Pastro John Visits School Teacher
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Past LivesChapter 10 free porn video
I didn't think. I ignored my sister's warnings. I ignored my own reservations. I knew I couldn't have a casual relationship with Mary, but she was looking at me with such longing that's all I saw, all I thought about.
I kissed her.
I kissed her and she melted. Her lips melted into mine, and she twisted her lithe body until her breasts melted against my chest. She moaned into my mouth, and our embrace deepened but still remained soft somehow. I felt the tip of her tongue on my lips, and I let it into my mouth.
Her fingers raked through my hair, and she pulled my mouth tighter to hers. Then she jerked her head back and stared into my eyes.
"Here. Now," she hissed and kissed me again.
Without taking my eyes off hers, I hit the intercom and told the chauffer to drive around until told otherwise.
Mary reached behind her and unfastened something. Her gown fell around her waist, exposing her magnificent breasts. They were larger than I expected, perfectly shaped, proportional, with dark, crinkled nipples, hard with arousal.
I reached and caressed both breasts, one in each hand. A nipple slipped between two fingers. I closed the fingers, squeezing. She didn't squirt, but baby's milk dampened my fingers. She sucked in air, more a sigh than a gasp, and covered both of my hands with hers. Leaning forward, she kissed me again.
After the kiss, she straddled my lap and pushed my jacket off my shoulders. I shrugged out of the garment and pulled my shirt over my head.
"Beautiful," she said so quietly I barely heard her. She ran her hands over my chest. "No hair. I like that. Hard muscles. Masculine. Male." She leaned forward and licked one of my nipples. Her teeth nipped at the other one.
"Remove your dress," I said softly, matching her quiet tone of voice.
She scooted off me to my right, and the gossamer garment fluttered to the floorboard of the limo. After straddling me again, she released the buckle on my belt. She watched my eyes as she unzipped my trousers. It was a struggle, but with my help, she soon had my trousers down around my ankles. I didn't kick them off.
Her hand dug into the opening at the front of my boxers, and she snaked my erection out through the hole. She didn't look at it. Her eyes remained on mine. She did stroke it with unhurried, natural turns of her wrist.
She took one of my hands back to her breast. I raised the other and palmed her other breast. She licked her lips.
"I want to fuck you," she said, again so softly I had to strain to hear her. "I want to fuck you. I don't want you to fuck me. Just sit there."
She rose up on her knees, pulled her panties to one side, and moved the head of my cock around and around between very wet labia. I pinched a nipple.
"No," she said. "Just hold them, please. Don't move."
By then she'd settled my cock at the entrance to her cunt, and very slowly, she sat down around my length.
"So good," she whispered, more to herself than to me. "So good."
I bottomed out.
"So good."
She didn't move on me. She used three fingers on her clitoris, flattened and held together, rubbing them in a small circle.
"Yes," she purred. "Yes."
It took all the willpower I had not to thrust. Barring that, I wanted her to move on me. She didn't. She did start to shake. No, she shivered as if very cold. She wasn't cold, though. She was very hot. Her eyes, still fixed on mine, rolled back in her head, and the shiver became more pronounced. Suddenly, she stiffened and cried out, not loudly but louder than she'd been speaking. I felt the spasms of her orgasm squeeze and release my very hard erection. Still, she didn't move on me, and her eyes held mine. A small smile curled her lips.
"So good," she said as loudly as her orgasmic cry.
She leaned and kissed me. "Fuck me now," she said. "Gently, but fuck me."
I thrust upwards, burying my length to the hilt.
"Perfect," she said.
I kept my slow thrusts short, two inches in, two inches out. She started moving on me as my thrusts lengthened, and her fingers returned to her clitoris. A nipple slipped between two of my fingers, the hard button resting against the web between the fingers. I squeezed a little.
"Harder," she said. "Your fingers," she clarified. "Yes," she said a little louder and increased the speed of her rotating hips. "Yes."
With both of us moving, I lengthened my thrusts, and her fingers flashed in a tight circle on her clitoris. Sticky with baby's milk, my hands squeezed her breasts and nipples.
Her eyes never left mine.
"Come in me," she said. The shivering and shaking started again.
As soon as she started to go stiff, I let myself go and climaxed. I'd waited for it, retarded its arrival, so the orgasm was very powerful. Still, I didn't cry out. Mary did, not a shout, but louder than before.
She collapsed against my chest. I wrapped her in my arms and held her loosely.
She started to cry.
I held her while she cried. I didn't speak, but my hands soothed her, petting her heated flesh.
Finally, she straightened her back and looked at me. Then she kissed me hard.
"Thank you," she said and buried her wet face at my neck. "I'll be better next time," she said. "I had to do it this way, Brent. If you had taken charge, I wouldn't have gone through with it. I had to be in control. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said.
"I won't always be this way. My second time, that was better, better for you, better for me. Soon, I'll be like I was before..."
She didn't finish; she shuddered.
I lifted her face with my fingers and kissed her lips, and then her wet eyes.
"Let's get dressed," I said. "I have a sparring match tomorrow morning."
"I'm going with you," she said.
"No, that would be too dangerous for you."
She grinned. "Uh-uh, I have a disguise.
His age was indeterminable, somewhere between forty and sixty, and the Chinese gentleman didn't look happy. He saw through Mary's disguise, though, and motioned for us to enter.
I'd arrived at the kwoon with an audience of three: Mary, Grace and Pete Turner.
En route to the kwoon in the limo, I said to my entourage, "You just want to see me get my ass kicked."
Grace giggled and said, "There's that, little brother."
"If Sifu spars with you, that will be a given," Mary said. "I've never seen Sifu beaten. Most likely, he will turn you over to one of his students, Brent."
"Tell me about Shaolin wushu weapons," Pete Turner said to me.
"They're ancient martial arts weapons that have experienced a recent resurgence in popularity. I'm adept with four of them: the saber, broadsword, spear, and my favorite, the cudgel."
"Sounds dangerous," Pete said.
I didn't respond to his comment, and the limo stopped in front of the kwoon. Now I had to convince a master of the martial arts to spar with me.
"Sifu, you do me a great honor," I said, using Mandarin, and bowed again. "I'm sorry. I am ill prepared. I have no sparring clothing and arrived only with my cudgel. May I demonstrate my cudgel play before we begin?"
His eyes didn't widen. He didn't smile or frown. He gave me a brief nod, accepting my suggestion.
I removed my jacket and shirt, and took off my shoes and socks. After moving to the center of the kwoon, I bowed to Sifu, and then performed a routine with my cudgel that I'd perfected shortly before my death during the Boxer Rebellion. The exercise was intricate, demonstrating my flexibility, agility and quickness. I performed no aerobatics. I saved those moves for the sparring match.
When I finished, I turned to Sifu and bowed.
"I will spar with you," he said in Mandarin. "One of my students will help you with padding."
"Will you be wearing padding, Sifu?" I asked in the same language.
"No."
"Then I will spar without padding, as well."
He smiled, which surprised me. "Are you certain? Accidents happen."
"I trust in your ability, Sifu."
"As you wish. Cudgels?" He held one in his hand.
"To start with. I'm also adept with the saber, broadsword and spear. Alas, I don't own any of them, and if I did, I wouldn't travel with them."
"They will be provided," he said and struck without warning.
I blocked his strike and spun away from him. He pressed forward. For his age, he was amazingly quick. I was quicker and blocked his side and overhead chops. Leaping over a sweep, I did a midair somersault, striking while turning in the air. He blocked my cudgel with his, but barely, and then leaped high. I jumped with him, and we engaged while aloft. I struck three times. He blocked two of them, and ducked under the third.
I kept him on the defensive, and ten minutes later, my youthful stamina started to wear him down. I backed away to give him some breathing time, and then with a silent roar, I attacked, driving him backwards, stopping strikes he didn't block only inches from his body to avoid hurting him.
I'd won, so I backed away and bowed. He returned my bow, going deeper than before. He said, "I am no match for you."
"I have the advantage of youth, Sifu."
"No, it's more." He stared at me. "You have an old soul."
"Yes," I said.
"Your Mandarin is excellent, but... out of date."
"Yes, from the 19th Century."
He nodded. "Saber, broadsword or spear?" he asked.
"Saber," I said.
He clapped his hands. A student — a Caucasian boy — hurried to him and bowed. "Bring two sabers," Sifu said, using English.
Sifu fought like a fierce tiger, and his balance was superb, but he was no match for me. I won the saber sparring session, stopping the sword inches from his neck. If I hadn't pulled the strike, I would've taken his head.
We bowed to each other.
"Enough," he said, reverting to Cantonese.
"You have my gratitude, Sifu," I said, also switching to Cantonese. "Sparring with an unknown without full-body padding is an enormous compliment. I wish your kwoon were in the Phoenix area. We would become great friends, I believe."
"I know a master in that city. Like me, he will be no match for you." The old Chinese gentleman surprised me again when he chuckled. "Also like me, he needs to learn humility. If you wish, I will give you his name and telephone number before you leave, and I will tell him to expect your call."
I bowed. "Thank you, Sifu."
"I am thirsty, Mr. Carson. May I offer you and your friends tea?"
"I'd like tea. I can't speak for them. When we arrived, you recognized Mary. Please keep her visit here, as well as her association with me, confidential. To do otherwise could place her in jeopardy."
"Of course. She is under your protection?"
"Yes."
"Then I will be less concerned about her future safety. Her father was an old and trusted friend."
Pete Turner took us to Chez Philippe for lunch, one of the restaurants he'd backed with his venture capital company. Talk about service! The maitre d' was fawning. Waiters hovered over us, and the chef even came out to greet us. Pete said the owner, Philippe, didn't come in on Saturdays during the day, or he would have joined us for lunch.
The ride to Chez Philippe was all about the sparring matches and my weird abilities. Pete was effusive with his compliments, and although I think she would have preferred that Sifu had kicked my ass, Grace indicated that she'd expected the results.
"Brent does things like you just witnessed all the time," she said to Pete.
"Did your parents speak Mandarin and Cantonese?" Pete asked.
"No," Grace said. "I didn't know Brent was fluent in those languages until a few days ago."
"You're kidding," Pete said, looking flabbergasted.
Grace shook her head. "Nope. He did the same thing with art. About this time last year, he went to my father with a list of art supplies he needed, and then started to paint. He had his first opening last December in Phoenix, and his first one-man show in San Diego in February."
Pete looked upset. "Are you saying that Brent has only been painting for about one year?"
"Hey, Pete," I said. "I'm here. There's no need to talk about me as if I weren't."
"Sorry," Pete muttered.
"Sifu says he has an old soul," Mary said. She'd been curiously quiet since the sparring matches.
"I don't understand," Pete said.
Grace laughed gaily and squeezed his hand affectionately. "Join the club, buster."
That's when we'd spilled out of the limo into Chez Philippe for lunch.
Between the soup and the main course, Pete said, "Make me understand, Brent."
I smiled. "You're asking me to explain the inexplicable. I can't do that. I do have a theory. It relates to Sifu's comment that I have an old soul. Pete, have you ever had a dream or a flashback about someone, knowing that that someone is you, but at the same time the person isn't you, and this person is in a place you've never been, a place you are familiar with from the past before you were born?"
Pete concentrated and finally said, "Yes, once in my early teens. I was ill with a high fever. I attributed the hallucination or vision to my illness."
I nodded. "Well, that happens to me... a lot. And not just when I'm sick. I believe they're memories from past lives. During puberty, I noticed that not only could I remember some past events from those lives, I could also assimilate skill sets from those lives into this one. Art, forging iron, kung fu, and the Chinese languages represent those skill sets. I have other skill sets, but they're minor, not as life altering.
"Forging iron?" Pete said.
"Yes, in one of my past lives I believe I was a blacksmith."
"Reincarnation," Mary whispered, more to herself than anyone at the table. "Of course! Memories and skill sets from past lives. That explains everything."
"It's a workable theory," I said.
"Jesus!" Pete huffed.
The waiters arrived with our meals.
Saturday afternoon, I called Clarence Kitt, the private detective I'd hired to check out the partner in the failed import/export business that Mary's father owned. Kitt didn't have any hard news for me. He did have an opinion.
"Mr. Carson, I can't prove it," Kitt said, "but I sense chicanery."
I chuckled. Chicanery? No one talked like that.
"Explain," I said.
"The business was placed in bankruptcy. That's a matter of public record and easy to check, but Mr. Stewart's partner isn't poverty stricken, not by a long shot. He recently purchased a new Mercedes, paid cash for it."
"Perhaps he had money not related to the business," I said.
"I'm looking into that. I think you should hire a CPA to peruse the accounting ledgers of the failed business."
Peruse? Accounting ledgers? Clarence Kitt was a kick, a real character.
"Hire the accountant for me and add his fee to yours," I said. "What happened to the Stewart family home?"
"It was sold at auction to satisfy part of the outstanding dept owed by the bankrupt company."
"Was the sale price close to fair market value?"
"I don't know. Good point. I'll look into it. If it wasn't, I'll check out the successful bidder, as well."
"Ms. Stewart's parents were murdered, Clarence. If the partner was involved in their deaths, and I'm not saying he was, then checking on the partner could prove dangerous. So, be careful. All right?"
"Gracious! I hadn't thought of that. Yes, of course, I'll be careful."
Gracious? I stifled a chuckle and wondered if Kitt were gay. San Francisco was a known haven for gay men.
"If you run across a link that points to the partner's involvement, no matter how tenuous, I want to know about it immediately," I said.
"I understand."
I hung up and called Jack Stark, the attorney I hired to check on the status of probate for the Stewart estate.
"I've got good news and bad news," Stark said. "The good news is probate is complete. The bad news is the liabilities and fees ate up the assets. About the hospital and doctor bills. There are none. The hospital is a charity hospital. They accrue the expenses and invoice the patients but don't pursue collection. I spoke with the collection agency. They won't bother Ms. Stewart again." He chuckled. "I think I uncovered some larceny going on between some hospital employees and the collection agency. I wouldn't be surprised if some heads roll at the hospital."
"Okay, send me your bill, Jack. No, wait. I'd like you to do something else for me. Check with the police. Find out the status of the investigation into Mr. and Mrs. Stewart's murders."
"All right."
"Jack, did the San Francisco media report on the recent bombing in Phoenix?"
"Yes."
"My parents and Mary Stewart's half-brother, Julian Stewart, were killed in that despicable act. It's highly possible that Julian Stewart may have been the target for that bombing. Although I have no reason to believe that Mary Stewart's parents were killed by the same person or persons who planted that bomb, if any links exist that tie the two crimes together, I'd like to know about them."
"Are you asking me to search for possible links?"
"No, I mentioned the possibility only so you'd have it in mind when you talk to the police about the investigation into Mr. and Mrs. Stewart's deaths."
"I understand. You didn't let me finish my report on your initial assignment, although what I did exceeded that assignment. During my discussions with the probate officer, he indicated that Mr. Stewart carried a term life insurance policy. Knowing you'd be interested, I checked with the insurance company. His wife was the beneficiary, but Mary Stewart was named as secondary beneficiary should Mrs. Stewart predecease Mr. Stewart. The law is clear. Mary Stewart is due the proceeds from that policy."
"That is good news. What was the face amount on the policy?"
"$100,000, but Mr. Stewart's violent death triggered the double indemnity clause."
"What does Mary have to do to collect?"
"Contact the insurance company."
"She can't do that. As you know, she's in hiding. If she gives you a power of attorney, can you get the check and then mail it to her?"
Lianne
- 22.04.2021
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