Looking for Gentry part 7 conclusion
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Looking For Gentry (part 6) free porn video
I'm not the first to lie beside the wall of someone's sleeping body, a
wall that you had hoped would mark the border between the world and two
people on their rumpled plain of sheets and blankets kicked aside. A wall
instead between them, huge and still unbreached. One heavy body, rumbling
and indifferent. A smaller one, a hand plucking at a satin strap, staring
in the darkness, wondering how to make things right, and if they'd ever
be. And if, of course, it really was all her fault, in the end.
But then, there's only so long you can lie there. To ask: Well, who is he?
And who am I now, really? And can things change and will things change and
have I changed?
And do I want to change?
He shifted, turned his back to me. I wriggled back up towards the
headboard, propped my back against the pillows piled there, watched him
sleep. He eased onto his back again, I knelt beside him, lightly stroked
my hand along his neck and shoulders, around biceps that even sleep had
not relaxed to softness, along his stomach, thighs, and ...
Slowly, he hardened. My fingers circle, hold him. A stroke, two. He
snores. I touch him with my lips, but he sleeps on.
I sat there for a while, wondering if that was all there was, once your
man is done with what he wants, wondering if I wanted to be there in the
morning, facing the muzzy reality of just-got-up and sour breath and who-
are-you and last-night-did-I-really. And then, slowly, regretfully, I
swung my legs out to the floor, careful not wake him, I eased off of his
bed and tiptoed to the bathroom with my dress and purse.
I wasn't sure quite where I'd go or how to get there. It was late. The
last shows at the cinemas had started, the hunt for girls and guys,
something to drink, a band was over by the Beach or in the pole-dance
clubs and bars outside the Navy Base. The TRT buses don't run much, that
time of night. I didn't think it was too smart to wait for long, spot-lit,
alone, at the stop. In Norfolk, cabs don't cruise, you have to call them.
But then I saw her, waiting on the sidewalk, hunched and frowning,
swaddled in her peacoat.
"Are you OK?" she whispered, as I stepped into the dark. "Are you OK? I
was so worried."
I nodded, lying, felt a wetness on my cheeks.
She held me to her for a moment. Then, calmer, we stood apart, my hands in
hers. I felt her look me over.
"You were so long," she said. "Where did you go? You went up to his room,
I know you went up to his room."
And then she slapped me.
"What were you thinking; what on earth were you thinking?" her voice was
rising now. "You had to know what could have happened. You had to know the
risk that you were taking. You had no idea who he was. What he wanted. You
barely know that about yourself yet."
Her hands were on my shoulders know, shaking me. Or was I shaking, and she
holding me instead?
"There's a reason mothers tell us not to do this," she whispered. "I was
so scared for you."
She slide her hand down to my waist, and hugged me to her.
"The car's just over here," she said. "You're cold, you're shaking. Let's
go home."
My cheek still stinging, eyes still wet, I followed. I didn't know what
else to do. We drove in silence through the night, on empty streets.
Reflections from the street lights glittered on wet tar, the rain that
must have come while I was up there with him -- how could I not have
noticed -- had pooled and puddled but had not been enough to clear the
dark sky overhead. The moon and stars were hidden.
Silent, I followed up her stairs and to her place, and let her sit me
down.
"Tell me," she said.
I did.
She sat, her legs just touching mine, enough for me to feel the jeans'
seam through the thin nylon of my pantyhose, but not enough to feel the
warmth below. She sat like that a while, remote. Just thinking.
Then she turned, I felt her hand gently touch my wrist. She looked into my
eyes.
"Don't tell me how you feel right now," she said. "I think I know."
"I know you know," I said. I did, too.
She put a finger to my lips.
"Shush, baby," she said. "We'll talk later. Let me draw you a nice hot
bath. Lots of troubles're solved in a hot bath. You soak a bit. Warm up
some, you'll feel better, fresher. Then I'll show you, I got you
something, I think you'll like it. A present. Maybe two. Time for talking
later."
I did feel better, soaking in the steam. She had a old, deep tub; ran the
water hot enough to redden skin. I felt my knees and shoulders relax, I
felt sweat trickle down my temples. I slid beneath the surface, and
thought a while, as the bath slowly cooled and the knot below my neck
melted away.
A line, a splash of color, she had said, and she had done those, and a
little more, for me. And I'd felt a new world open. Shaking, I had stepped
inside. I'd felt someone new emerge within me, a new me. Petals spreading,
soft, lush from a hard and tiny bud. For all the fear I felt while walking
in the new she gave me, I'd also felt other things. Things I barely dared
to name, even whisper to myself, alone and naked and hidden in the
steaming mist. A sense, perhaps, of a buffer gone, a shell, a neutral
zone, a no-man's-land that had so surrounded me -- and now, without that
dead grey swaddling, a feeling that core of me had space now to expand and
fill the whole of me. I didn't want to say how right it felt to me to
enjoy some of the little things, the trivial, the frivolous that she'd
shown me a woman could enjoy: to weigh a choice of color in a blouse,
consider how a skirt might flow, admire the interplay of line and
emptiness of lace against your skin. To think, however silly it might be,
that you could if you wanted become your very own work of art. To know
that somewhere not too far to reach might be a chance to feel my soul,
myself seized in a way I never had imagined; to be roused, to be riven, to
be ready to be taken where I'd never been. And then to go there. I was
open in a way I'd never been before. A skirt that played around my knees,
smooth legs bared to the world; I felt less separate, more able to
connect. The way a strand of hair could make me shiver, a brush of lace
behind my knee, the slide of satin; all these connected me to feelings and
a world I hadn't know. Open. Ready to feel. At last.
Open and ready to be filled. I was when I was in his room. I'd kissed a
man, I'd had a man inside my mouth, been ready to wrap my legs tight
around his hips to hold him even closer. Did
I want that? Could I want that?
How badly would it hurt?
A line, a splash of color. I could do that, it wasn't all that big a
stroke, that big a change. The man I'd sought, and not yet found, had even
showed me how: a line, there's five years gone, a dab, a forename shed,
changed. A different letter in the right spot, on the right piece of
government paper, it wouldn't take much more than that. It's not so hard
to make an old you disappear, when you no longer need him. As I knew now
that Gentry had. Did I want that? Could I?
She slipped inside the steam, holding a large towel ready for me. I let
her wrap me, rub me down, and lead me to her bedroom.
"Now close your eyes," she said. "I'll get you your surprise."
I felt her stretch a bra around my chest, and hook it shut. She tucked two
soft pads of something in the cups, they moved and shifted just so
slightly when I lifted up my hands to try to twitch the straps in place,
but there were non. I bent my head and saw a tiny forth of lace, two beige
swellings in a strapless bra, trembling when I shivered.
"Close your eyes again," she whispered, kneeling. "Hey foot, straw foot,
step inside."
I felt her draw silk slowly up my legs. I bent my head again, felt the
bobble on my chest, watched her touch the panties into place.
"Close your eyes, now sweetie, keep them closed," she said. "Now it's time
for us to dive. You ready?"
"I think I am," I said.
"I know you are," she said. "Trust me, I know."
I lifted my arms up above my head. I felt a swirl of lace and silk and
ribbon slip over wrist, slip down my arms, encircling me.
"I know you know," I murmured.
I felt soft fingers ease satin straps onto my shoulders, gently hug a a
hem in place, to brush me on my hips and belly just above where my legs
join. I felt her hands run along my ribs and down my hips and thighs,
warmth kneeling close beside me. Whispering:
"Open your eyes now."
And there I was. Two ribbons of pale blue, two swelling triangles of lace,
blue silk collecting itself together just below, framing the roundness,
falling in soft drapes that rustled with the slightest move or breath of
air, making me shiver when they touched my skin.
"Don't be afraid," a whisper from my side. "You think you want to step
back to what you were, you know you need to step into what you could
become. You feel it here..."
A hand slid up the silk to rest a moment over my thudding heart.
"You feel it here..."
Lower now, stroking my belly.
"You feel it here..."
Another hand, toying with my trembling knee.
"You feel it here."
The hand slides from belly even lower.
"You're walking on the edge of something, along a knife ridge, chasms
yawning either side, afraid to fall," she whispered. "But falling, one way
or the other, that's what we do. I know exactly what it's like to walk
there."
"I know you do," I said. "Bobbie? Richard?"
She shook her head.
"Don't be afraid to fall," she told me. "There's nothing down here that
can hurt you. I'm here to catch you, either way. Bobbie, Richard, doesn't
matter."
A sigh, the kneeler eases back on ankles, slowly stands. Two arms circle
my waist, a warmth along my back.
"I'll tell you what, though," a voice now in my ear. "Falling's fine. To
dive, that's even better. Are you ready?"
I watch us standing in the mirror. I see her smile at me.
I nod.
On the dresser was the wig I'd worn. I lean, and reach, pull it slowly,
carefully into place, slowly brush it, with my fingers, touch the curls
just to where I want. Reach again and pick a lipstick. Lean again and put
the red up to my lips. Trace the little pout I make at the mirror.
Then I turn, and have my kiss.
Arms round me, my arms, too, reach out to draw us closer. Softness gently
squeezing softness. Hands stroking, holding faces close. Pushing closer,
lips on lips, a tongue slips in my mouth. My fingers lightly touch her
brow, her cheeks, along her neck, her collar. Buttons come apart, I slip
the denim shirt clear, bend to feel the valley swelling from her bra. Her
hands now on my cheeks and guide back for yet another kiss, and then
behind her, to undo the bra.
She moans a little, from deep inside her throat, as I touch her breasts.
And she takes my wrists, and holds me still.
"That's one way we can go," she said. "There is another."
I felt myself begin to shiver.
She pulled me to her, stroked my head.
"Don't be afraid, sweetie," she said. "You feel it, I can tell, opening
deep inside, spread wider, warming. You know you're missing something.
That's why you first turned this way, when I showed you that you could.
It's not just what you wear. It's not just being pretty, though you are
pretty. There's something more."
She kissed me gently on my lips.
"I found it. You can, too," she said.
"Tell me," I whispered.
She bent and whispered in my ear, breath warm, like when a mother gently
puffs warm breath to ease a child's earache. She told me about the years
of hiding, years of lying. Sneaking in a sister's closet, back in West
Virginia. Teasing in the locker room. A football player in the woods
behind the school. Safely married, still the feeling that deep inside
somewhere, something is missing, something is not right. Cornered by the
past, a man who knew about a Carolina record no one else had found. A
threat he called a business deal. Three days to say yes. Home early from
the bank that afternoon, knowing the trap's about to slam shut on you,
seeing no way out. Then seeing what you'd always needed to have seen, to
understand that the something missing in your life had left your partner
also missing something, something she found that afternoon, underneath the
man who found the Carolina record, dress hitched to her hips, legs around
thighs, a moan of joy never heard before, a joy that never had been felt.
And despite the pain of watching, of seeing just how empty even this part
of the snug, safe life he'd built had really been, he thought he saw way
to find liberation. And joy.
"Have you?" I asked.
"Oh, yes." A smile. A little squeeze. Lips on mine. "This is quite nice,
but, yes I've found it."
"Not this?"
"No, no. Not quite. You know not quite. To snuggle's fine. To cuddle.
Kiss. We all need a little tenderness. Even a huntin' man needs that." She
tapped my nose, flashed me a playful smile.
"But what's missing is ... abandonment. Maybe it's giving up the rules, or
maybe habits. That's not quite what I mean to tell you, though. It's like,
deep down inside, there's something holding back, a last reserve. It keeps
you separate. When I saw her, the woman I had lived with, so nice, so
quiet, so snug, so unhappy; when I saw her abandon that beneath him..."
A sigh.
"I knew that's what I wanted. I knew I had to fall. Surrender."
She drew me closer now.
"Surrender," she whispered. "I know that's what you're yearning for, my
little huntin' man." She laughed. "Huntin' man, hunting a man -- I wonder
if you knew, somehow, who you were really hunting. But I knew, and when I
tucked you in my coat, showed you the way, I knew that you would follow.
Had to follow. Your quarry's just ahead. All you have to do is get down
from the ridge. Surrender."
She turned now and I felt myself slip through, lean backwards as she
caught my wrists, and laughing, spin me round her.
"You ready?"
Another spin, a laugh.
"You ready?"
The two of us are twirling now, reeling, laughing.
"You ready?"
She's stopped; still leaning back, I feel her tremble. I'm dizzy, head
still spinning, pulse thunders in my ears. I laugh. I nod.
"She's ready."
A statement, thrown over my shoulder. She lets go of my wrists. I tumble
backwards, feel a scrape of heavy wool along my shoulders, hear it rasp
softly along the silk stretched tightly across my back. Two arms lunge out
to grab me, steady me to my feet.
"Bobbie?" I whisper.
She smiles, a little sadly. Slowly steps around me and the man, a big man,
I feel him loom behind me. She steps out through the door, into the other
room. Whatever happens now, I am alone. Except I'm not.
His arms, thick arms, still hold me, loosely, two bands of warmth across
my belly. I'm trying not to shake.
"Shh." A deep whisper in my ear. "Nothing to be afraid of here. Nothing's
going to happen you don't want."
We stand like that, together for a moment. My shivers stop. I know,
somehow, he'd let me go, if I really want. But right for now, it is just
fine to stand.
He must feel that way as well: I feel him harden, even through the silk,
even through his woolen trousers. Startled, I wriggle. He lets his arms
fall free.
"It's not the most orthodox way to go," he says, speaking to my back. "But
lots of friends have set up dates for friends. You think: Oh, she'd like
him, he might be right for her. So you introduce them, let them look each
other over. Can I look you over?"
I turn to face him.
He is taller, even, than I remember. Remember: why? Dark hair, cropped
close. The kind of tan you get from spending days outdoors. The bristle on
his heavy chin had tiny flecks of grey. Red chevrons on his shore leave
dress blues. I watch his eyes move from my naked legs, the pale blue silk
draping my belly, the swell of lace.
Our eyes meet.
I wonder why I think I know him.
He smiles. And now I know. The sailor from the bar down at the Beach, the
one who'd looked me over, made me blush, just before Chet had sauntered
over, before the sailor's own business for the night called him away.
"I saw you from across the room..." he says.
I feel myself begin to blush again. I try to break my eyes away, but
something in his gaze just will not let me. He holds his hand out to me,
smiles, and says:
"And had to know you."
I lower my eyes. My hand is playing with my hair. I sense him step a
little closer.
"So here's what might have happened," he says. "You two were sitting." He
pulls a chair towards me, I sink into it. I press my knees press close,
one hand clasping the other tightly on my lap.
"You two were sitting, I come up and say: Buy you a drink? My eyes are
just on you, of course. That pretty dress, with all the flowers. The one
you wore tonight, for him. I like the way it looks, it flutters round, the
way you touch it till it lies just right. It makes me think: A Sunday in
the country, picnic. Nice things, nice girl. Bobbie gets the hint. You
look at me, you say, what do you say?"
I look at him, Bobbie has slid out from the table. I think, why not?
"A glass of wine, I think."
"A glass of wine it is," he says. "And then I say: May I sit down, and
then I do." He sits down on the bed across from me. "I say, I'm Jim, and
you? We're maybe just a little nervous, a little stiff at first. You sit
up just a bit too straight, you hold your legs together tightly, just like
now, maybe I'm sitting just an inch too close. We talk a bit, I tell you
I'm a sailor man; I don't dress in my blues in that bar. I hope you are
intrigued; I tell a sea story or two. You laugh at one, we're easy now. We
talk in longer sentences, there are fewer pauses now. I think maybe our
legs are touching now. I ask about you and you tell me..."
"I'm down here for a visit, just exploring," I say. I tell him about the
little town were I am from, the right one this time.
"Sounds just like mine, back there in Illinois," he says. "What do you
do?"
I think about the secretary I'd introduced to Chet, and how, while she was
so much part of me, she wasn't quite the whole; that's why, I guess, her
hometown moved, why snotty Freddy vanished in a flash, unmissed.
"I'm what you call a skiptrace," I say. "A P.I. I look for people when
they're running. Credit cards, process serve, sometimes."
He smiles.
"And are you looking now?" I feel his hand now on my knee. He leaves it
lie there for a minute, maybe two.
I wait for him.
"And so," he says at last. "We'd talk a while. I'd touch your knee, like
this, maybe let my hand ease, gently, gently to the side, the inner side,
just at the bottom of your thigh; we'd hardly think about it, to be sure.
It'd just happen. Like this."
And it does.
"Then, the night goes on, another glass of wine, maybe a dance or two," he
says. He stands now, and pulls me to my feet, spins me around him.
"I'd ask if I could take you home, and you say yes. I hold my car door
open, watch you swing your legs inside, and after you've told me how to
turn, how far to go, I watch again as I help you out. Nice legs, I think,
in case you want to know. I take a step, I say: I guess this good night."
He takes his step.
"And I say: Thank you, I had a lovely time." I look up to his face, lips
parted.
He bends to me, lightly brushes me, cheek to cheek. I feel his warm breath
on my skin, feel him kiss my cheek. And then kiss again.
And his lips touch my lips, no more than just the gentlest breeze, just
lips to lips. Then a little more, a pushing closer.
Now I feel a fire rise within me, surging from depths between my hips,
warming my belly, rising still. I feel a flush of heat above my breasts,
rise to my neck, my face.
I kiss him back. Hard.
My tongue in him, his tongue in me. The heat of him fills my mouth, rises
to my head, a fire pours into me like glowing heavy liquid, spills down me
to my belly. I feel as if I'm opening, unfolding. The heat within me makes
me squirm, I press him closer, still closer to me. His hands slide up and
down my ribs, my back.
I need to feel him closer still. My hands now underneath his jumper, hold
the firm, warm skin beneath, the wiry threads of hair low on his belly.
We step apart; with one swift yank, he pulls the jumper off, another
throws it to the floor. I reach to touch a shoulder, run my fingers down
his arm, around a heavy bicep, back. Both hands on him how, fingers trace
the muscles of his chest, follow a line of ribs, around behind, a step
towards him. I feel the heavy muscle of his back, I run a thumb down his
spine. My fingers reach the top of his bell bottoms. I feel his hand work
in between our bellies now, bring mine around to help him with the
buttons.
"Let me," I murmur, and he does. The cloth slips down an inch or two, I
push down a little more, kneel, bring them to his ankles. He steps free.
And there he is. His hand toys with my satin strap, but he's not forcing,
he's not hinting. Just waiting.
I feel silk brushing skin. A shiver, just like when a skirt hem brushes
just behind a knee, or when a fringe of lace tickles inside a thigh, that
hint of how you're open in a way that he is not.
And now I know I need to fill what's opened.
My lips part, I hear a tiny rustle as I lean and my breasts shift within
the silk. My tongue touches warm, smooth skin, and slowly leads me down
and closer, slowly, I let him in. I back away, to see where I have been.
Red lips brush purple, lean and back. Again. I feel a shudder.
Down. Out. Down.
Slowly back now, then before I sink again, he bends and, hands inside my
armpits lifts me, sits me on the bed.
He bends again, and swings my feet up from the floor. A lurch, the bed
sags and he's beside me. My hand is just behind his ear, guiding him back
to me.
We kiss.
His hand slides down my side again, I feel him pushing down my panties.
The bed creaks, he shifts to pull them clear. Sits up a minute, reaches to
the bedside table.
The bed lurches again, and he's beside me, a hand between my legs now,
gently rubbing.
Something cool and slightly slick, he strokes it down, and deeper still, a
finger stroking deeper still. I roll, my legs apart.
Another lurch, and he is kneeling between my legs.
Columns of legs. Hard muscle, curls of hair touch the smooth softness
inside my thighs.
I want. I want.
He knows. He has to know.
And then, at last, he sinks onto me.
Just for a moment, I feel the weight of him full on my chest; I hardly
breath. Then, it eases just a bit, his mouth is on mine now. I feel him
throb between my legs.
My legs stretch farther, my ankles hook his thighs. Pinned by the heat, I
feel as if I'm melting, last tiny fingerlings of ice inside now turning in
water, silver lines sliding down an Alpine slope, they will join others, a
trickle, tiny fall of water. Stream. River roaring.
I'm rolling, writhing, trying to touch every bit of me to him. Like a tide
flooding, ebbing, he pushes onward. I feel his cock, curved like a
scimitar, sliding between my legs, hard as iron with its urgent search,
hot as a flame.
Now, inexorable, he's rolling us. He's easing himself to the side, his
hands are on my hip, pushing me up. I am on top, now. I feel him push, I
push back, his hands hold me, help me lower myself. A pressure, pushing,
down there, a pressing that won't be stopped. Then, a burning, scraping
it. It hurts, my bottom is on fire.
Then, at last, he is inside me, I'm pinned, I feel him just inside me,
feel a tension ease. He slides in just a little deeper. I feel him ease
back slowly, it feels as if I'm flowing out along. Then in again, a shaft
that I enclose, that I must fit, a burning that goes from him to me. A
force that I can't stop, even if I wanted, a force that is him pushing and
me accepting, urging inward, inward. A force that, like the flood tide
presses on, rolls back, floods ever farther in, falls back.
Then in again: a little deeper, could it be.
A moan. A creak.
Now it is me, rising, easing down, sliding along that firey shaft, my
hands propped on his chest, fingers digging, head tilted back to moan.
Down, he's in me deeper than before, rock forward, and I feel him hard and
ready for the next trip. Down. Rock forward. Down.
Impaled, I dance.
I arch, unwind, I feel myself shift underneath my silk. A strap slids off
my shoulder, I don't care. Down again, dance again, float up and down, and
down and deeper. Back.
He lifts me free now, eases me to the bed beside him, kneels. His arms
around my waist. I turn, my cheek is on the pillow now, my belly on the
bed has trapped his hands, he's kneeling now, behind me. His arm lifts, my
butt rises to where he's waiting for me.
I'm moaning now. He pushes in.
The ebb and surge come just a little faster now. He's breathing harder, I
feel his hot breath in my ear. My knees slide farther apart, farther.
He pushes, faster, deeper. Heat fills me, I'm aflame.
He's throbbing, when he pauses, I can feel the pulsing deep inside before
he plunges in again.
A hand on mine, I grasp him hard. Between my thighs, I feel his muscles
tighten, feel the urgent need that drives him in, pumping fiercely, plow
me deep, the need that splays me, makes me push so he can fill me, touch
my core.
A moan. A gasp of joy.
Explosion, spurting hot and wet inside.
We melt. His weight on me, I feel him panting. I wriggle round, to face
him, hold him close.
to be continued
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