Donna

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Amateur

First of all, I’m what you would probably call an intelligent man. Several degrees behind my name and I…. well, lets just say I hold an important position at some certain research laboratories doing “scientific” stuff. Yeah, I’m proud of it, too.

I hate telling stories that make me seem foolish. In this case, my therapist suggested it’s a way to confront some old issues. We’ll see.

All of this happened ten years ago, when I was in my formative years – my thirties. I had been divorced three years – yeah, that was a mistake, don’t remind me. I’m STILL paying that bitch off!

The easiest way to meet women in eastern Georgia at that time was through The Want Advertiser, It’s a weekly collection of ads, with some personals thrown in. Lots of nice women responded to those ads. I actually married one of them. Of course, look how that turned out.

But she’s not the one this story’s about.

Donna’s letter to me was wonderful. Beautifully handwritten, nice stationary, literate. “Just divorced,” she wrote, and “wanting to learn a bit about a single’s life now,” were among the saliencies. Her background was technical, too – not too common among women. The telephone exchange suggested she wasn’t living too far from me, either.

I dialed her number.

Donna was fun to talk to. She did seem kind of shy, and uncertain about dating.

After a half hour of rapport building, I vocalized a conclusion. “Donna, I would like to meet you, for dinner or a drink or something, but you seem as reticent as the neutrinos I study. I can accept it if you’d rather not meet me. Telephones do make a great screening tool, don’t they?”

That got her attention. “It’s not you,” she assured me.’ “I haven’t dated since I was in college – I don’t know anything about dating protocols anymore.”

“It’s easy,” I assured her. “I ask you for a date, and you get to say, ‘yes’, or ‘no, thank you’, or ‘maybe’, subject to whatever conditions that’ll make you feel comfortable.”

That got a laugh, and a negotiation. “Would you mind if we met in some very public place?”

“Absolutely not! – Where?” I was pretty sure my usual suggestion of a drink at a hotel lounge wouldn’t work this time.

She had an idea that must have been part of her screening procedure.

“Would the coffee shop at the Museum be too corny?”

Hell, I can play at that. “Sure, but only if you agree to walk through the Impressionists exhibit with me afterwards. That way, even if we don’t like each other, the trip’ll be worthwhile.”

We met that Saturday afternoon. Coffee in the crowded shop took two hours, and then we walked through the Museum. Donna was bright, charming, beautiful, but seemed somewhat distracted. It was an uncomfortable start for me.

Donna seemed to be working through whatever was bothering her. We ended the afternoon by taking a cab to the GT faculty club for a drink. She initially declined – “It’s not very public” – but her curiosity overcame her reluctance.

I’ll confess. I was trying to impress her. I also hinted that sailing out of Hilton Head was a future possibility

We cabbed back to the Telfair and our cars. I walked her to hers, and stood by as she unlocked it. Just before she got in, she turned to me, stood on tip-toe, and kissed me! “Dave, it was lots of fun spending this afternoon with you. I hope you call again!”

I stammered something about “I will,” but by then she slipped into the driver’s seat, almost as though she was embarrassed for having been so forward. I automatically closed the door, she cranked up her Beamer, and with a wave good-bye, pulled away.

I was left standing in the street watching her leave, totally distracted by this woman, and jumped when a car behind me honked – someone else was pulling out, too. I was so distracted I never even heard that car start up!

“Donna’s a mystery,” I decided, but worth another date. She was intelligent, fun, and excited by some of the same things I was.

I called her the next evening. Naturally.

“Dave, I’m so glad you called. I was afraid I wouldn’t hear from you again,” was the greeting I got. What a nice welcome to my call. I loved it!

We agreed on a real date. “A Vida sounds wonderful,” she agreed. “Do you want to meet me there, or . . .?”

Of course I opted to pick her up at home!

The directions she offered were exact, to the point of her saying “Dave, when you come, don’t park in front. Pull into the drive way, then walk around to the front door, all right? They don’t allow on street parking here.”

Her driveway bent around a bit, so my car was hidden by a solid fence. I walked along the path that went between the fence and the house on the way to the front door. Nice house, one level, big. If she got the house as part of the divorce, it means they’ve been doing well. I can’t help it, I do think about such things. After all, at the end of the day, I wanted to be involved in a long term relationship again.

I walked around what was probably a bedroom wing (I wondered canlı bahis if I’ll see that from the inside anytime soon – I hoped so) to the main door, also well screened with foliage.

The bell pealed Westminster, and a moment later Donna opened the door. She was so beautiful I found it hard to breathe!

I was greeted with a quick kiss – but it was a kiss! “Can we go now?” she asked, “before I lose my nerve? You’re the first date I’ve had in this era of my life.”

I reminded her of our first meeting: “But I don’t count it as a date unless I get picked up at home,” she countered.

I didn’t care how this lovely image was keeping score. She had opened the door ready to go. She already had on a small jacket over a green dress with a high neckline, medium heels. She held up her purse “Mad money – in case I have to come home alone.” I was being put on notice, and I didn’t understand why!

A Vida dinners are uniformly excellent. We were both nervous, though. Cocktails and a bottle of wine were excessive. Good, yes, helpful, yes, but excessive. The restaurant was crowded, and Donna somehow seemed to spend time looking over my shoulder towards the door. That was the only dissidence. “Are you expecting to see someone?” I finally asked, only to have her nervously laugh, and deny she was looking anywhere special. For the rest of the dinner she mostly kept her gaze focused on me. Where, I thought, it belonged.

The two hours at table flew by. “A liqueur?” I offered, wanting to extend the evening.

“That sounds nice,” she said, “but not here. Take me home, we’ll have it there.”

That was an invitation I was NOT about to refuse.

I drove back carefully – DWI was not on my agenda, not ever, and not on that night especially.

We got to Laurel Oaks safely, and into her driveway. We walked along the path inside her solid fence, around the side of the house. It was dark. “I’ll guide you,” she said, holding my hand. We passed the wing protected by the fence and a window behind high shrubs, with the shade partly up. “Bedroom” she confirmed without prompting.

She got the door open, and us inside without an exterior light going on. My own house has motion detector lamps all around it – it can’t be approached without lamps going on.

I told her about that – “Oh, we have them too, they’re just off tonight.”

When I remember all of the clues, and my inability to form them into a consistent set, I get – well, that’s why I’m writing this.

We went into her great room, and she waved toward the sofa.

“Sit down, Dave. I’ll get us a liqueur. Will Grand Marnier work for you? I like it on the rocks, or we have. . .”

I interrupted – “That sounds wonderful.”

She went toward what I thought might be the kitchen, while I looked around the nicely done room. Shades were drawn – nice art on the walls, a piano with music open. That was not a prop, I decided. The books that were visible were ones I’ve read, or wanted to. It was a very comfortable room.

It took a little longer than I’d have thought for her to reappear.

She handed me a glass, and raised her own. “To a wonderful evening, and to the only man, other than my husband, to be here with me,” she offered as the toast. I could, and did, drink to that.

“Do you know why people break glasses after a toast?” I asked her.

“I understand it’s so that the glasses can’t ever be used for a lesser purpose,” she told me. “I’ll break these later,” she continued with a smile, “when we’re done with them.”

We sipped the liqueur for a moment, enjoying the orange tang, then she purposely put her glass down. – it was, retrospectively, a seminal moment.

She stood, and turned her back to me.

“Dave, will you help me with this jacket?”

Ever the gentleman, I stood, and slid it off her shoulders, and down her arms.

Oh!

Her dress, so conservative in front, was not, in back. It was fastened behind her neck, then the sides curved open in a beautiful catenary, inches wide above the small of her back, joining again just above her buttocks, where the dress was gathered, defining her waist, with a sash. The mathematician in me struggled to describe the shape of the exposed skin – not a crescent, what is that shape? – while the man in me looked at skin, unencumbered with bra straps, meaning that wonderful shape I’d been admiring all evening was natural, with no artificial sweetening. . .

Physiology, even with all of the serum alcohol, began working. Damn it, I hoped the rest of my body wouldn’t be needing the blood being diverted, and I surely hoped the diversion wasn’t being caused by a false positive.

Donna turned again, facing me, her face wearing an uncertain smile. “Dave, don’t think badly of me. . .” but by then she was in my arms.

This was not the shy kiss we had shared earlier. This was an passionate open mouth probing tongue hot kiss, with bodies pressing tightly together, and with absolutely no doubt about what it was leading up to.

My knees were bahis siteleri weak again, weaker even than when she opened the door for me earlier that evening. must have been from the blood diversion.

The kiss ended.

Her arms moved from around my neck, down my arms, until her left hand found my right one.

“Donna?” What was I trying to say?

“Shhh,” she said, “come with me.”

She led me down a hall, to the bedroom whose window we passed while walking to the front door. It was softly lit, the bed cover folded on a chair, the top sheet pulled back, exposing a black satin -satin! – do people still use satin? – sheet.

The room was already warm – the window was open a few inches, cooling it a little, I thought, but not caring, anymore.

“Your coat, Dave, please?”

I tossed it to the chair, and missed, only to see it fall to the floor.

I didn’t have time pick it up, her hands were at my tie. Removing that took only seconds, my shirt only a few more.

She pulled my tee shirt from my pants, and I pulled it over my head.

When I could see her again, she had turned her back to me, and was holding her hair away from the back of her neck.

“It’s fastened with a clasp, Dave, could you get it?”

Some men dream of times like these, and I was one such man.

The skin under the dress’s clasp felt so warm, and the clasp was so willing to release. . .

It opened, and the dress hung by its sleeves from her shoulders, showing me her wonderful back, all the way down to the sash she had around her waist.

She turned to me. “Your shoes, Dave, and socks. . .”

I sat on the bed, and those came off faster than you can imagine.

She pulled me to my feet, and reached for my belt. I helped, pulling at it, reaching for buttons, zippers, anything! “Dave, I want you, I want this, but you can’t spend the whole night here. . .”

A small disappointment, I love to share sex, and I love to wake up with the same woman the next morning, and make love, not sex, but she was saying that wasn’t going to happen tonight. . .

“. . .is that OK with you. . .?”

She finished her question as her hands gripped the waistline of my trousers, and started pushing at them.

“OK?”

“Yes!” I’d have agreed to anything at that moment.

I felt myself spring free as she pushed the pants down to mid thigh.

I took over, pushing lower, lifting one leg out, then the other, and stood again, nude now, erect, probably drunk, surely aroused.

“Dave, if you get on the bed, I’ll get this off. . . .”

I positioned myself there, watching this vision standing in front of me.

She walked around the bed, so that she was between the bedroom’s outside wall, the wall with the window in it, and the bed.

She turned her back to me, and was busy for a minute, until the dress, gathered at her waist, hung straight – she had undone its sash.. I watched her left hand on her right shoulder, pushing at the dress, until it started down her arm, widening the expanse of exposed back, and she repeated that on the other side, so the dress now was wide apart across her shoulders, and the lower extreme of the opening dropped, too, exposing a few inches of crease between her buttocks. She had used the time in the kitchen, I realized, to take off pantyhose, if she had worn any at all! She was nude under that dress!

Supporting the dress with one hand, she pulled the other arm free, and repeated the exercise on the other side.

She turned back to me, holding the garment over her breasts.

“Let’s go slowly, please?” she asked, and raised her arms toward me, letting the dress fall away.

Again, for a moment I couldn’t breathe.

She delicately stepped out of the garment surrounding her ankles, almost as though it was choreographed, it was so graceful, first this leg, lifting it, then bending down to remove the heel she was still wearing, then .the other one, the motion so seductive, her breasts so beautiful, her pubic mound so inviting, until she stood again, proudly, exposed, naked, so sexy, so ready. . .

“. . .I’m embarrassed, I haven’t been like this for so long for another man. . .”

“Don’t be, you’re beautiful. Let me look at you, turn around, please, turn around. . .”

She must have had dance experience, or had done modeling, she turned so beautifully, allowing me to look, not hiding herself behind her hands. . .

“. . .am I OK?. . .”

She was so much better than just OK there’s no way to describe it. How had I gotten so lucky?

“Come here, come here now, I want to hold you,” I muttered, not able to generate a real voice, too taken by her, too breathless, too distracted by the prospect of holding her, touching her, loving her.

She came to the bed, and was beside me, forcing me horizontal, on my side, my body conforming to hers, I felt her arms around my neck, and mine moved around her torso, too, and her leg bent at the knee, climbing over my hip, pushing herself into bahis şirketleri me. She was so warm, so soft, we fit so well together, but this nude body, this Jean, was new to me, exciting to me – I needed her, needed her now!

Our kiss was long, full of passion, of promise, my own cock was between her legs, happy for the moment to be there, I could feel the warmth of her pelvis on it, her small movements along it.

I couldn’t help myself. I had a hand on the small of her back, holding her tightly against me, and I let it migrate lower, to one of the cheeks of her buttocks.

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling me do that, moving the leg she had over me even more on me, opening her legs more widely.

My fingers traced down between her buttocks, lower.

“Yes,” she said again, as they moved over her anus, “yes, do anything, do everything”.

And lower still, inspiring her to move her leg to move even more, until my finger tips found a pocket, a warm, moist pocket.

“Yes, there,” she said, through our kiss, “there, like that. . .”

The back of my hand was touching my own penis, while my fingers finding their way into her, until one, then two, went deep, inspiring me to push harder against her, inspiring her to push against me, too, holding me tightly, feeling, as I did, lubrication in her, enough to wet my hand, my penis, and her, too.

I withdrew my fingers – that was selfish – and reached a little more, until I lightly touched her clitoris.

The shudder I felt, and her motions making access even easier told me that was what she wanted touched.

I love the feel of an aroused clitoris, and how it tries to enlarge as I ever so softly let my fingertips brush against it.

Her kiss, her tongue, her exposure, all told me I was doing something right.

This was going to be slow lovemaking, as good for her as I could make it. I knew other women with whom I could satisfy myself quickly, but not Donna. Donna was a fine brandy, to be sipped, savored.

I was careful. Gently, ever so gently, not too much stimulation, softly. . .

Some guys may not agree with this, but I love to please a woman, to pleasure her. It’s very satisfying to me, and contributes to my own pleasure, too.

Donna was offering me a gift – and I wanted to return the pleasure.

I stopped touching her, and rolled a little, so that she was more on her back.

“Not fast, please, Dave, not too fast. . .”

“No, not fast,” I assured her. I wasn’t going to mount her just now.

My lips moved from hers, and I tilted her head, brushed the hair from her ear.

A soft breath on her ear,

a tongue touch to an ear lobe.

Oh, she liked that!

To her neck, her shoulder, my tongue leaving a moist trail, extracting a moan from her.

She liked that, too.

This was so much fun!

I was hardly touching her, being mostly beside her, my mouth moving down, over the swoop of her breast.

“That’s nice,” she said, “do me, do more. . .”

She had a hand behind my head, another on my cheek, as I moved lower, touching her ever so softly, until my lips brushed her nipple. Her hand left my cheek, and went under her breast, lifting it toward my mouth, and her other hand pushed me toward her.

But I’m strong, I didn’t let her push me into her breast, I stayed away, letting my tongue do circles, and tease that nipple, then the other one, until finally, I took some of it into my mouth, my teeth closing on it, nibbling at it, feeling her excitement. . .

I love pleasing a woman, and Donna was so responsive, it made it easier for me, made me want to do more, to drive her to ecstasy, if I could.

I was sure she wouldn’t object, as I abandoned her breasts, my tongue tracing down lower, teasing her navel, ever so softly.

I was kneeling, now, beside her, my knees at her waist, leaning over her, torso twisted.

“Are you going to do that. . .” she started to ask, when my mouth was at the first fringes of her pubic hair.

It was easy to put my fingers over her lips, silencing her, feeling her lips purse to kiss my fingers, understanding it was time for her to be quiet. . .

I did answer her question, though.

“Why, yes, yes I am,” I assured her, as I moved down a little more, bending over her pelvis..

“I’m going to do everything,” I told her, and breathed through my mouth, my breath blowing at her, at her lips.

I love it when a woman is so responsive! Her legs were apart enough, I could see hair moving under the influence of my breath, such soft hair. . .

Now I moved again, both my hands meeting between her legs, covering her, and in turn, my hands were covered with hers!

Was she going to stop me?

I made a gentle touch, a brush, a spreading motion, inspired her to rotate her hips, splaying her legs wider.

No, she wasn’t stopping me, not at all.

I repeated it, not allowing my fingers to penetrate, just to open her wider. Her hands, on my wrists, followed along, not resisting, not forcing, enjoying the sensation. . .

There it was, her clit, her own small erection, exposed!

I exhaled on it.

She moaned.

Holding her open, I blew again, moving closer, now.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

İlk yorum yapan olun

Bir yanıt bırakın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak.


*