Halloween in New Orleans, I thought, might be the best part of the meeting I had to attend. That, and Jack Presbitt. Now that would be a treat.
I’ve always liked Halloween – my favorite holiday. These days, I liked to wear something a little sexy or a little scary, nothing too extreme, just a bit unexpected. I often wore a costume to work as well – I liked the surprise on the faces of my colleagues who don’t expect any surprises from me, the sober CFO. What I usually hate is what happened to me last year – having to spend Halloween on a business trip. Except what I thought would be an awful, boring conference I hadn’t wanted to attend turned out to be an opportunity for an enjoyable little romp with my friend Jack.
I had been part of a project involving colleagues at a couple of other companies, a few universities, and even a government lab. We had all received money for a large education project, and had to attend a yearly meeting to discuss our progress and coordinate our plans for the following year. If the money I’d received for this project hadn’t been so substantial, I would have blown off the meeting. But it was too big and I had to suck it up and go, even when I realized that the only time everyone could get together included October 31st. At least one of my favorite colleagues would be at the meeting, Jack Presbitt. He and I had been an item quite a few years back. We’d parted ways amicably, and he’d gotten married and had himself two blond, blue-eyed kids (both above average, of course). Whenever we’d run into each other, we’d flirt up a storm every time. Since Jack lived in New Orleans, I assumed he’d certainly be at the meeting.
I’d managed to stay single – I always told my parents that they hadn’t invested all that money in my education so I could spend my time washing some man’s dirty underwear. In truth, when I’d been interested in getting married most, I hadn’t met anyone who’d captured my imagination. Eventually I had given up on the idea and settled into a series of hot relationships that generally ended becoming comfortable and eventually boring, by which time both parties were ready to go on to greener pastures. Lately I’d started getting antsy again. It was a bit disturbing that the fuse on the fireworks was fizzling out faster than in the past, and my patience was getting shorter and shorter the closer I was getting to menopause. Frankly I felt like my time was running out and I didn’t want to waste it on lukewarm relationships with “Mr. Nice Guy, But…”
Instead, I’d take the opportunity, whenever I could, to let my hair down at out-of-town conferences. After the requisite happy hour mixers with glasses of white wine and hors d’oeuvres standing in for dinner, I’d beg off, pleading a long travel day. I’d go back to my room, change into some tight little black number, thigh highs and high-heeled boots, and head out clubbing. Preferably somewhere where they’d play good jazz, blues or funk, and where they had a good selection of single malts and a knowledgeable bartender who enjoyed surprising his customers with something out of the ordinary.
If I was really lucky there’d be good dance music and a nice dance floor where I could lose myself in the grooves and feel myself getting hot and slick between my thighs. Well-oiled above my thigh highs and warm and fuzzy all over at 2 or 3 am, I’d hop a taxi ride to the hotel, strip down to my sexy lingerie, and have me a hot date with my fingers and my favorite travel vibrator before calling it a night.
The last couple of times when I’d been at a conference with Jack, he’d come with me to the clubs. We’d had a few drinks, reminisced about old times, then he’d invited me to dance to some old song that had brought back memories. He was a great dancer – he had the body for it, tall and slim but not too thin, a graceful mover. He was one of those men at ease in his own skin, who liked to get down and to feel a woman’s body rub up against his. I’d found it hard to part chastely from him at the end of those nights, but I didn’t want to cause trouble in his marriage. I’d let him go with an easy laugh after indulging in our usual bouts of shameless flirtations that still managed to stay safely this side of cheating.
The last time had been the hardest. Jack knew his way around a woman’s body on the dance floor, and that time we’d gone to a Country & Western bar, even though neither one of us had dressed for it. We’d started with a nice and easy Texas two-step, and I’d leaned in to him, enjoying meeting him hip to hip. Later we’d trotted out our Texas swing steps and twirls, both of us taking advantage of the closeness. Casually, his arms or even hands would brush the sides of my breasts, and once I felt his thumb stray over my nipple, making it even stiffer than it had been before. No way he hadn’t noticed!
As he swung me in front of him, his arms crossed in front of my waist, I had pushed my buttocks into his crotch. I had made it look accidental at first, but by the end of the night I was grinding into him purposefully and feeling the shapely outline of his swollen shaft pressing between the cheeks of my ass and against my hip as he moved me around during the dance. Both our eyes were half-closed. He’d hugged me close and given me a kiss on the lips, half chaste and half very much not, and I’d let my pelvis rock forward for balance, feeling his cock rub my stomach and sending tingles down below.
When we got into the taxi, I was very conscious of the hem of my tight dress riding up my legs to just below my butt. Under the guise of helping me in, he put his hand on my hip to steady me. I felt it brush the curve of my buttock and somehow, accidentally, his long fingers touched the too-narrow crotch of my panties. By then I was sopping wet, and there was no way he hadn’t felt the moisture that had seeped through the thin satiny fabric, making a wet spot. The panties were entirely inadequate at containing the wetness, and having his fingers on the fabric and brushing against the naked tumescent flesh had been hot and infuriating. I felt predatory and could barely keep myself under control, but took his hint as he said good night to me in the lobby of the hotel to check on his messages with the hotel desk. It would be just me and my vibe again, sharing some quality time.
To my surprise, he’d called later that night.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep, I was doing some work.”
“You were so hot tonight, teasing me mercilessly.”
“Teasing you?” I demurred. “I did no such thing. What about you?”
“Don’t lie to me, Amy. Time for me to return the favor. Part your legs and reach down between them. Let your fingers travel up to the juncture between your thighs and tell me what you find there.”
I nearly closed my eyes as I reached my still-moist crotch. “My panties, as it turns out.”
“Tell me about them. They were quite wet earlier.”
“Still are, Jack. Feeling your fingers didn’t help.”
“Or helped a lot. You deserved that, rubbing your ass against me like that, woman,” he said. “I’m stroking my shaft. I can’t not stroke it, it’s so fucking hard right now, thinking of you. Press the fabric of your panties between your pussy lips, darling. Push the fabric around a bit, slide it around along those wet, wet lips. Tell me how it feels!”
“Slimy and thick, Jack. The fabric is very slippery, and completely soaked though. The crotch is very narrow and bordered in lace, and the lace tickles me a little bit, and does nothing at all to contain my juice. My inner thighs are smeared with it.”
“I know – I could feel that fabric was whisper-thin. You may as well not have worn any panties, but they are so very hot. Push the fabric aside now, Amy. Dip your fingers into your… what do you call that place between your thighs?”
I paused a bit before answering, enjoying heightening the mood. “My cunt, Jack. My cunt. How deep should I push my fingers in?”
I heard him suck his breath in.
“Before you do push in, run your fingers around the inside of the lips and enjoy the feel of the slimy-ness. Touch your clit for me, dear. I used to love to suck your clit, Amy. You liked me to suck it hard, so hard I was worried I would hurt you, give your cunt a hickey. But you always wanted it even harder. I loved your clit!”
I could hear a soft squelching sound through the phone, and imagined his hand on his shaft, remembering its length and girth. I was salivating.
“Now, use just one finger and go in to your second knuckle and rub it in and out,” he said. I knew he wanted to taunt me – one finger was barely a tease.
“Find your G-spot, darling,” he continued. “Your G-spot had me enthralled – I still remember the first time I felt it. Do you remember? I wasn’t convinced it existed – there’d been an article throwing doubt on G-spots. But you showed me where yours was, and told me how good it felt for me to rub it with my fingers and with my cock. Of course I had to defer to real life experience.”
I pushed my fingers in and twisted them about, moved them in and out and rubbed especially hard against the rough patch of nerve-filled skin he was reminiscing about. It felt so good I was squirming against my fingers and remembering his cock penetrating me and pushing all the way in, then changing the angle on the out-stroke so that he was rubbing harder against my clit.
“OK, Amy, now I want you to take out your fingers and smear that thick fluid all over your mouth. Do you know what it did to me, to touch your wet panties in that damn taxi? I loved the wetness, Amy. I could smell you even in the club, when we were dancing. You were so wet and your scent was unmistakable, like an animal in heat. Your cunt must smell divine now!”
I did as he asked, though he couldn’t see me, I just couldn’t resist the heat in his voice. I loved his request, and the fact that he’d made it.
“How do your lips taste, Amy?”
“So good, Jack – the same as you remember,” I answered, trying to poke back at him a bit.
“Amy, now I want you to use your vibrator…”
“What vibrator?”
“Don’t bluff me, Amy. I know you always have a vibrator with you when you travel. Is it still that battery-driven, penis-shaped black one? Or is it your white one that you use to massage your clit?”
I sighed. He remembered, all right. He knew my foibles, that’s for sure. My libido had ratcheted up several notches in the past few years, and I often needed both vibrators to satisfy me.
“Use it now – turn it on and stroke on either side of your clit. Push your fingers inside your cunt and find your G-spot, and while you’re stroking it, massage your clit or wherever feels best.”
I did as he asked me. He hadn’t had to ask, I was already on it, but I loved that he had asked. And that he’d remembered I didn’t like the vibrator exactly on my clit until the very end, and that I loved my G-spot attended to.
“You know I’m stroking myself faster now, Amy, as you’re pleasuring yourself. My hips are moving too, as if I were fucking you. I know you wanted me to do that earlier today. Didn’t you?”
All I could manage was a whimper and a scream as the vibrator and my hand succeeded in bringing me to a climax. Through my shudders and clenching of my muscles, I heard him grunt out his own orgasm.
“I’m cumming for you, Amy – I’m cumming! Ahhhhhhhhh!” I could hear his hand sliding fast along his shaft and the wet soft slapping sounds of what must have been lotion or lube making his shaft slick.
We were both silent but breathing hard for the next twenty or thirty seconds. Through the fog of the orgasmic aftermath I remembered fondly the spectacular sessions of sex we’d shared, and wondered what had made us drift apart. Maybe it was his having to move when his company relocated him to Boston while I stayed on the West Coast. I couldn’t remember us having had any huge fights, or even those long and painful downward slides that many relationships take to their inevitable denouement.
“Oh, Amy,” he finally spoke softly, his voice surprisingly intimate for having had to make it through both our phones. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Jack. You know, I can’t remember what split us up. Made us drift apart.”
“Don’t you? I do.”
“Yeah? What was it?”
He sighed so softly I almost missed it.
“I wanted kids. You wanted your career,” he said. “At the time you didn’t think you could have both at the same time.”
“Oh.”
There was nothing I could say. Truth was truth.
“Amy? I still think of you often.”
“Thank you, Jack. I think of you as well.”
“Good night, Amy.”
“Good night, Jack. Sweet dreams. And thank you for…”
“Yes, darling. Thank you, too.”
That had been a year or so ago, and my vaginal muscles still clenched and twitched every time I thought of our impromptu cybersex tryst. It was one my very favorite fantasies to think about when I felt the need to masturbate.
I checked in to the Maison Dupuy Hotel, looking around to spot any of my colleagues who would be attending the meeting this time. I saw a couple of them, nodded and smiled at them, but didn’t see Jack. I had a slight frisson – what if he didn’t come? I had so looked forward to seeing him again, half thinking – hell, hoping! – that we’d repeat last year’s tryst.
The mixer later that evening was pleasant enough, everyone exchanging personal life anecdotes of the past year over glasses of bubbly and hors d’oeuvres. We’d worked with each other long enough that people knew many of the wives or husbands and even some of the kids. No one asked me directly if I was still single, but as usual I wore my rings on the wrong fingers of both hands, my ring finger still naked, and my status remained an open book. A couple of hours later we had gotten mired deep into work politics, and I’d had enough of the chit chat and was ready to start on the second half of my evening. Still no Jack, so I’d be alone. No matter.
When I got back to my room, a small package was in front of the door, exquisitely wrapped in luxurious satiny paper, a velvet ribbon topping it off. I picked it up, found the small note and read the handwritten script, “From an old admirer, with much love!” Hmm. Was this from Jack? It must be! He certainly knew how to pique my interest. Still, sending someone a package like this? Weird.
I turned the box over and shook it gently, looking for some hint of its origin or its sender, but its outside gave away nothing. I took it inside with me, placed it on the bed, and went to shower. As I lathered, enjoying the luxurious feel of the bubbly liquid on my skin, I felt the business part of the day slowly drain away. I spent perhaps a bit more than strictly necessary soaping my nipples and the sensitive underside of my breasts, then swirling the hand covered in foam over the shallow curve of my stomach. When I reached my pubic mound, I decided I may as well shave, and slathered some more foam on, covering the labia and the crack between my cheeks. I couldn’t resist sneaking a finger along the inside of each lip, running the finger around and around the inverted V of the clit hood, adding tiny circles to the slick, swelling nub of flesh to make sure it was… spotless.
I shaved carefully, then spread some conditioner on, to prevent razor burn. And I simply had to let my fingers explore the inside repeatedly, the thumb massaging over my clit as I twisted my fingers inside the channel, dragging the knuckles along the rough upper wall, that mass of nerve endings beginning to throb. Thinking of it as an “amuse-bouche,” a palate teaser to the rest of the night, I stopped just in time, holding back my climax. I rinsed myself, ignoring the yearning that had swelled and already threatened to overflow.
After drying, I smoothed the hotel’s luxurious skin lotion all over my neck, my limbs, breasts and stomach. The act itself made my nerves tingle and I felt the reawakening of that need slithering high between my thighs. With reluctance, I turned my thoughts to dressing, and my eyes fell on the package laying on the bed.
Still naked, I opened the box, revealing several layers of deep forest green tissue paper kept closed with cellophane tape embossed with gold lettering: Pandora’s Chest. On top sat a small box which, when I opened it, disclosed a truffle. I admired it briefly before biting into it, savoring its creaminess as it melted slowly in my mouth and infused my tongue and palate with its rich mix of tastes, hazelnut cream mixed with chocolate and tinged with a sprinkle of salted caramel. Mmmmmmmm. If anyone wanted to poison me, they would have found a cheaper way to do it. On the other hand, if they insisted on spending this kind of money on such a lovely piece of chocolate, I would gladly take the risk of being poisoned.
As I was finishing the truffle, I opened the tissue papers and saw the panties. They were made of the thinnest satin, their color a deep dark maroon, almost brown, bordered in black lace and accented with a tiny black velvet bow. A rather intimate gift – who the hell had given me these? It was almost creepy. I turned away from the open box spilling its tissue paper and pulled out the packaged thigh-highs I’d set aside for the night. I sat on the bed next to the box and begun the painstaking process of pulling on the stockings, slowly, making sure I didn’t start a run. Every once in a while my eyes shifted to the opened box. I looked in the mirror, adjusted the elasticized lace on each thigh and made sure the seams were correctly in their place. Not for the first time, I thought how titillating it was to run a finger on the inside of the lace edge.
The opened box was still mocking me. Winking at me. Here we are, the panties said. Try us on. And, as if to underscore the whole ridiculous dilemma of whether I should give in to this seductive yet mysterious and odd gift, I felt that tell-tale moisture begin to seep out between my labia. My body was a needy, greedy traitor.
Finally, I felt the material, soft and sensuous between my fingers. The panties felt delicious. On a whim, I slid them on, the fabric brushing my skin like a whisper. As I pulled them all the way up I felt, for a second, like the crotch tightened to my mound just slightly, as if a hand had patted me, the palm just above my vulva and the fingers reaching down between my thighs. I shook my head to clear away the strangely arousing sensation. I walked over to the mirror, swaying my hips a little – they fit me perfectly, the material laying seamlessly on my skin.
I set about getting dressed, pulling on a black satin corset sprinkled with tiny zirconium stones. Cinching it tight, I enjoyed the feeling of my breasts being pushed up and together, accentuating my cleavage. I made sure my nipples were safely tucked under the top edge of the corset, and noted that if I laughed a little too hard, the nipples would escape the corset and peek over the edge. A rather racy thought… I’d just have to be careful when I laughed, and mind who was looking.
The corset held my ribcage and waist firmly but not too tightly – I wasn’t into the body modification that some women engaged in, attempting to turn their torso into the hourglass shape of an 18th or 19th century courtesan. I put on the thin silver chair with the black pearls, threaded its end through the clasp in front and let the teardrop-shaped pearl in its silver setting at the end of the chain lodge between the globes of my breasts. I couldn’t resist a light caress of the flesh, and smiled at the tingle that raced down between my thighs.