us half in shadow, as we stood before the mirror, she standing behind me, hard to see, hands on my shoulders, holding me firm. "See," she whispered. "A bit of color, a line or two. Some stuff that you expect to see. And then," she gently tugged the wig, and laid a finger on my lips. "Poof. You're someone else." But I just looked into my own face, stared at my own face, my own, old clownish face, until, half-closing my eyes, letting them tear a bit, I told myself I saw a woman, I thought I saw a woman, in the blur. But not really. I gazed into the disappointing mirror and felt only a kind of feverish itch, the way you get sometimes when someone else takes the lead and all you can do is follow even though you see you won't arrive. Whether I stewed because I had gone too far or just not far enough, I was not ready to tell myself. She saw something different, though. "Someone else," she continued. "Be someone else. Feel something different. Create something different, something new. Scared? Too much?" She yanked the wig off, with a tissue, swiped the deep red color from my lips, hard enough to make them burn. She turned the jacket color up, pulled the lapels tight across my chest, covering the sweater, grabbing fiercely to keep them closed. "Back again," she said. "Poof, she's gone." "No," I whispered. "No." I could feel my heart thumping; she had to, too, she was that close. She let the jacket fall open. Slipped the wig back on, tweaking it into place, playing with the curls. "Not a real looker," I whispered to the mirror. I didn't dare to face her, afraid of how fast she might push me, afraid she might not want to push at all. "Line and color," she said. "That's all it takes. That's all you need." The mirror held us both a while. It was easier than looking at each other, talking face to face. "So," she said at last, still speaking to our reflections. "Do you want to try?" There was farther we could go; I hadn't really thought so, but it seemed to implied in what she said. I stared into my eyes, there in the mirror, and not conscious -- telling myself I was not conscious -- nodded. I was in her hands now; the car had dipped and slid and we were skidding towards someplace I could do nothing about, wanted to do nothing about. She led me to her bedroom, sat me on the end of her bed, before the mirror over a chest of drawers. A little row of tiny bottles, tubs of makeup, sticks of color marched across the pale wood. She pulled the yellow sweater off. For just minute, I mistook her; I remember saying to myself I didn't want to go that way, feeling a weakness in my knees, a trembling rising to my groin, which somehow I knew would not firm and harden. Not now. If that was what she wanted, I didn't think I could. But somehow I think I knew that what happens in bedrooms between men and women wasn't in her plans that night. "A line or two," she muttered. She turned and rummaged for a moment in a drawer. Turned again, held up her find. It was a bra. The palest pink, swirls of lace on the cups, making a fragile edge, a tiny bow between. She dangled it on its narrow straps, one in each crooked index finger. I shook my head. "A line or two," she said. "That's all. It doesn't mean anything. It's just to help." She bent over, slipped my right arm through the delicate strap. I closed my eyes, felt her ease it over my arm. I felt the bed behind me dip under her weight as she came round to fasten it, felt elastic tighten over ribs. I felt her reach over my shoulder, right, left, push something soft into each cup: cotton balls. "Keep your eyes closed," she whispered. "Put your hands up over your head. Like you're diving, like you're plunging into the pool." I felt her pull something silky over my head and arms, then a soft turtleneck, unrolling it down to my waist. It barely seemed to touch, but when its tiny fuzz brushed against my skin, it tingled. "Eyes closed," she whispered. The bed bounced back, I heard a tiny clink of glass. Then a stroke, two, three across an eyelid; I flinched, almost opened then, almost watched her do her magic. "Closed," she muttered. The other eye. Then, the barest dash of something fluffy, dusty on my cheeks. "Pucker up," she said. This time, a more deliberate daubing on my lips, a waxy smell, a creamy gliding. I was afraid to look, when she told me I was ready. This time, though, I didn't have to squint. And when I finally dared to look, I saw, I thought I saw, I knew I saw a woman gazing back at me. Beneath the swirls of blond, the deep red lips, the dark above the eyes -- my face still. But not me. Not quite me. My eyes were bigger somehow, lips fuller. My face looked soft to touch, a rosy glow that seemed to hint of innocence, maybe excitement. A barest sense of hollowness, of something delicate. Curves I'd never seen before flowed down from newfound cheekbones. "Stand," she said, resting her arm along my shoulder, gently kneading the back of my neck. A modest swell, I wasn't stacked. A curve, not much, along my hips. She spun me gently. "Look, over your shoulder." The star glittered over a round behind: mine. She stroked me there, pulling me closer. Then she kissed me, hard. It was almost an attack. Or maybe, it was the way it's supposed to be. Someone's got to take the final plunge, close the last inch before lips connect. Someone's got to seize the moment. And someone's got to surrender. I never had before. Now, I melted into it. Her hands held my face, and then it was her ams that pulled me up and closer, her tongue probing, her little moan, deep in her throat. For me, a warmth flowering in my belly, a glow of being held, a blooming. "That's more like," she murmured. A biology text, I guess, explains. A rush of this to the brain, that to the belly. Blood surges here, there. Heads spin, belly glows, perception blurs. The cynic says it is why we like to be in couples, stay in couples: not sense, not reason, just glow and pounding heart and can't-quite-catch- your breath. I'm sure it must be science that explains why I followed when she led me out into the night. The splash of stars across the sky, the warm yellow lights in the windows across the way; felt a gust spill down the dunes, heard the steady swish of waves -- I soaked all of this in, embraced it all, before I stopped to think: I am standing in the street, in the public, dressed like a girl. I shivered. But it wasn't from the chill. It wasn't from fear, either, not any more, though I knew I had crossed a line, the kind of line I'd always known can get you beaten up and left groaning in an alley. I shivered, but I wasn't cold. She led me down the street. A few blocks through the safety of the dark, and then I saw the street-lights of the Avenue, heard the passing of the cars. It was several blocks to the bar, farther than I'd thought. We walked side-by-side, she didn't touch me now. I had a sense, I don't know why, that I was being looked over. Not from not every car passing us by, not every one, but definitely from some. From some cars, someone turned a head -- turned his head -- for a second look. Definitely from some. You know how, sometimes in a crowd, a stranger's face, a flash of color, a curve, catches your eye, you stare longer than you should; somehow she knows that, and turns to you. It was like that. I felt the gazes. And the pounding of my heart. *** The bar was duller, more subdued than I expected. Almost homey. Darker now, so the seaside junk stuck to the walls was barely noticeable. The music was low, the crowd -- mostly women, like she'd said -- pretty much paired off already, early as it was. For the most part, they were just chatting, laughing. Only a few held hands. She found a booth, sat me down, fetched us drinks. A blonde came in, waved. From the end of the bar, another wiggled her fingers in greeting. She waggled her own in return. Another round of drinks. A woman, long black hair, the top of her filmy shirt unbuttoned, slipped into our booth. A greeting, an introduction. I was, it seems, to be a cousin, visiting from out of town. Eyebrows raised a second, I nearly missed it. A lean across the table, the curve of breasts. A gaze that lingered. More drinks. A louder record. A couple, two, three got up to dance. I felt a hand tap softly on my knee. The black-haired woman leaned closer, to my ear. "Let's dance," she said. A first dance. Stiff, tight, a foot apart. Eyes meet, break away. New song, a half step closer. Easier somehow, maybe the beat was faster, simpler. Her hips swing. She grins. Another song. Another. Her hand is on my hip now, she pulls me closer. The music stops. Our booth is empty. "I've got a car," she whispers. "It's not far." Later, in her bed, she was polite enough to say it was a interesting surprise when I undressed. We lay there, side by side, and fumbled with each other, like two high school kids. She did not want to touch me, I was half hard at best, and wasn't sure I wanted her to touch me. The worry that somehow I couldn't do what I was supposed to do now overwhelmed me. She turned her head when I tried a kiss. Mechanically, I edged lower, kissed her breasts. The hair between her legs was dry, and scratched my fingers. I could feel her try to will herself to relax, and not succeed. Not quite flacid, I flopped higher, wriggled myself in, pushed. We were a million miles apart. "I don't this is going to work," she said, shoving me off. "I don't know; maybe if we pretend, maybe." "Pretend?" I asked. "Pretend just how?" "It was working, back at bar. I like girls, I'm sorry, I guess, but that's just the way it is." She nodded at the wig I'd let drop down to the floor. "No," I said. "I don't think that I can." She folded her arms across her breasts, frowned. "You managed just fine, back at the bar, the way I remember. It's only fair," she said. "You really kind of led me on. How big a deal could it be, a guy like you?" I reached, picked up the dead-looking mass of curls and clapped it on my head. "There," I snapped. "Happy now?" She leaned over, pulled the wig into place, ran her fingers through to fluff it out. She leaned still farther, nipples brushing my chest, took a lipstick from her nightstand, came back to paint my lips again. Back on her haunches, admiring her work, she let me kiss her breasts. "Mmm," she said. "That's better, dear. One more thing?" She slid off the bed, stepped to her dresser, pulled out a handful of pinkish silk and tossed it at my face. "For me, dear. It looks so sweet. Please put it on for me," she said. "I'll be your girl tonight, and you'll be mine. I'll show you, it'll be fun. I promise." I slipped the gown on, shivered as it softly touched my skin, floated away, touched me again. She laid herself down on the bed, arms spread wide, beckoning. I came. We kissed, her fingers buried deep within my curls. Gently, she pushed my head down, to her breasts, still lower. I breathed the tang of her, she arched herself towards my mouth, I stretched to meet her. My tongue in her, finding paths between the velvet folds till it found the nub that made her hips roll, made her shudder. Hot breath. Lips. Tongue. It was like petals opening, inviting me still deeper, and still deeper. Heaving now, shuddering. She was in hurry, this night. It was as if each time my tongue touched, something still deeper in her open, cried out a need -- and, wonderfully, knew the possibility of filling it; a dance of need and satsification, still deeper craving, still the possibility... We are falling. She is diving backwards, off the highboard, arms outstretched, ready to cut the blue water below without a splash. I am right behind, facing her, seeing eyes closed in concentration, closed in anticipation of the joy. I'm there, I'm almost there, but somehow I can't quite reach, she's falling backward to the pool. My tongue isn't enough, my hand is on her, touches, pushes. She rolls, she's pushing back, my hand slides on the pungent sauce of her. But still her eyes are closed, tight as a child's, waiting for a wish to come, a present to be handed her. She shudders, arches back, hips rock, And still, even as I see her pivot, roll, try to come even closer to my lips, my tongue, somehow I also see her, diving still, outstretched arms slowly come together, placid, knowing, calm. For it is nearly time to end her fall and split the water. I was hard. A need of my own demanding now. Back to her face to kiss, me inside her: Soft, silken wet. She closing in around me, my need driving me to plunge, to try to touch her deep, to plow the furrow for a seed of me, me, me. My need. And yet, even as the final, fevered flood of me pumps in, and she cries out as her own dance of want and satisfaction spins to its finale, I wonder at the border she has crossed that I cannot. to be continued