The “It” Thing

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“You were a great fuck then, and you’re a great fuck now,” she said to him.

They were laying in a king sized bed in a suite at the Four Seasons Hotel in Palm Beach late on a Tuesday afternoon in November. Sweat was still on her brow, her chest, her tummy (although that was mostly his), the two of them having just finished three hours of solid, aerobic, non-stop fucking, sucking, fingering, licking, probing, pinching, and every other physical manipulation of the body and its crevices that is commonly know in middle America as “dirty sex.”

They were on separate business trips, coming from opposite ends of the country, as they had been doing once or twice a year for fifteen years. That first time, it was because of a chance meeting at a college reunion in Burlington, Vermont in 1987, ten years after he had graduated and lost track of her. He went to that 10th reunion without his wife of three years, who had traveling of her own to do. At the crescendo of that raucous and wild weekend, a class dinner-dance featuring the band that would go on to become Phish, Helen and Charlie sat together in a back booth of the function hall, drunk on rum, wine and cognac, high on hydroponic sinsimilia, reminiscing about the days when they would give each other six, seven, even ten orgasms once. “You’re the reason I discovered I was a nymphomaniac,” she complained then, and he thanked her for the compliment.

She had a point, though. From the very first time they got naked together, there was nothing but the utmost in mutual gratification. He knew how to push her buttons, she loved it, and he loved knowing she did. He might have thought for a while that it was just “crazy Helen” who he could make cum without even touching her. But she kept insisting that it wasn’t just her – he had a way, and it was his way with her, with particular women, that made him do what he did: make women cum so.

What a skill.

And so, first resuming their acrobatics the night of that reunion, they soon developed a schedule with their respective careers of traveling the country from opposite ends, he in architecture, she in fashion design. They arranged these occasional trysts in which the tribulations of their lives and their aging bodies were laid aside, and they reveled in their skills in the exquisite art of sex.

“You know, you really haven’t changed,” he smiled at her, tracing her breast, circling her nipple as he lay beside her.

‘Tell me how I haven’t changed.”

Smiling, looking into her eyes, delighting in the smile she returned, he told her how clear his memory had been all these years.

“You still have your beautiful swimmer’s shoulders, your tits are still perfectly lovely, your waist is still scandalously slim, your hips have widened a little to let out the three kids you bore, but your little pear ass is still as grabbable as ever,” he said, reaching over and giving it a squeeze. She laughed.

“You know, I still think often of the first time we got it on,” he mused.

“Think of it? I still masturbate to it.” She reached over and took a joint off the bedside table, lighting it from the candle and sucking on it slowly.

“We were at a party at The Smokin’ J Ranch. You were sitting in my lap in the kitchen with about twenty other people?”

“I had a long Indian print peasant dress on and no panties.”

They were sitting at a kitchen table, she sitting in his lap with her back to him, the two of them facing the others around the table.

“I whispered to you that you’d be much more comfortable if you straddled one leg instead of sitting in my lap.”

“Liar,” she said, passing him the joint. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“So did you.” He laughed.

She did indeed straddle his left leg, which put her pussy square against the bone of his upper leg. When she moved, he slid her skirt out from under so that it flowed to the floor and covered what was going on underneath. As the disco music pulsed and beat and she moved her body, she rubbed her pussy against his leg, and soon he felt the dampness on his jeans. He whispered to her, “you know, if you move down more onto my knee, I think you can cum right here in the middle of all these people.” And she did. She slid down a few inches, put her elbows on the kitchen table, and began to rock to the beat of the music, occasionally acknowledging something that someone said as she rocked her hips and he could feel the little nut of her hard clitoris being pinched against his patella. As the music came to a thundering crescendo, so did she, smacking the table and shouting “DAMN I love that fucking song!!!!” His buddy Luis guffawed from opposite the table. “Stayin’ Alive? You love Staying Alive?”

“Busted,” he cackled. They laughed.

That was how it started, and it continued through three more years of college, the best of fuck buddies. He could never get enough of her being on top, the way Anadolu Yakası Escort she rocked her hips with him inside her, bit her lower lip, quickened her pace, slamming down on his rod, her perfect tits swinging from above, him bobbing at them like they were candy apples.

And now, twenty-five years later, their bodies had changed, their hair had become flecked with gray, but they fucked with the same youth and abandon as they always had.

“How did you end up sitting on my lap anyway? That’s one piece I can’t remember.”

“Eye contact,” she said simply.

“Eye contact,” he repeated.

“Yeah, you’d been checking me out before that party, and I’d been checking you out. I thought you were extremely fuckable, but I didn’t know yet if we would have It. When I saw you at that party, I caught your eye and you held my stare. And you smiled and raised one eyebrow. That was it.”

“That was It,” he asked.

“That was It,” she said, matter-of -factly. “I came over to you at the table and said, ‘mind if I sit down,’ and you patted your lap.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history,” he exaggerated, patting her ass, running his hand up her side, kissing her.

“So now that we’ve got a nice buzz, tell me about your latest exploits,” she said.

It is what they did in between. They described to each other in intimate detail some of the adventures they had had since they last met. She had started it. She was a voyeur at heart, she said. She loved to hear others describe their sexual encounters. It had started in high school with her girlfriends and had led to her first lesbian experience. It just made her horny to listen or watch.

He liked it because it reaffirmed to him that no jealousy or possessiveness would ever arise between them, and because it invariably led to touching, kissing, fingering, licking and fucking.

“Well you know that my musical exploits have increased,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said, “blues jams. Have you found a groupie?”

“Well sort of. You know I found that the words of other people’s songs were harder to remember than my own, so I have written several songs, and they’re all about women.”

She laughed. “Ahhhhh yes, the woeful tales of the wronged man, the cheatin’ heart.”

“Zackly. So I had written a new song on the occasion of my upcoming 50th birthday, at which I was going to perform as the opening act at one of the clubs I play,” he said. She was looking at him with growing amusement.

“And the name of the song is?”

“The Big Five-Oh,” he smiled. Her grin widened.

“Sing it for me,” she demanded.

“I call the song a ‘big band shuffle,’ in the style of Roomful of Blues,” he said.

“I remember them! They came to Burlington!”

“That they did, first time I ever head them. Okay, here goes,” and he snapped his fingers to set the beat.

“Twenty years ago I could party all night,

Drinking and dancing till the sun was in sight,

In the morning eat a bagel and drink a Black and Tan,

Change my shirt, do it all over again.

But now I’m fifty years old,

And it’s 50-50 that I’ll even show.

Twenty years ago I could please by baby,

Go 2, 3 4 or even 5 times, maybe.

But now I need a nap after a little booty

And take a little blue pill to get myself a woody.

Cuz I’m fifty years old

And it’s 50-50 I can even go.”

As he sang, her look of amusement grew until, as the last line was sung, she howled with laughter, jumped out of the bed, dancing and hopping naked, breasts jiggling.

“I LOVE THAT!!” she cried, and dove back onto the bed beside him, grabbing him by the ear, face close to his, “You’re a brilliant poet, you know,” kissing him.

“Why thank you,” he muttered.

“So you sang this song and some chick in the crowd went wild for you,” she surmised.

“You surmise correctly,” he deadpanned.

“So dish,” she said.


He was having a good night on the stage. His band mates were on, his Stratocaster was screaming and weaping, and he’d had just enough reefer before he started that his fingers got to doing things that were not planned. That was the key for him. Moments of true spontaneity, when the soul took control of the fingers and the mind sat back and watched.

During his set, he scanned the crowd, making eye contact and facial gestures, imparting his contagious enthusiasm. There was one woman, whom he had not seen in the club before. She was in a booth to his left, sitting up on one knee, clapping her hands, shucking and jiving to the music. She might have been half-drunk or on coke, but she sure was into the music.

And she had an extraordinary smile, she did. “A hundred watt,” is how he described such a smile, something that frequently matched his own. She had perfectly full lips, lovely teeth, a tiny nose, and electric eyes that looked Bostancı Escort green from the stage. She had jet black hair cut in tight waves and bangs on her forehead. Her arms and hands were slim, her shoulders sharp. Her small breasted, slender torso wore an emerald green camisole, her tight ass and long legs covered in low rider jeans.

As the music energized toward the end of his set, so did she, jumping up out of her seat and joining the crowd dancing before him, jitterbugging through the crowd to dance alone in front of him, her face a pretty display of effusive glee and the contortions that music evokes, utterly consumed in the moment, her body a perfect synchronicity of rhythm and movement. And during this boisterous controlled chaos before him, she twice met his eyes, held his stare, returned his smile, bit her lower lip and boogied, it seemed, just for him. As his final number came to a crashing climax, the crowd howled its praise, arms aloft and clapping; none more effusive than she.


“This is going to be good,” Helen said, smiling. “It’s a bathroom story, innit!”

“Shhh!!! You’re ruining my cadence!”


The dancers dispersed, he put his Strat away and went to the bar for some gin. He accepted pats on the back and “awesome!” from numerous fanatics, and chatted with friends, waiting for the post-set potty line to abate. Scanning the crowd for his new friend, he did not find her. He put his drink down on the bar and headed for the Men’s Room.

Walking down the back corridor toward the rest rooms, he passed others on their way back. At the end of the line of passers-by, was she. He stopped her.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!!!!” she crowed the moment she saw him, “you are some kinda ar-tees-toe! That was beautiful stuff,” and, pausing a moment locking his eyes again, lapsing into something trancelike, “from a beautiful man…” and he came closer to her, into her space, where you only go if you know you’re invited.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm,” he drawled, “you’ve got something goin’ on there lady. The way you move, the way you dance, the way you smile…..I am just overcome by the desire to kiss you!”

“Oh my,” she said, “it’s been so long since I’ve been kissed by a man, I think I’d like that a lot,” and, moving intuitively together, he touched her lips with his, tugged at her upper lip, and gave her tongue a quick flick with the tip of his.

“Mmmmmmmmm, that’s niiiiiiiice,” he cooed to her, and she took his hand, squeezed it and let out an audible sigh.

“Some more, please,” she sang softly, and tilted her head back, pulling him to her and pushing her hips out to meet his.

He could see she was indeed out of practice, clicking his teeth with hers a few times until, like a bicycle, the knack swiftly returned, and she sucked his tongue into her mouth and rolled it with hers, gasping at the lust it released from her.

“How come a pretty woman like you doesn’t have a man to kiss her,” he whispered.

“Cuz there ain’t no men look like you where I live,” she said, tracing his jaw line with her finger.

“Been so long you been kissed, how long since you been made love to?” His hand encircling her waist, the small of her back, sliding to her buttock for a gentle squeeze.

“Can’t remember,” she breathed, and they stood in the hallway across from the ladies room door, entranced, breathing in gasps.

He saw that the ladies room door was open, unoccupied. He took her hand and pulled her into the room, closing the door and locking it.

“Good idea,” she breathed, and grabbed his shirt, pulling him to her, putting a lock on his lips.

He leaned her against the wall, pushing his leg in between hers. Her legs opened, inviting his thigh to find her crotch, and squeezed them together. His hands on the waist of her low riders, sliding up to touch her bare hips, under the camisole, up her sides and around to her slender back, raking her skin with his fingertips. His hands worked, her hands grasping his strong forearms, sliding up to his shoulders, staring into his eyes with wild lust and a mischievous smile.

“You know your eyes should be illegal,” she hissed at him.

“Yours too,” he smiled, putting his face to hers, each of them feeling the hot breath of the other, the warmth of their skin, the cilia of their cheeks.

Her legs and hips continued their movement, urging his thigh to keep itself busy, and it obliged, as if on its own, sliding up in between her legs, knee on her mons, pressing, bumping gently, and she rocked her hips and moaned.

“I’m feeling a deep desire to make you cum, you know,” he whispered.

“I don’t have a problem with that at all,” she breathed, and his hands slid down to her fly, popping the button and sliding the zipper its full two inches. He peeked down, ran his fingers up to her navel and back down, seeing the Erenköy Escort line of her bright red panties. He moved now to her side, right thigh touching her right thigh, fingers slowly caressing her belly, sliding down to her panty line. She took his hand in hers, and, eyes fixed on his, pushed his hand down inside. She rolled her hips out and opened her legs, and his hand, pushing through the tightness of the silk, made itself a comfy spot from which to work its magic.

There was a knock on the door, startling them. “Hold ya horses,” she sang, “gimme a few minutes!” She looked at him. “Don’t stop.”

Palm on her mons, pressing gently in a circular motion, middle finger laying softly on her lips. She quivered. His face in hers, cheek to cheek, his mouth next to her ear, hers to his.

“Touch me,” she whispered, and his finger slid down, parting her lips, finding the silky wetness, sliding between the labia to find the hard little button, circling it. She gasped and started, grabbed his arm, shuddered, “Ohhhhh Goddddddddddd,” she moaned, and face turned to his, locked on his eyes, “that’s one,” she said, smiling a lazy smile before her eyes went dull again, his fingers pushing her pearl, circling it, brushing its tip vigorously. She gasped again, her hand urgently dropping to his crotch, grasping his balls, finding the erection firmly outlined in his jeans, squeezing it.



And as Charlie continued his narration, he knelt up beside her on the king size bed, she opened her legs wide and he began to stroke her pussy, down to her anus, up inside her, two fingers dancing in a pool of slithery ooze; she grasping his turgid erection, spreading his precum over the head expertly with her thumb. “Please continue,” she begged.


When she squeezed him, he dropped his two fingers down inside her, wiggling firmly to bury them deep insider he, and curled them up, pressing against her pelvic bone. She gasped again and her hand began pulling at his belt, his button, his zipper, desperate to feel the fleshy heat of his erection on her skin. Once free, tugged his jeans and shorts down his thighs, running her fingers down to his testicles, up his shaft, grasping it, thumb spreading his precum.

Another knock on the door. “Use the men’s room, for crissakes!” she yelled through the door, “I’m busy in here!” They laughed their silent, conspiratorial laugh.

She stopped a moment, a looked at his equipment. “That’s gorgeous too,” she whispered, and resumed stroking him off.

“I want to taste you,” he hissed.”

“It’s too hard in here,” she said, “save it for later.” And she put her hand on his buried in her and said, “now make me cum hard, you beast,” grasping his fist and vigorously agitating it.

He quickened his work, stiffening his fingers and rubbing her pearl hard and fast, and her knees nearly buckled. “That’s it,” she hissed.

His mouth at her ear. “Let me hear it,” he urged her, “let me feel you cum in my hand.” Stiffening his arm, his wrist, his fingers, he worked his fingers furiously inside her. She grasped his wrist, urging him to go faster, uttering gasps of syllables.

“That’s…it…..oh….fuck…..more……it’s…..coming…….almost……..there……” as her hand drove his cock like a piston, and he began to build.


“OH FUCK CHARLIE,” Helen screamed, his three fingers plunging deep inside of her, she bent up to alternately suck him and jack him off.


At once, she went rigid, writhed beneath his hand, shuddered, her whole body a tangled spasm, mouth uttering guttural, muttering bits of noise, her face a locked daze, eyes in a dream; and suddenly, she slipped his hand out of her, dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth, in a greedy and urgent way, licking his head, sucking it, stroking the shaft, and looking up at him with those stunning green eyes, she said, “give it to me.” She quickened her pace, fingers jacking, mouth sucking, lips licking, sliding him into her mouth, feeling him build. “Give it to me,” she demanded, quickening yet more, until she felt him stiffen and gasp, withdrawing her mouth so that the tip was at her open lips, feeling his cum spray her tongue, and then sliding it into her, taking it all.


Helen released him from her mouth, threw her head back on the pillow and exclaimed, “God DAMMIT, you are a good fuck!!!” He collapsed next to her, laughing out loud.

“Hey, everything I know I learned from you.” The ultimate compliment.

They lay in the bed, stroking hair, silent.

“So you ever get to taste her?”

“Nope, she never came back to the place, far as I know.”

“What was her name?”

“I never asked her,” he chuckled. She did too.

“Probably better that way.”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “I mighta come to like that one a little too much.”

“You like me a little too much, doncha?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

“It’s the It, isn’t it?” She smiled.

“It is.”

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