Lessons At The Edge

LESSONS AT THE EDGE

By

WILLIAM GAIUS

PART ONE

Chapter 1

RoseAnn Perez had been my mother’s best friend since I was in elementary school. More important to me, she’d overseen my graduation from teen-aged fumbling to adult sex, and surely accounts for my fascination with tall, assertive women.

After a short-lived marriage in her twenties, she’d been inducted as an honorary member of our family and I’d been encouraged to call her ‘Aunt’. She paid special attention to me, bringing gifts at Christmas, and sometimes for no special occasion, and celebrating my birthdays with the family. In return, I made simple childish gifts for her using my father’s woodworking tools, and she made me proud by giving them places of honor in her apartment.

As I grew into adolescence, RoseAnn was a frequent presence, subtly instructing and guiding. I looked forward to her warm hugs when she arrived and departed, and the fussing with my hair as she remarked yet again how tall I’d grown, or how proud she was of my grades. I was inclined to reciprocate, returning her embraces and demure kisses. I learned to flatter her, exclaiming how pretty she looked in this or that outfit, or how much I loved her perfume.

Puberty deepened my voice and hardened my muscles, and I grew keenly aware of her perfumed, radiant sexuality. At night, I’d lay awake for hours, tormenting myself with visions of her long, raven hair, luxurious breasts, and sleek legs. Hoping to impress her, I began an intense program of exercise and strength training, and tried to convince myself I could see desire in her eyes. Girls in my classes flirted with me, but late-night thoughts always made way for fantasies of my beautiful Aunt RoseAnn.

When I did date, frustrating, back-seat fumbling with girls as inexperienced as myself only fuelled wild fantasies featuring my adopted aunt.

More than a focus of teenaged lust, she fed my cultural and spiritual growth as well. She took me to museums and baseball games in downtown Chicago. Later, she introduced me to lectures, theatre and opera. In the tight seating of the Lyric Opera, the special aromas of her body competed with the stage for my attention. She introduced me to politicians and artists and actors and musicians, and I learned to speak to them with confidence, and more importantly, when not to speak at all.

For my eighteenth birthday, my parents proposed taking me to the Wisconsin Dells, a place I didn’t care for. The Dells had been a theme park before the term ‘theme park’ was invented, a postwar leftover from my parents’ youth. I gritted my teeth and thanked them and prepared to endure a weekend at one of the Dells water parks. But my mother invited RoseAnn along, and the prospect abruptly became interesting. The weekend became a real birthday gift when my parents decided they would sleep in one hotel room while I’d share the adjoining double room with RoseAnn.

It was all very proper. At day’s end, she had me go into the room and get ready for bed while she shared a drink with my folks. When the adjoining door closed and she prepared herself for bed, I hid under the blankets, pretending to be asleep, my eyes open the slightest bit, clutching at myself, my imagination ablaze. She came out of the bathroom wearing a sheer dressing gown. By the light from the bathroom door, she moved about like a cat, her long black curls rippling about her shoulders. The smells of perfume and powder, the splash of water, and even the sound she made brushing her teeth, stoked my fantasies to a fever pitch.

When she finished her ablutions, she stood for a moment in the bathroom door fluffing her hair, a tall silhouette against the light, burning a permanent image on my brain.

She was clearly naked under her sheer dressing gown.

I was at the verge of orgasm when she came near and leaned over my bed. I froze and tried desperately to feign sleep. Her breath warmed my face and she kissed me on the cheek, whispering, “Good night, Sweet Prince.”

Her lips lingered a millisecond longer than they should have, and her breath whirled in my ear.

It was too much.

I came, gripping the handful of tissues around my cock and fighting desperately to hold back the gasps and the involuntary thrusting of my hips; the nearness of her warming my cheek throughout.

Only when the contractions had finished did she chuckle in the back of her throat and slip into her own bed. I waited a long moment, and whispered: “Good night, RoseAnn,” omitting the ‘Aunt’ for the first time in my life.

At breakfast the next morning, I dreaded looking her in the eye. But she smiled at me over the rim of her coffee cup, in a way she’d never smiled before, and slowly and deliberately licked drops of coffee from her lips. In the following weeks, the vision of that roving pink tongue drove me nearly insane with lust.

In my careless infatuation, I did things I might have later thought silly, if they hadn’t turned out so well. When we returned from the Dells, I dipped into my savings and bought her a vial of Jontue, a scent that was heavily marketed in the early 1980’s. My mother saw the box and cautioned me, “That’s a very intimate gift, Barry. Men don’t buy expensive perfume for women unless they’re married or very close.” Even then, I understood what she meant by ‘very close’.

But she did not specifically forbid me, and I was impatient. That evening I drove over to RoseAnn’s apartment and nervously gave it to her.

She was thrilled, and immediately dabbed a drop on her wrist and on each side of her throat. I took her wrist and asked to smell the scent on her skin, but she made me wait. “A quality perfume changes when it’s put on,” she said. “In time, it works with a woman’s body chemistry and creates an aroma that’s just hers, and not like any other woman’s.”

A half-hour later, I asked again if I could smell the perfume and, instead of holding out her wrist, as I expected, she drew me close to her throat.

Blended with her natural scent, the Jontue had created something very special, and a tingling warmth grew in the bottom of my belly. The quick sound of her breath and the heat from her skin gave me courage. I softly kissed the silken skin, held the caress long enough to feel her pulse on my lips, and a moment beyond that. I quickly withdrew, knowing I’d gone too far. But all she did was smile and squeeze my hand. The experience gave me an erection that lasted long after I’d gone home. 

* * *

A month later, my fantasies were dashed when, on short notice, RoseAnn moved to California, taking up a new job with Western Sky, a booming electronics company in Mountain View. “I’ll be working on something called ‘cellular telephony’,” she said. “Someday soon, you’ll be able to carry around a phone no bigger than a briefcase, and talk to anyone, anywhere in the world. And they’ll be able to call you back, wherever you are.”

I was puzzled. “Who’d want such a thing? Isn’t it enough to be pestered by the phone when you’re at work or home? Can you imagine people driving in city traffic and talking on the phone at the same time? That’s crazy.”

The morning she left, when we were momentarily alone together, she whispered, “I’m sorry to leave you and your parents, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and the money is too good to pass up. I can’t afford to stay.” She gave me a little peck on the cheek. “But I expect you to come and visit me anytime. Promise?”

It wasn’t until she’d left that I realized that, by ‘you’, she’d meant me, and not necessarily my family.

This was the first of the major events in my chaotic year of 1983. Two months after her departure, I received acceptances from all four universities I’d applied to, and was suddenly faced with critical life decisions.

“I’m guessing you’ll want to go to Stanford,” my father said.

I shuffled the four acceptance letters, as if that might help me decide. “If I go to Michigan, I’ll be closer to home.”

“But if you want to major in biochemistry, Stanford’s the place. And there’s no need to stay close to home. You’re more than prepared to live away from us and manage your own affairs.”

“Aren’t the rents in that area out of sight?”

“Perhaps. But RoseAnn tells us she has a nice roomy apartment to herself, with a pool and clubhouse, right there in Palo Alto. Maybe she’d like a room-mate to split the rent.”

I may have physically jumped when he said that. In any case, that settled things as far as I was concerned. My father, innocently or perhaps by design—I never knew for sure—arranged for me to be alone in an apartment with the first love of my life, a woman nineteen years older than me. My mother didn’t object. They were both physicians, and not naïve, nor overly burdened by conventional morality. Perhaps they preferred to have their son explore his sexuality with a known quantity, someone they trusted, rather than co-eds carrying nameless diseases into the bargain.

* * *

Whatever my parents’ reasoning, on a Tuesday morning in mid-August I found myself parking my car in the visitor’s spot outside a row of white stucco townhouses with red tile roofs and lush landscaping. The air was fragrant with the scents of unfamiliar flowers, and dry and cool after the sweltering drive across the prairies.

I took RoseAnn’s letter from my briefcase, shook the key from the envelope, and began hauling suitcases up the steps to the oak door marked ‘R. Perez’. Inside, like a remembered song, the aroma of Jontue woke my lust from its slumber. Little signs of her were everywhere in the dark apartment—photographs on a mantle, a partly finished book by the couch, a half cup of coffee on the kitchen counter, a sweater tossed across a chair. I picked up the sweater and held it against my face, inhaling the scent of her body against a faint background of Jontue. The armpit held the sharp tang of her and I felt myself growing erect.

I found the bedroom with the note ‘Barry’s Room’ taped to the door, and moved my luggage in. The dresser nearest the bed was filled with her clothing, but another, empty one sat across the room. It still had a store tag on it. Apparently, it had been purchased just for me.

A new desk, chair, file cabinet, and bookcase stood in a corner, also with tags still attached.

I was about to start unpacking, but I was weary from three long days of driving, plus the morning’s drive in the fierce Bay Area traffic. I kicked off my shoes and tossed myself onto the bed.

My eyes opened wide. In line with my gaze, a photo of RoseAnn hung on the wall. She wore a one-piece bathing suit and leaned against a stucco wall, a knee raised and supported by her bare foot against the wall behind. Her black hair was tousled, as if by the wind, and her dark eyes shone from under the tangles. I marveled at her long, tanned legs and the sleek muscles around her shoulders. I longed to touch those shoulders, perhaps press my lips to them.

My lust got the better of me. I felt like a burglar as I opened a dresser drawer and found some underwear, somewhat the worse for wear. Clearly, this was her old stuff, stored in this spare room. I held up a brassiere, imagining the size of her breasts and wondering what her nipples would look like. Would they be brown and olive-sized, as I’d imagined? If I licked them, would they swell?

The other drawers contained folded clothing, and the bottom drawer contained a coil of thick, soft rope made of nylon or silk. I wondered what she would need with a length of rope, and immediately had lurid thoughts about it until I saw that it was the same rope used for the decorative tie-backs on the curtains.

In the top drawer, under some jewelry and papers, was a slim album marked Sybaris Boudoir Photography and when I opened it I drew in a quick breath.

Inside were more photos of RoseAnn.

In some, she wore a scant bikini. Her slightly rounded belly invited me to stroke the surface of the paper, and to sketch a mental picture of what lay under the bikini bottom. In another series of photos, she sat at a boudoir mirror, wearing a sheer nightgown, her legs drawn up and accented by old-fashioned seamed nylons. In the last picture, the nightgown had fallen open and through the negligee underneath, a slightly darker shadow was barely visible.

Her pussy, or just a trick of the lighting?

I gazed at the photo, taking the book near the window for better light, but the skill of the photographer, obviously intending to tease, left me in doubt.

By now, I was painfully erect. My first impulse was to take the album to the bathroom and masturbate, but it would be the wrong thing to do now. I wanted my arousal at maximum when I met her. I wanted my need to show in my eyes and my actions. I’d hold my lust at bay and wait. Not once did it occur to me that sex might not be on the menu, and that she would think of me as only a roommate, sharing the rent or, even worse, the young son of a dear friend, for whom she was doing a favor. 

I decided to go for a walk to cool down, and soon discovered that you don’t just wander around the streets in that part of California. A man without a car was an anomaly, a danger. Passing drivers slowed and gawked as if I had three heads. Within minutes, a police car stopped. Who was I? What was someone from Illinois doing in Palo Alto? Don’t you know that you make people nervous, walking the streets for no good reason? Fortunately, I still had RoseAnn’s letter with me. The officers passed it back and forth between them until they decided I was only a naïve newcomer and didn’t know better.

So I ended up trapped in the apartment, stoked to a red heat, surrounded by RoseAnn’s aromas and the artifacts of her life. After three days in the car, driving around sightseeing was unthinkable. TV could not distract me, nor the collection of historical novels she kept in her study.

When the door latch rattled at half past five that afternoon, my entire body was as aching and rigid as my cock.

Chapter 2

The door swung open and she stood in the doorway, her tall form silhouetted against the daylight, tossing her briefcase to one side as she spotted me.

“Barry! It’s so good to see you!”

A moment later I was  her embrace and the Jontue struck me like a hammer. I kissed her cheek, formally, but she drew back and kissed me full on the lips, something she’d never done with me before. I recovered in time to return the kiss with equal force.

She seemed in no hurry to break the embrace, and that was fine with me. Our lips were locked together, her breasts thrust against my chest, and her hips snuggled tightly against mine. I was dizzy with her scent. She overwhelmed and blasted my senses. Perhaps it was then she felt my erection, and rocked her crotch against it.

Without warning, contractions welled up from the pit of my groin. I grunted in her ear and came, bucking my hips against her like a dog.

“Oh, shit,” I said, backing away.

“What’s the matter?” She looked down at my shorts and the stream of semen coursing down my leg. “Oh, Barry!”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say. I was embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed, and now I felt the beginnings of a post-orgasmic funk, too.

She put her hands on her hips. “Never mind. Go clean yourself up and get some fresh clothes on. I’ll wipe up here.”

I washed the sticky, acrid semen from my crotch and leg, changed, and briefly considered climbing out the bathroom window and driving back to Chicago. But I sheepishly returned to the living room, where she waited on the couch.

Two glasses of wine sat on the coffee table.

She made a wry smile. Her eyes were so beautiful! “Come and sit down. Don’t make such a big deal of it.” She patted the couch cushion. 

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and sat at the other end of the couch.

“It was my fault. I got too close to you and I guess I rubbed where I shouldn’t have. Anyway, you’re eighteen. Your hormones are at their peak. At your age, if you weren’t horny all the time, I’d take you to a doctor to find out what was wrong.” 

My face still burned. I took the glass of wine and sipped, because I didn’t know what to say.

       

“For what it’s worth, I’m flattered. You’re attracted to me, aren’t you? In a sexual way, I mean.”

My stomach clenched, but I nodded, staring into the clear, red wine. She’d never been this candid with me before, nor had any other female. I tried to reply with equal candor. “I’ve been fantasizing about you all day,” I admitted. “For years, actually.”

She moved closer and touched my wrist. “Do you really think I haven’t known that? It’s been in your eyes since you were thirteen. Now you’re a full-grown man, virile and handsome. You carry yourself like a man years older than your calendar age, but I wonder, how much experience have you had with women?”

“A few girlfriends,” I muttered. “We just fooled around. None of us knew what we were doing.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps I was meant to teach you a few things. You were accepted at Stanford, and I happened to live nearby and have a spare room. What are the chances? I call that destiny, don’t you?”

To my dismay, I felt my erection returning.

She turned so our knees touched, and I felt the radiated heat from her body. Her hand reached for my knee and squeezed. “I came home from work today nervous as a kitten and horny as a tomcat. Ever since I offered the room to you, I’ve wondered what I’d do when you got here. But it seems your unfortunate accident was the perfect icebreaker, wasn’t it? I mean, we don’t have to dance around and hint at things to confirm the obvious. We know what we both want.”

Her eyes narrowed in a sultry gaze, and her lips parted slightly. I was still too nervous to move, so she said, with a hint of annoyance, “Barry, kiss me! How much invitation do you need?”

She slid the hand up my thigh, and I put my arm around her waist and pulled her to me. We kissed, a deep, soft, long kiss, while quick breath hissed through our noses and her perfume assaulted my senses again. Her hand moved higher and touched my erection.

“Just like an eighteen-year-old,” she breathed. “Ready to rock and roll again after just a half hour. Why don’t we go to the bedroom and see what we can do about those fantasies of yours?” She broke the embrace and stood up.

“Yes, please.” I was short of breath and my head spun with nervousness and anticipation.

Without preliminaries, she shed her clothes and stretched her long body on her bed. After years of painting fantasies of her naked body, I suppose I would have preferred a slower unveiling. Even so, seeing her suddenly naked stopped my breath for a moment. Although her waist was small, her belly was rounded in a deliciously inviting way. Her breasts were substantial, and tipped with large, brown nipples, much as I’d imagined. She smiled at me and slowly flexed her legs, rubbing her thighs together. Between them, in the pale bikini shadow, a dense patch of curls beckoned.

It helped that RoseAnn was so matter-of-fact. Her unashamed nakedness made me less nervous stripping down. She smiled at my erection and reached out to invite me onto her bed. Again we kissed, our bodies writhing together, until she pushed on my chest, opened her thighs to guide me into her, and together we moaned ecstatically into each other’s mouths as my cock slipped to its full length into the hot sleeve of silken flesh.

None of the girls I’d had sex with before had been as willing, or as uncomplicated, as RoseAnn and her sweet vagina.

Another thought struck me. 

“No...no condom?” I murmured, hoping against hope she wouldn’t make me pull out.

She giggled in my ear. “No condom. I started taking the pill as soon as I knew you were coming. Now get to work.” She gripped my buttocks and moved her hips so that it was impossible not to thrust back.

It’s true what they say about angels singing. I heard them in her cries, in the wet sucking of her pussy, in the faint squeak of the bed frame. Her heated flesh stroked, squeezed, worked to push me over the edge into the chaos of orgasm. Soon I sensed nothing but the intense heat radiating from my cock. Without warning, my orgasm swept over me. I grunted like a cave man and bounced my hips against hers, feeling the renewed load of semen pulse into her body. She felt it, cried into my ear, and squeezed me in her arms until I grew still.

“Quick,” she said. “Touch me.” I rolled off her and she guided my hand between her legs to stroke the swollen clitoris with one delicate finger. After only a few seconds, she hugged my chest tightly enough to stop my breathing before shouting into the room and thrashing as if in the throes of a convulsion.

When she finally relaxed, she looked up at me with those liquid brown eyes, the most beautiful God ever made.

I was about to get dressed, but she said, “Just your briefs, Barry.”

She wrapped herself in a nearly transparent bathrobe and made sandwiches. After the food, she put on a movie and had me lay my head in her naked lap. She stroked my hair and trailed her fingers over my chest, sometimes teasing my nipples as I lay there on her warm thighs, enveloped in her scent.

Concentrating on the film was difficult, and I turned to press my face to her belly and explore her hips and breasts with my fingers. She bent forward so I could suck at her nipples and the movie was forgotten as she pushed me from the sofa to the floor, pulled down my briefs, climbed on top, and eased herself down on my cock as I arched my back and groaned.

She paused a moment, letting her heat work on my cock until it swelled even more inside her. I began to move, but she laid a hand flat on my belly, shaking her head to keep me still, and pulled my hand into her crotch. I took the hint, and probed for her clitoris. It was large and easy to find, and I stroked delicately, as I had before.

Though my wrist was awkwardly twisted between our bodies, it didn’t take long before she threw her head back and rocked her hips in the throes of orgasm. This triggered mine, and I thrust upward into her, driven as much by her cries as by the tightness of her vagina. She arched and twisted and convulsed for what seemed a minute or more, before she lay down on me, panting hard into my ear.

She had a box of tissues nearby, which was a good thing. Semen drained onto my belly and down her thighs when I pulled out. She blotted me clean, and led me by the hand to her bed and invited me to join her under the covers.

“That was wonderful,” she whispered. “You say you’re inexperienced, but your instincts are perfect. You could have any woman you wanted. I’m just glad I got to you first.”

We wrapped out arms around each other until it became too uncomfortable and then lay together touching hands before drifting off.

It was the first time I’d been to bed with a woman and actually slept.

Chapter 3

The next morning, she called in to take a vacation day and taught my first lesson in cunnilingus.

After bagels and coffee, she lured me back to the bedroom, where we hugged and kissed, standing naked beside her bed. But instead of getting into bed, she led me to an overstuffed armchair and seated herself, holding my hand. I stood puzzled in front of her until she tugged at my wrist and I understood. I knelt before her on the carpet.

“I’ve done my best to fulfill your fantasy, Barry. But I have fantasies, too. Will you help with mine?”

Still in a trance after last evening’s adventures, I gazed into her glistening brown eyes and nodded absently, as if agreeing on someone else’s behalf.

She seemed to be gathering the courage to speak. “Have you ever gone down on a girl?” Her voice was low, nearly a whisper.

I shook my head. “But I’ve thought about it.” My belly shivered with anticipation. Actually, I’d thought about it a lot, invariably involving RoseAnn. My wildest, most secret fantasies were coming true, all at once.

“Would ... would you go down on me?” I could barely hear her for the blood pounding in my ears.

My gaze fixed on the dense black bush between her legs. “You’ll have to teach me.”

“It comes naturally. Just lick, slow like the rhythm of breathing. It’s that simple. Your tongue will tell you what to do next.”

My insides were in turmoil as she spread her thighs wide, hooking her knees on the arms of the chair.

How often had I dreamed about this, lying alone in my bed?

She hooked a wrist behind my neck and gently drew my face to within inches of her pussy; moist red lips pouted within the nest of dark curls.

Though she tugged at my neck, it was her rich scent that lured me closer. My heart thudded in my chest as her potent female chemistry blew the cobwebs from my brain. I had never wanted anything more in my life as she brushed the hair aside with her free hand and used two fingers to spread her labia like the petals of a rose. The clitoris, like a tiny fingertip, beckoned.

“Do you see this? It’s very sensitive, and if you lick it first, I’ll climax too soon.”

She pointed her third finger toward her gaping vagina and its delicate lips: “Lick lower down until I tell you to move up.”

I was transfixed by the beauty of her pussy, but she must have thought I was hesitating, and said, “You know what a douche is? I used it to wash your semen out of my pussy. I’ll be clean and nice for you.”

Shaking with lust and nervousness, I leaned until my lips brushed her hair and reached with my tongue. But at the first taste of her honey, the first sigh of pleasure, the first enthusiastic heave of her hips, my hesitation vanished. I pressed in close and burrowed like an animal; opening my mouth wide against her flesh and pushing my tongue into her to greedily harvest her sweet fluid, mind whirling with wonder for the female body.

A potent cocktail of tastes and entrancing aromas, hypnotic undulations of belly and thighs, and a soundtrack of gasps and whimpers of pleasure, designed to captivate and enthrall.

As I licked, I wanted desperately to feel her come, but she held my head down, away from the precious bud and it was a few minutes before she said, “My clit! Lick it now!” pulling her hand away then so I could do what I wanted most.

When she came, seconds later, it was like riding a wild pony. An explosion of the senses. Of rich taste and loud moans. Of striving to stay with her through the violence.

Then, as her frenzy faded and her body relaxed, I grew conscious of an ache in my balls as they made their own demand for release. Yet all I wanted was to kneel between her thighs with my lips resting in her pubic hair.

“I was afraid this would never happen,” she whispered, stroking my hair with her fingers. She lowered her feet to the floor and squeezed my head with her thighs, and stroked my ears with her fingertips.

“Did you like doing that for me?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, my voice muffled by her flesh. “Can I lick you again?”

“You were so enthusiastic. Are you sure you haven’t licked a woman before?”

“I licked you every night for years, in my imagination. Most nights you were all I could think about. But this was better than I ever imagined.”

“Mmm. That’s very flattering.”

“What about you? Was it good?”

“Couldn’t you tell? It was wonderful, better than anything I’ve had. And you tell me you’re a beginner?”

“Can I lick you again?”

“Ask nice,” she breathed.

“Please, may I lick you again?”

She giggled. “Yes, you may. But when the time comes to lick my clit, do it slowly, with the flat of your tongue. I mean, very slowly. Your tongue is nice and rough, and I feel it best if you’re not in a hurry.”

Hooking her knees on the chair arms again, she drew the curtain of hair back from the swollen pussy lips. Her clitoris had swelled to nearly the size of a thimble. The vagina gaped below, glistening with her moisture.

She sighed and grasped my ears with her fingertips, drawing me toward her until my tongue slipped into the sacred gate. The hot flesh seemed to grasp at my tongue and she moaned in delight as I licked at the wet, slippery walls.

As I strove to penetrate ever more deeply, fluid collected in my mouth, and from time to time, I swallowed. When I reached under her thighs and gently rolled her nipples in my fingers, she gasped and arched her back. 

I must have slipped into a trance, because her voice was suddenly impatient: “Barry, now! Lick my clit now!”

I moved up and licked, letting the sensitive button slide ever so slowly in a circle on the flat of my tongue. She made little cries, and her hips began to churn. I thought she might be ready to come, but she kept up the frenzy for several minutes. Her thighs tensed like springs and she went into long, high-pitched, squeal as I hung on, not wanting to spoil the precious moment as her hips bounced wildly on the chair.

After what seemed forever, she turned my head so my cheek rested once more on her pubic hair.

“Oooh, you have a nice, gentle way of licking,” she whispered.  “You’re such a quick learner.”

“Oh, no,” I said, out of breath, “I can’t be that good already. I’ll need much more practice. Lots and lots of practice. But right now, I have a problem.”

“Hmm?”

“I ache down there. I need you to do something for me.”

“Let me see. Stand up.”

My cock stood straight out, dark and swollen. She smiled and gently stroked it with her fingertips. “It’s very nice, but if I get you off now, won’t you be too fatigued and out of sorts to do any more? I took the whole day off, you know.”

I thought I might want to go down on her again, and said, “I’ll wait, but it won’t be easy.”

She gently pinched my cock and let it go. “Perhaps not, but if you’re like most men, once you come, you won’t have the same interest in my pleasure.”

She hesitated a moment, then asked: “Barry, do you masturbate?”

The question took me completely off guard. I stared down at her.

She made a quick smile. “Silly question. Of course you do. Every young man masturbates. Most women, too. When I was your age, I got myself off almost every day. But I want you to make a promise to me. Now, before it becomes an issue.”

I had trouble breathing, but gasped, “What promise?”

“I want you to promise that you won’t masturbate. It really matters to me. I don’t want us to have any secrets. Secrets are no good for a relationship. It bothers me to think of you sneaking off to the bathroom in the night.”

A little thrill ran up my spine. We have a relationship?

A relationship! It sounded so serious. So… adult. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but this was not the right time.

She continued, “You wait until we’re in bed tonight. I’ll see you get what you need.”

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” I said, my voice rising. “It’s only noon, and I ache.” My balls were heavy, and my cock felt like it might split.

“You’ll hold out for me, because you know it’ll be good. I know you can hold out. But you haven’t made that promise yet.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Promise me you won’t masturbate.” She casually stroked my nipples. “It matters a great deal to me. It’s a non-negotiable condition, if you like.”

“I promise.”

When she raised an eyebrow, I said:

“I promise I won’t masturbate.”

“I know how young men are,” she said. “You’ll probably weaken some time or other. So I want you to also promise that if you do masturbate, you won’t wait for me to discover it on my own. You’ll confess it to me.” 

“I promise,” I said, and added quickly, “I won’t give in, but if I do, I promise I’ll tell you about it.”

Her smile broadened: “See? That was easy. And it’s a load off my mind. Shall we go out for some lunch?”

I wanted to stay in and spend more time with my head between her thighs, but I was also hungry. She took me to where her BMW was kept, in a garage under the apartments, and drove us to a Thai restaurant. The owner, a middle-aged Asian man, greeted her like a valued customer, or friend, and attended to her personally throughout the meal. I was still dazed by the experiences of the morning, and couldn’t concentrate on the food. There was a congested ache in my crotch that no amount of squirming could relieve.

Afterward, she took me to the Stanford campus so I’d know the way. “In two weeks, this will be a traffic madhouse,” she said. “Instead of driving, you should buy yourself a bike to get back and forth. It’s only two miles. Be sure to buy a cheap one. Bikes get stolen all the time.”

I was preoccupied. How soon would we be back at the apartment? Impatience not eased any when next she drove to a grocery store to pick up some groceries, including chicken and peppers for supper.

Anger boiled in my chest.

Surely, she was dawdling with these mundane chores just to toy with me. I checked my watch, and it was already four o’clock. When we got back, she’d surely want to make supper right away. How was I going to keep my temper—and my crotch—in check that long?

“How about we skip supper and have a little nap?” I suggested, as she pulled the car into the garage under her apartment.

She switched off the engine and turned to face me, laying a hand on my shoulder. Her expression was serious. “Barry, I think I know you better than you know yourself. I’ll decide when we have sex and when we don’t. You’d better get used to that.”

I felt my face fall.

“You’ve been irritable all afternoon. If this thing of ours is going to work out, you’re going to have to learn a little patience.”

Abashed, I lowered my eyes and nodded in acquiescence.

An experienced adult woman was an entirely different challenge than the teenagers I’d dated and overwhelmed.

I had a lot to learn…

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