Bestowal

Christie catches my eyes and silently mouths, 'do it.' I know what she wants, and I stroke my erection through my slacks, letting her see the thickness of my penis, but I refuse to unzip myself. Her eyes flash in anger at me, daring me to expose myself, but I ignore her pleading, concentrating instead on the back of Jakes skull, hoping he'll come up for air. Instead, I see Christie's body tense, and listen to her breath come in quick, sharp grunts. I see her hands lock into fists, and a foot rises into the air, toes curled in orgasm. Jake stops then, and lifts his head. He stares at me staring at his girlfriend, then says to her, "Come on, honey, let's go into the bedroom and finish this off." He stands, the bulk of his body looming over her, protecting her from me, and she slowly rises from the sofa. Again, I quickly catch a glimpse of all of her, then Jake steps in front, either accidentally or purposefully shielding her, and they stroll to the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

The sun is shining through a bank of clouds, and Christie is giving me what for. "You didn't come through with your end of the bargain," she complains. Her foot curls around a perfectly formed shell, and I'm amazed at the coloration of her toenails.

"You didn't give me time," I retort. "If you two had gone on a little longer, I would have. And besides, I never got a real good view."

"That wasn't part of the deal. I was naked, you were supposed to masturbate." She laughs, letting me know that she isn't truly angry with me. "I'll bet it was pretty good when you did, wasn't it?" I hesitate, not knowing how to retort, and she teases further. "Oh, come on. You can tell me. I'll bet your orgasm was better than mine!"

"Didn't Jake do it for you?" I banter back.

"Oh, he was his normal self, adequate, but I was thinking of you. After he got done and rolled over, I got up and came out to the living room, hoping I could get you to perform for me. But you'd already gone to bed."

"You should have knocked on my door," I offered.

"Sure, right. Then Jake gets up, finds out what's going on, and guess what would happen." She smiles at the thought, however. "I wonder . . . no, that wouldn't work. Oh, well," she sighs, and I consider what the fantasy might have been.

After 8:30, we arrive back at the condo, and Jake, as usual, is still fast asleep. We breakfast on our fruit and granola, sharing the local newspaper until the phone unexpectedly rings. I grab it.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Derek." It's Michelle, Jake's admin. I dated her for a while, a long time back, and Jake went out with her a few times, too, before he met Christie, ignoring the proverb about not sleeping with anyone you work with. "Is Jake around?"

"Hold on," I say to her, then ask Christie to tell Jake that the office is calling. He trundles out, and speaks for four or five minutes to Michelle. Most of the conversation, at least on this end, consists of grunts and obscenities. Jake grabs a pencil, scribbles on a note pad, then tells Michelle, "All right, I'll be there. Tell Danny he owes me big time, though." He hangs up, then looks to us.

"Bad news," he reveals. "Our biggest client is on a warpath, they were on CNBC this morning, and Dan wants me back in the office to help with the peace offerings. They've got me on a 1:40 flight coming back this afternoon. You guys can drive me to the airport, okay?"

"I'll go home with you," Christie offers.

"Me, too," I add. We've still got one day to go, but it looks like the vacation is breaking up.

"Naw, that's stupid," Jake decides, scratching his stomach. "The company's picking up my plane flight, if we try to get you back you'll have to pay for a one-way ticket. Besides, just because they screwed me doesn't mean you have to get in the cross fire."

I expect Christie to argue some more, but she surprisingly gives in. "Okay," she says, "Derek and I will find some way to keep amused."

Jake gives her a look, semi-threatening and sort of irritated, then looks at me. "Just remember, bub, she's my girl. I'm going to take a shower."

While Jake's packing, Christie and I go out for some tennis. She's wearing this cute little number, and every time she retrieves a ball I can see her panties and ass peek out from the skirt. As we rest between sets, I try to have a conversation with her. "Do you think this is a good idea?"

"Why not?" Christie retorts. "Jake trusts me. Besides, this will give you a good chance to pay up on our bet." When she sees my shocked face, she laughs, then bounces to the base line and proceeds to whip my butt in yet another set.

We grab a sandwich at a Burger King on the way to the airport -- Jake's happy, at least -- and as Jake gets out at the entrance, he thanks me and says, "Be nice to my girlfriend, now -- keep her safe for me, okay?" I drive the rental car around the perimeter while Christie goes into the ticket counter with Jake, keeping him company until he has to run the security gauntlet. Finally, she pops out and climbs in the passenger seat. On the way out to the expressway, she says, "Hey, are you in a hurry to get back to the condo?"

"Not really," I admit. "Why, you got something you want to do?"

"Sure, let's go into the city and do the tourist traps." We'd thought about this on the way down, it's an old southern town, but Jake nixed the idea, just wanting to lay around the resort.

"Sounds good." By the time we get there, I find out Christie has a full itinerary planned around the shopping district. I don't really mind, though, walking with her through the old slave market. Just watching her face light up with a bargain is enough for me. We stop for a drink, chat about little in particular, then stroll through the palms and magnolias, admiring the mansions and gardens. We come across a restaurant, and decide to step into the courtyard and sample the menu of grilled halibut and crab cakes. The waiter dribbles the French wine into our glasses; I notice that Christie seems to be imbibing the scented liquid faster than I. Jake's presence, or lack of it, seems to be forgotten. Under the table, I sense Christie's foot bump against mine, she doesn't seem to be in a rush to move it.

After we refuse deserts or an after dinner drink, we stumble through the late twilight to the car, and begin the drive back to the island. The route takes us through a business district, one lined with gas stations, Taco Bells and carpet stores. We pass a gaudily lit establishment, Christie remarks on the signboard advertising 'Girls, 24 hours a day.' "Do you and Jake go to those kind of places often?"

"We used to. We haven't been to one since you moved in with him," I reply.

"Why do you like it?"

"Me? I don't, not that much. Jake's the guy who always wants to go."

She thinks about it for a few moments. "I'd like to see what he finds in it," she declares. "Can we go back there?"

"You sure?" I question. "It can get a little . . ." I search for the proper adjective, ". . . raunchy, I guess."

"But a woman like me wouldn't be accosted, would she?"

"No, not as long as you were with a guy."

"Well, I've got you," she decides. "Come on."

At a stoplight I make a U-turn, and three minutes later the bouncer is letting us through the panel door, relieving me of five dollars in the process. "No cover for you, sweetie, its ladies night," he says, pointing to the poster of events behind him. We turn a corner and enter the establishment. Quickly, I scan the crowd and realize that it's early, only twelve or fifteen guys are in the dive. Four or five of them are gathered by a pool table in the corner, more interested in solids and stripes than the wriggling flesh on the stage in the middle of the room.

We find a table somewhat out of the way where we can observe the action, Christie takes in the horse-faced woman on the platform, now topless and playing with her g-string. A bikinied woman comes over to take our order; I order a scotch, Christie opts for vodka tonic. Now she's full of a thousand questions. "Are these girls prostitutes? Do they make a lot of money? The guys seem to just sit there."

As I answer her questions, the song ends and the girl on the stage is replaced by another and the announcement from the DJ, "Folks, put your hands together for the lovely Angela." Christie watches intently as Angela, dressed as a construction worker, begins to gyrate and tease the few patrons. After the girl is down to bare boobs and panties, Christie asks another question.

"The signboard said last night was amateur night, what does that mean?"

"Oh, sometimes guys bring their girlfriends in, and they get up on stage. Usually there's a fifty dollar prize or something."

I notice, even through her bra, that Christie's nipples dilate at this suggestion, and wonder if she's excited with the idea. "Did you and Jake ever bring your girlfriends to these places?"

"A few times. Once Jake got a girl he was with to go up on stage."

On the dais, Angela is down to her panties, and a customer slips a large bill between the fabric and skin. Angela gives him a big smile, and as the third song of the set begins, she daringly pulls the elastic of the waistband further and further until, finally, the panties join the rest of her getup discarded on the stage, and Angela's bush and labia are displayed for the few observers, including us.

As Angela trots off the platform, only to be supplanted by still another strumpet, Christie lets out a long sigh. She waves her empty glass at our waitress, and soon our drinks are refreshed. Christie observes while Angela steps from behind a curtain, now skimpily dressed, and goes to wait on one of the few customers. We have little to talk about now, and Christie watches the next stripper. Ten or fifteen minutes later, as I'm getting bored, Christie excuses herself, explaining she has to powder her nose.

Ten or fifteen minutes later Christie's not back yet, and I'm starting to get a little nervous. I wonder if maybe I should ask one of the dancers to check the restroom out, then hear the DJ announce, "Gents, we've got a very special event for you. Last night was amateur night, but tonight we've got a very special lady for you -- this is her very first time on the stage! Say hello to Christie!"

Christie ambles to the stage as a slow song starts, dressed in a man's dress shirt with a tie, short skirt and high heels. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's clean and fresh compared to the other dancers. As she takes center post, she stops, as if she's confused, then looks around, getting her bearings. Then she closes her eyes, and begins to sway. For a full minute she stands there, grooving to her own rhythm, and I notice that the conversation around the bar has stopped, no clink comes from the balls on the pool table. Only when she has the attention of every person in the hall does she begin to play with her tie, first pulling on the end as if she's going to unknot it. She's playing with the crowd, and although her face is calm, I know how excited she must be -- the fabric of the shirt, as it droops over the curve of her breasts, is crinkled with the extension of her nipples. Finally, she pulls the tie off and unbuttons first the collar, then the top two buttons. By the time the first song is over, she's exposed nothing more than her legs and a bit of skin below her neck, and hasn't moved her feet from the spot she planted them at the beginning of the music.

Everyone in the room awaits her next revealment. A second song begins, a little faster than the first, and now Christie begins to stroll around the dance floor. Another button opens, and now the opening is large enough to expose the swell of her breasts. Facing directly towards me, she leans forward and I catch a glimpse of those perfect globes. She understands the power of this simple movement, and repeats it for a number of her other watchers. Soon she's upright again, and now she's playing with the waistband of her skirt. It seems to be almost an afterthought, and with little ado she steps out of the garment. Every man wishes to see the curve of her hips, but they are disappointed -- the long tail of the dress shirt hides both her behind and front.

Exactly on cue, the second song blends into the third, a rhythmic tune with a good beat. Christie's hands move back to the buttons of the shirt, and soon they're all unfastened, clearly exposing the flesh between the mounds. She plays with the fabric, pulling it open a bit, enough to see the curvature, then closing it again, vexing her audience. Soon she advances, and hints of the aureoles are given. Now she takes the opportunity to play with the tail of the shirt, and glimpses of her wonderful arse ensue. It's difficult to see if she is wearing panties or not, then a string is seen above the crack, only two or three shades darker than her smooth skin. She stands facing away from me, then bends forward and simultaneously throws the fabric to the side, allowing me to see between her legs, the vagina hidden only by a small patch of cloth. Quickly she stands and pulls the shirt wide open, revealing to me and the other men those perfect, conic breasts. A catcall comes from someone, 'take it off,' and Christie obliges, throwing the shirt over her shoulder, and parading around the dance floor topless, her mound covered only by the slightest of g-strings. As the song winds to a close, she winks and blows me a kiss, and rambles back through the curtain to the dressing room.

The crowd is silent, mesmerized by the beauty, and the pause is broken by the DJ spouting, "Let's hear it for Christie!" The applause and screams from the gallery is almost deafening, far outstripping the small crowd. Christie pokes her head out from the curtain to see the commotion, and the DJ, seizing the opportunity, quickly starts another song. Christie ducks back in, but now the call goes up: "More, more!!!" Not to disappoint her audience, Christie soon emerges, the white dress shirt left behind, and stands proudly, the points of her breasts hardened, acknowledging the cheers. As the music rises, she once more begins to gyrate, moving across the stage, and men reach across with green paper to stuff into her g-string, but she avoids them, not wishing to be touched. Moments later, she traipses back into the dressing ground, leaving the room stunned.

After the crowd begins to quiet, the DJ announces the next professional, and I feel bad for her; she is almost forgotten in the hubbub. Strangers come over to me and congratulate me for having such a great girl friend, and when I try to explain our relationship, they fail to understand. Soon Christie joins me, fully dressed now, and the men try to talk to her, buy her a drink, but she refuses and says to me, "Let's get out of here."

I follow her to the car, and I can tell she is still high from the experience. "Did you see me, Derek? It was great!" We drive back to the island, talking about the experience. She wants to know what I saw, to tell me about what it felt like.

After we enter the apartment, she drags me to the couch and sits facing me. "Okay, it's time to pay off."

"What do you mean?" I ask, innocently, knowing full well what she wants. "You weren't naked up there tonight -- you had that g-string on."

"Oh, yeah? Well what about last night? Are you going to claim I had earrings on or something?"

"I never got to see the good part," I complain. "Jake's head was right where I wanted to see."

She ponders this for a moment, then apparently decides not to make an issue of it. "Okay," she agrees, then stands and quickly pulls her blouse over her head and drops the shorts to the rug. All that's covering her most private parts is a frilly bra and a miniscule thong as she approaches the stereo and puts on a CD with dance music. Smiling, she begins to gyrate as she did in the strip joint, and within a minute her hands flip behind her back, unleashing the décolleté, and with little ado the skimpy garment joins it's discarded fellows. Now she's prancing across the floor in front of me, playing with the elastic band of her g-string, drooping first the left side, then the right, and then her back is turned to me, the panties are drooped until the most beautiful butt is exposed to my view. Twisting, she faces me again, and watching me intently, she quickly and gracefully steps out of the panties, exposing the bush I knew was there, the fine yellow curls masking a protruding Venus' mound.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she asks, standing on one leg, a lanky thigh just disguising the portal between the extended legs.

"Yes," I agree, even though I know I'd love to have the entire vagina exposed. But even in this state of excitement I realize that's way too much to ask.

"Okay, then, it's your turn to give it up."

I tear my eyes from her frame and catch her eye. Her stare announces that it's not a joke, that she wants me to fulfill the bargain we jokingly made. When I hesitate, she seduces me with just one word, "please?"

She sits on the couch, crouched against one arm, and arranges her legs so I have no hope of catching the faintest glimpse of the pinkness. I stand and quickly shuck my shirt and trousers, then pull my boxers off. I'm as naked as she is now, and my pecker stands straight from my body, as hard as it's ever been.

I recline on the other end of the sofa, facing her, and ask, "You really want to see me jerk off?"

"Yes," she huskily replies, "yes."

I've been masturbating now for going on fifteen years, and I'm an expert at it. Usually, I visualize a woman, any woman, and what I'm doing to her, but this time I simply gaze at Christie, at her long legs, the throat, those perfect globes and below the waist that curl of hair, and I don't need to pretend. Spitting into my left hand for a bit of lubrication, I stroke the head of my penis with my palm while my right hand toys with my balls. Christie's eyes are fixed on my gonads, and soon her hand creeps down to her netherland, and she spreads her legs, allowing me a complete view of the wondrous pussy. I can see how moist it is, and one of her fingers exposes the coral clitoris. This is too much for me, and my strokes quickly bring the seminal liquid to the surface. The juice spurts from the tip, nearly a foot into the air. The next gush is lessened, and within 10 or twelve swipes, I'm simply dribbling.

Christie's still fondling herself, but all the while she's been watching me carefully. "Beautiful," she murmurs, then stretches her legs further open until I can see everything, the stunning double folds of skin surrounding the moist tunnel that I want so much to penetrate with a finger, a tongue, or, dream of dreams, my manhood. As her index finger coaxes the button, the middle finger immerses itself inside the vagina. Her other hand goes to a breast and titillates a nipple. As her head droops back onto the pillow, I realize she's going to allow herself to come while I gawk. Her breath is exploding from her lungs in short pants, then I hear a low rhythmic moaning, "Oh, oh, oh, oh." I watch as her entire body takes on a roseate glow. It is easily the most erotic episode of my life. I want to help her, to be a part of her reveling, and I place a hand on her ankle, but she pulls her leg away from me -- it's obvious my assistance isn't desired.

After she completes her orgasm, she looks at me and smiles. "That was beautiful," she confides, and I'm unsure as to how to end, or continue, the encounter. But I'm saved the embarrassment -- Christie stands up shakily, takes one last look at my semen covered midriff, mouths "I wish" wistfully, then plods to her bedroom, brushing my face with her hand longingly. I'm not sure if I should follow until I hear the door close and the click of a lock.

And so, I realize, it's time for me to go to my bed and sleep, should that be possible.