Days of Yore

She had the prettiest vagina he'd ever seen. Wisps of dark, neatly trimmed hair against pale skin surrounding small, perfectly symmetrical lips enticingly open in a surprised "O" of delicate pink.

Whenever he saw it — she took great pleasure in showing it to him — there was always a glint of moisture, a hint of arousal. And it was always framed by lace. Sometimes black, sometimes ecru, sometimes peach. Always expensive.

She loved crotchless panties.

Not the scratchy, bargain variety. No, not those. Only the best money could buy.

He could vouch for their silky softness, their tantalizing perfume when she let him lick her, the caress of the lace against his hardness when she finally — after the delicious torment of long, languid foreplay — let him enter her.

"Slow! Go slow!" she'd cry then. This, after she'd wound him up like an old clock, its spring overtightened, till he desperately wanted her friction to release the unbearable pressure built up within him.

But he wouldn't get to feel that delicious friction till late in their lovemaking.

They'd met years before. He was married, she was vulnerable after a breakup. His wife invited her to stay in their home for a couple of days. He had unwisely stroked her bare back in the hallway one afternoon; she gasped, shuddered, melted in his arms.

They broke apart that day, but both harbored fond memories. He saw her name in the paper; a show of her art at a local gallery. Looked up her number and called. He was divorced. She invited him over. The embers, still warm from years before, glowed white-hot and burst into flame.

Their assignations always began with a candlelight dinner at the little bistro down the street from her place. Kitty-corner from the sprawling park that had been, two centuries earlier, the homestead of the city's first important architect.

The maitre'd was attentive to her, almost obsequious. He knew her wines, her whims, her wiles and — presumably her lovers and their tastes, too.

He knew she took other lovers; sometimes only one, other times ... more. From time to time he'd wake up in a cold sweat, having dreamed of — them. With her. He always hoped he hadn't talked in his sleep when his steady girlfriend shared his bed.

In summer, they'd stroll in the park after dinner. Sometimes watch a Shakespeare play presented under the trees. Or just feed the swans. If it was warm, they might cuddle in a blanket as it got dark, their fingers tracing the planes of each other's faces, shoulders, backs, bellies.

That usually let to more erogenous zones, and inhaling the fragrance of moist fingertips and pressing sensitive points and — sometimes — quiet gasping climaxes in deliciously dangerous (but judiciously selected) public places.

When they got back to her place he was inevitably hard in spite of walking several blocks. She too was aroused, rubbing her hand up and down his trousers as she fished one-handed for the key in her purse.

But still she'd tease him for an hour. Disappear into her bedroom for a spell, only to emerge barefoot in a belted pale grey silk robe that clung to her slight frame and showed her rock-hard nipples to devastating effect.

If he'd softened in the interim, he was hard as soon as he heard her quiet footsteps, knowing what was coming. He might have been on the couch, perusing one of her books — she was a published author, as well as an artist who'd been ostracized from a teaching job for a well-reviewed show of explicit intimate photographs celebrating her sexuality — he'd leap to his feet and simultaneously come to attention.

She'd smile sweetly, reach up with her rosebud mouth to kiss him on tiptoes, then boldly undo his belt and lower his fly. Sometimes he'd discover her magically on her knees, her hands worshipping his erection as he stood, back to the doorframe.

Her voice was husky, throaty, sexy. It drove him crazy. He almost regretted when she stopped talking and took him in her tiny mouth, surrounding him with ethereal warmth and licking him along his length till he wanted nothing more than to splatter her classical face — she could have been a Renaissance painter's inspiration — with boiling cum.

But no. Too soon.

She was an artist with more than words and paint and photos. She was, he had to admit, a temptress of the tease. She could bring him so close to climax that he was aching for relief, then keep him there with exquisite torture for a couple of hours.

He knew she must pick her lovers for, if not stamina, their willingness to be brought to the edge of orgasm then kept there until she — glamorous goddess of gratification that she was — had had her way with him.

And she would have her way.

Tantalizing foreplay — kisses, massages, licking, nibbles, caresses, love bites — would give way to fondling, mutual masturbation, oral sex. (He remembered her as the sweetest tasting woman his tongue had ever teased.)

The image that stuck in his mind, though, was of those crotchless panties. No one ever put them to better use.

After an hour of teasing, they'd end up on the couch by the window, or on the thick carpet in the living room, or against the wall in the kitchen. Never, ever in her bedroom.

The silk robe would slide off her shoulders. She was petite, with high-set B-cup breasts that drove him wild, so much more so (which he couldn't admit at the time, even to himself) than the deliciously pendulous swaying Ds of his steady girlfriend. She knew it, and would sway her shoulders, tickling his nose with her tight little pink nipples, hard as the erasers on her sketching pencils.

Then, for him, the ultimate excrutiation: She'd slide off his clothes, and with her soft hands stroke his already rigid hardness.

"What a beautiful penis," she'd croon, in her soft, seductive voice. Sometimes wrapping her lips around the head and licking the ridge on the underside of his glans as his fingers curled in her long hair.

She'd bring him — almost — to the point of cumming. And stop.

"Touch me," she'd command gently. "You know what I want."

And he did.

She'd spread her legs. Sitting against the couch, or her back to the wall, she'd open herself up to him, her legs in a V.

She'd show him what was, undeniably, the most beautiful vagina he ever saw. In his entire life. This was long before the days of vaginoplasty, of purchased pussies, of designer labia. It was breathtaking. And it was insatiable.

As she opened her legs, he'd see the dark, downy hair around those soft pink lips, molded into a surprised "O" that always took his breath away. But he learned quickly that his swollen, aching member wasn't going there anytime soon.

She'd take his hand and softly lead it to her lower lips. He'd slide a finger into the raging fire between her legs, then a second.

She never uttered the word fisting, but she introduced him to it.

She'd drip lube on his hand and whisper, "Now. Push. Now."

He'd slide three fingers in, then four. More lube. She'd pull his wrist toward her. Raise her knees and groan softly, pushing against him.

"Don't stop!"

Now his thumb and fingertips were squeezed together in a wedge inside her. As he pushed in, afraid to hurt her, she took him up to his knuckles.

Their legs were two intersecting Vs, her knees over his thighs, all her muscles tense as she pulled his hand into her.

"Keep going. Oh god, look at your penis ..." It was throbbing, bobbing, the head purple and swollen. She'd push hard against his hand.

"Yes, like that!"

Suddenly his hand would be inside her. Swimming. Burning. Feeling her muscles contracting around him.

"Farther! Farther!"

He'd reach up. Feel the hard gristle of her cervix, warm and wet in his fingers.

"Touch me! Stroke me now!"

She'd grab his wrist with both hands and grind on it as he wrapped his fingers around her throbbing, vibrating cervix.

"I'm cumming, oh god almighty I'm coming!! Don't stop! Touch me! Unh! Unh! Unh!

"Aaaaahhh!!"

He'd feel her hips buck and her vaginal muscles clench to hold his wrist as he tried to stroke his raging hardness with his left hand in a futile, desperate attempt to bring himself off, to relieve the agony of pent-up arousal .

"Don't you fucking dare!" she'd yell, "That's mine! All mine!"

After her crashing climax she'd relax, allow him to reclaim his hand that had been in her up past his wrist. Sigh contentedly and lie back, legs wide, pink twitching vagina framed in sopping silk lace. Pull him towards her.

She'd let him in then. It always amazed him how tight she was after what must've been a workout for her muscles.

But she wouldn't let him satisfy himself immediately. She wanted more.

He'd slide into her in one smooth stroke, of course. And she'd grasp him with her powerful muscles. He'd pull out, slide back in, still searching for relief ...

"Go slow!" An order. "GO SLOW!"

Crooning softly now: "That's it."

It would be worth the wait, of course, as they gradually, every so slowly, built to a liquid, flowing, soul-busting climax. And collapsed, spent, in each other's arms.

Lying there for an hour or two before he crept away.

One night in January she made him a proposition: Would he be her date for a formal ball?

And so it came to pass that he rented a tuxedo and a limousine, and picked her up one crystalline night in the dead of winter.

There was a pause when he knocked on her door.

Then the lock clicked.

He waited. Nothing.

Turned the knob.

Cracked open the door.

His heart skipped a beat.

She stood there bathed in the warm light of a constellation of candles. Sheathed in a ballgown of jade green silk, her hair piled up like a fairytale princess. A simple gold necklace with a single emerald flashing green fire hung around her long, elegant neck. Makeup and lipstick perfectly applied.

She'd shed a decade (they were both in their thirties), her classic features soft and full, reminding him of a Botticelli Venus.

She smiled shyly, took his arm after throwing a white ermine stole around her shoulders. Heels, hidden by the floor-length gown, brought her almost to his height as they crunched down the steps and through the sparkling snow to the warm limo.

The ball itself, at an old club in the city, was a spectacle with shimmering chandeliers over a score of round tables set on a polished floor inlaid with exotic woods, servers in white coats bringing plates of the finest delectables available. Decanters full of old-country wines were regularly replenished and gentlemen in tuxedos kept their wives' crystal goblets full.

After the meal, the tables were discretely carried away while a small orchestra tuned up. The hubbub gradually subsided as the men enjoyed short aromatic cigars and the ladies retreated to powder their noses.

Along one side of the room a table covered with white linen was staffed by a dozen bartenders. For the men, strong whiskey cocktails; for the ladies, bottomless glasses of Champagne.

The orchestra struck up a waltz.

She raised an eyebrow. He took her hand and off they went, his right arm around her waist, his left hand holding her right. They joined the undulating sea of couples, every man in self-effacing black uniform and white shirt, every woman in a scintillating gown of colors so exotic each could have been a rare species of tropical butterfly.

She loved to dance and when the orchestra switched to minuets, foxtrots and seductive tangos, he had to surrender her to more experienced partners. She swirled seductively, returning to his side for the obligatory waltzes, her face rosy and more beautiful as the night wore on.

At one point he lost sight of her among the ever-changing web of bejewelled women. But suddenly she was at his side in a corner of the room, a sly smile lighting up her face. She passed him her simple black-velvet clutch purse. Opened the clasp.

He inhaled her familiar, sexy fragrance and glanced down. Peeking out, a pair of lacy emerald-green panties. Crotchless of course. Visibly damp. He was instantly, painfully hard.

She palmed the clutch and handed it to him as a much older gentleman sporting a saltwater tan, thick white hair and a finely tailored tux took her and whisked her away into the melee of dancers, her throaty laugh echoing as she stared deeply into her new partner's eyes.

It seemed a long time before he spotted her jade gown in a far corner, dancing a shamelessly erotic mambo with a tall, swarthy man with unnaturally dark hair. Then he lost sight of her again for twenty minutes amid the tapestry of dancers and the mysterious shadowy corridors leading off the ballroom.

Much later, he felt a gentle pressure on his arm. She was flushed, radiant, quite likely the sexiest woman in the room. The orchestra played a long, slow waltz. For the old folks.

They joined in. As she danced with him, she felt light as a feather.

They held hands, hers hot in his, as a long line of limos and Cadillacs and few Rolls-Royces picked up their passengers.

On the ride home, she kicked off her heels, tucked her legs under her on the seat, snuggled into his neck and dozed. The scent of her sexuality bloomed in the car.

"Here, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

He nodded to the driver, slipped him some folded bills.

Fresh snow muffled their footsteps. She twirled the fragrant emerald panties provocatively around her finger as he dug out the key from her clutch.

That night was anything but routine.

She opened the door, shed her shoes, disappeared into her tiny kitchen. A cork popped and she returned with two flutes of prosecco. Extinguished the light and lit the myriad candles.

Glasses clinked. Cold bubbles on their tongues. A soft, lingering kiss.

"Take me."

She opened his tux, unbuttoned him. Lay back on her heavy oak dining room table, a romantic halo of candles around her head.

Hoisted up the jade green ballgown and opened her legs.

"Now. But go slow."

Her magical, surprised "O" beckoned irresistibly.

Standing, he slid into her. She was swimming. He thrust slowly, feeling her liquids, her muscles, her heat, her hedonism. Eyes half-closed, she writhed gently on the table with a soft susurration of slippery silk.

He spurted. Couldn't help it.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

She rolled over languidly. Slid back. Stood in front of him, bent over the table.

"Again."

He lifted her gown. Tight buttocks. She parted her legs. Creamy cum streaked her inner thighs, glistening in the candlelight.

He took her harder now, his throbbing member plowing her furrow again and again. As he felt her tighten, he redoubled his efforts, plunging into her. Grabbing her wrists and jackhammering her. Whipping her juices into a thick, white froth that slathered his member and her shapely, curvaceous rear.

"Hold on!" she cried as he slammed into her. Adjusting her angle slightly she clenched him as if to crush him. The head of his penis swelled till he thought he'd burst.

"Yes, oh yes. Yes! Now! Oh god! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

"Aieeeee!!

She exhaled as he exploded into her.

"Thank you, god," she whispered under her breath.

To him: "Thank you, too."

As he shrank and pulled out, their comingled effusions ran down her thighs and slowly puddled between her feet.

They lay together on the table till their hearts resumed their normal rhythm, then crawled to the sofa where they slept in each other's arms.

Morning was beginning to stain the clouds pink when he awoke, covered her with a soft throw and let himself out.

The nights at the bistro became less frequent. Gradually, they both moved on to other lovers.

Once in a while, though, thumbing through old photos he glimpses one of the two of them, in ballgown and tux. A gentle smile crinkles the corners of his mouth.

He remembers.