Salome and Ishmael

Ishmael shook his head at the question, and said "Nope. Not at all. I certainly do like women, prefer their company to that of men every time, but no... I've dated one black girl, a long time ago."

Salome tilted her head quizzically: "What happened? If I can ask. I know it's impertinent and you can tell me it's none of my business!"

Ishmael just grinned and told her "It was in the deep south, which was a real problem, let me tell you! Too long ago to make it work. Might today, didn't back then. She was beautiful, jet black, and well educated, but her family hated the idea and we were never that serious anyhow... it was more a lark, an exploration, than a real long-term relationship opener. But we were good together!"

They looked at one another for quite a few seconds, until Ishmael caught her hand again, turned it palm upwards in his own. She studied the hands, then looked at him with a questioning glance. He smiled, said "We're really the same color, you know. As if it mattered. Look here!" Their palms were nearly identically shaded: he drew a slow, gentle fingertip down the long life-line crease in the middle of hers.

She stared at him briefly, then flashed a stunning smile and nodded, saying "Especially where it counts, on the inside!" Her hand folded softly around his finger, holding its full length, squeezing ever so slightly, rhythmically. Their hands separated, but not their eyes.

Then Salome spoke, low-volume, making him lean across the table towards her to hear. What she said astounded him once again. "Well, Ishmael, tell me another thing... What would the White Boy do if the Black Woman suggested he kiss her, right here and now? Would that flummox you? Do you kiss well? Could you get into that?"

Her eyes, up this close, were almost cobra-fascinating.

Ishmael raised one hand to her chin and moved his face towards hers but she stopped him, glanced about, and muttered "What will the neighbors think, White Boy? Blatant public miscegenation! Won't you be embarrassed and turn all pretty red for me again?"

Ishmael held her chin in his fingertips and said softly "What do you, or I, care what the neighbors think? And no, I won't be embarrassed, just proud of being invited. And the neighboring men will just have to be jealous as hell."

He closed the gap. Her lips, her tongue, her whole mouth, were luscious, peach-like. Simultaneously tasteless and sweet-salt, cool and warm, receptive and demanding. He had never felt so much as if he were both falling and being sucked into something wet and warm and wonderful, almost beyond his control. The sensations were indescribable, explosively erotic, and simultaneously comfortable and welcoming.

They explored one another deeply, thoroughly. He couldn't figure out if she wore perfume or not, but there was something olfactory going on, and it went straight to the reptilian center of his brain, where it flipped a silent switch that lit up his entire crotch. It was like being back in early high-school, revisiting his very first up-close encounters with potentially accessible womanhood.

When finally they broke, Salome sighed at him, "Oh my goodness gracious, the White Boy knoweth how to kiss. You, sir, are a rarity among males of the species! Regardless of race, too, I might add."

Ishmael let his hand slide gently down her cheek, along the top of her shoulder, downwards, trailing fingertips gently, butterfly-touches, along the side of her breast. She stayed eye-locked with him, shifted her weight slightly as his hand moved, adroitly pinned it to the table-top with the underside of her breast. It could almost have been accidental, save for the little wiggles that went with it. He ran a thumb over her nipple, one quick pass, and enjoyed her sharp intake of breath. Then they were separated again and staring at one another.

She broke the contact to scan briefly around them, grinning to herself at the few heads that suddenly changed the direction of their focus as her gaze swept their way. She looked back at Ishmael, and whispered "I do believe we're making a little spectacle..."

He nodded, but didn't look away from her at all, and replied "I don't care one whit. The outside world's opinion of anything personal doesn't count much with me. Does it for you?"

She shook her head, said low and strongly "Not one damned bit!"

Ishmael reached across the table, past her ear, touched her rolled hair, and said "Gorgeous hair. Wish I could see it running free. Maybe sometime while we're here you could wear it that way?"

In a moment, she smiled and whispered "Carpe diem! Like that woman said during her lecture. She meant business and educational things, but it's a good general philosophy, don't you think? I haven't always followed it in all aspects of life, but it IS a nice idea. In theory, anyhow."

She looked at him, somewhere between warily and fondly, and then said "It pleases me that you like my hair. You don't have to wait, Mr Ishmael. You can loosen it right now if you wish."

"Here? Now?" queried Ishmael.

She nodded, waiting.

"A test?", thought Ishmael. It was an interesting invitation, and Ishmael's crotch brittled at the idea: he did appreciate long, dark hair! He stood up and stepped around behind her, ignoring the repeated sidelong, curious glances they were getting from surrounding tables.

The pin and comb-clamp came out easily. Thick and black and shiny, with long strands of gray, it cascaded down her back. He stood there behind her, oblivious to the now overt stares from the spectators. He lifted the heavy, flexible mass, let his fingers become engrossed in the texture and weight of it. After a few seconds he leaned forward and said, very low and directly into her ear, "You have some tangles in here, from the roll. Where's your brush?"

Salome started, shrugged, and opened her purse. There was a good brush right atop the contents. She put it into his hand, asking "How did you know I'd have one with me?"

He replied "I have two sisters with long hair. No woman with this kind of hair can leave her brush behind."

He knew how to handle the mane, and stood there smoothing and working it, gently, firmly. It was scaldingly intimate for her, and she instantly found it one of the most erotic things ever. No matter how much they said they liked her hair, no man had ever volunteered such brush work, although she had often wished for it.

She kept her eyes closed, wondering what the folks around them might be thinking, and coming back repeatedly to "I don't CARE!" Then his hands stopped working her hair and settled on her shoulders, the heavy trapezius muscles at the base of her neck, and massaged. Firm, careful, knowing. For a long while. Then he was sliding back into his seat in front of her, smiling at her.

Their eyes locked again, and she murmured, "Nice touch you have there, White Boy!" He just grinned at her, nodded. She paused for a sip of her drink, then smiled slowly at him, and said "Very, very erotic touch, with the hair. Very sensual, too. I like it."

Her statement didn't really call for a response, but she got one, a good deal more than she expected. "Which was it, Salome... erotic, or sensual?"

She tilted her head sideways and thought. "I'm not sure I would separate the two terms. Do you? Tell me!" She giggled briefly, and finished "Tell thy pupil, O Student of Things Erotic and Sensual! You must be a student of these things, since you apparently have an opinion. And since you asked such a question."

Ishmael explained: "Very different, in my mind. One is a mental state, the other is physical. To me, 'erotic' means a mental state that has lots of subtle overtones and foundations. For instance, things that are really erotic to me have elements of the unknown, of things to come but not yet present, of newness, of surrender of self to another and the extending of trust that has to go with the surrender, perhaps a hint of danger... all wrapped around things sexual, of course."

He paused, and she just nodded for him to continue: "The most deeply erotic things involve that surrender and trust: being able to hand some aspect of yourself, whether physical or emotional, over into another's care, being able to TRUST another human deeply enough to entrust 'self' to them, is something ultimately intimate and special, and very rare. I think that's very different from 'sensual', which means, to me, the actual sensations... touching, tasting, smelling. So, I DO at least differentiate between the two – actual "separation" of the two in real life, well, that's a different proposition. Philosophy versus reality, perhaps?"

She smiled at him, thought for a moment and then said "Surrender of self into the care of another... quite a nice description. I guess that really IS what a woman, at least, does... when she lets a man enter her body. I think the trusting of one's emotional self to another person is probably much harder to do than the physical. And now that you explain it so nicely, I wonder if I've ever really experienced it! I think so. Hope so anyhow. At any rate, it's RARE, you bet! Not to mention scary! But, Mr Ishmael, won't you agree that the two can blend, at least at the edges... for instance, your touches on my hair were very sensual..."

He nodded in agreement.

"But they could be both sensual and erotic, couldn't they? What was in your list? Surrender of self? Well, there was my decision to let you touch it - that's a type of surrender, isn't it? I let you WAY inside my normal 'personal space', Mr Ishmael! So there was certainly some trust involved, and something new, and a hint of possible sensual things lurking out there in the future... seems to me both sensual and erotic, using your definitions!"

Way down in the depths of her belly her little fire glowed brighter. It was impressive that he was actually voicing, and very nicely, things she had felt but never been able to articulate. Most intriguing.

She sat for a long moment running her fingertip around the rim of her glass. It was amazing, this tension between them, this communication they were establishing, partly by speech, certainly, but primarily without words. It was eerie. It was wonderful. She sighed, then spoke, looking right at him. He couldn't see it, but her pupils were fully dilated. So were his, and she had the advantage of him, for she COULD see them clearly, in his blue-irised white-boy eyes!

"So. Ishmael, I need to say something. Promise me you won't take offense, that you'll understand?" Her stomach twisted - this scenario was really out of character for her. One corner of her mind was observing events and found itself totally befuddled: whenever that corner tried to raise a question, the rest of her simply slapped it down, again and again.

He nodded, spread his hands, indicating she should go ahead.

She paused just long enough to gather her hair, twist it slightly and roll it up, pinning it in place with a single deft jab of the long hairpin. She had an elegant neck, thought Ishmael. He could be patient.

"I, Ishmael, am a full-grown woman..." She very nearly giggled at herself, and continued, "Full grown and then some! With all the needs and desires which that entails. And the capabilities, too. Have been so for a very long time. Longer than you might imagine... and it's very gentlemanly of you not to ask!"

She paused to study his face, liked what she saw—respect, fascination, a not-well-hidden dose of pure animal lust. All of that made her feel good about herself. Although definitely and significantly younger than she, he was no baby, and he looked lean and fit, much to her taste. Complete with a full moustache: she'd never kissed a moustache before. Odd, she hadn't noticed it during the kiss.

"So... I do believe in the philosophy that our last speaker promoted, carpe the bloody diem, and in all aspects of life. Miss it, the opportunity is gone. No chances taken equals no gains made." She changed direction. "Are you staying here at the hotel? Going to stay for the entire conference?"

Ishmael nodded.

She re-opened her purse, dropped in the brush. Her hand stayed hidden inside. She spoke again: "So, Mr Ishmael my new-found White Boy who turns pink on command, are you an adventuresome person?"

He nodded again.

She kept on, "Are you inventive, too?"

He tilted his head, and said "I try to be, when there's a good reason for it. Usually I succeed. No guarantees though, except that I'll make an effort."

She liked the understanding glint in his eye, and how he answered her questions – straightforward. No obvious bull, no attempt to find a way to impress her with something she didn't care about anyhow.

"Good!" she breathed. Her stomach was doing backflips now. Her hand appeared from inside the purse, holding a white piece of flat plastic. Ishmael recognized it from the pattern of printing, and his stomach did a little dance of its own. It wasn't as romantic as a bit of warm, saw-toothed old fashioned brass, but it was a room key nonetheless – the function, not the form, carried the romance and intrigue.

She set it on the table, printed side down, no room number showing, placed one finger atop the plastic and slid it towards him, held it against the tabletop. Wordlessly, he reached out to put his own finger on it. He tugged gently, but she held it down tightly, watching his eyes carefully all the while. He stopped tugging, waited. Their fingertips were only a fraction of an inch apart. He was fascinated by her eyes, the pupils still invisible within the huge dark irises, inviting him to plunge right in, straight into her soul, perhaps?

Finally she spoke: "Tell me, White Boy... Um... Well, there really isn't any genteel way to ask, so... Are you..." She paused.

He finished the question for her. "Am I married...?"

She shook her head: "No, wrong question! That is between you and someone else, and between myself and someone else. Your status with another person is really no business of mine, and I wouldn't ask. But between you and ME, well, there are important questions which a person really should explore honestly... Are you genuinely trustworthy... and clean?"

It was a perfectly sensible question. He should have asked it himself, and said so, followed by "Perfectly clean. You too?" She nodded, still holding his gaze. It was his turn: "So, is there any need for baby-protection? I've had a vasectomy but if it would make you feel better, we could probably arrange..."

She grinned broadly at him: the grin squelched any flickering doubt as to whether or not he was misinterpreting the situation in any way. "God almighty, White Boy, you DO know how to compliment a woman, don't you! No, I'm well past that need. And I get this feeling I can trust you, I don't know why but I do. So, even if you weren't cut, I'd say 'NO NEED'. You can take this now."

She lifted her finger from the card, relinquishing it to his care. "Room 1369. I'll arrive in exactly ten minutes. Meanwhile, I'll stay here and finish this drink. Be there when I arrive. Do something inventive while you wait. Something for us both. If you'd like to, that is? If you don't mind being accosted by a pushy old Black Woman?"

He picked up her hand by the finger and raised it to his lips, then lifted her key-card and turned towards the bar door.

She watched him go, feeling the churn in her belly and the wet between her legs, and wondering at her own brazenness. Carpe indeed: this was way, WAY outside her normal boundaries. She was enjoying herself immensely, yet scaring herself thoroughly. Amazing!

She looked at her watch: 6:17. She thought she could nurse her drink until 6:26. The room wasn't a full minute away, after all. She signaled the waiter, and signed her tab. Took several sips of her drink, and scanned the room again. The couple in the next booth, young whites, flushed and looked away, which made her chortle to herself. Gotcha!

Back to the wristwatch: only 6:21. It was going to be forever until 6:26. She got up, finished her drink in one swallow, looked around at the nearly-full room, grinned internally at the way so many of the men were studiously avoiding her gaze. They'd been paying attention, all right! Testosterone – simultaneously a woman's nemesis and best ally... for the knowing woman, anyway! Men were SO EASY!

She walked quickly to the ladies' room and into a stall. There, she practically ripped her lacy panties off, wadded them into a tiny ball and stuffed them into her purse. She gave her swimming-wet pussy lips one long, shudder-making stroke with her fingers, then shook her skirt back into place. A quick glance at the mirror, just checking, and off to the elevator.

Time was about up.

Ten minutes earlier, Ishmael had let himself into her room, flipped on the lights. It was a big, comfortable double suite. Two queen beds. He sat briefly on one: very solid. A big floor-to-ceiling sliding mirrored door on the closet, strategically placed. Nice of the designer to acknowledge what the eventual guests would want!

He didn't poke about: this was her space, and he was present by invitation only, therefore he would respect every aspect of her privacy until she explicitly opened up to him. He flipped on the lights in the bathroom: her makeup and small-stuff were all neatly arranged on the counter. What really caught his eye were the little plastic pouch that obviously held a vibrator, and the tube of petroleum jelly. Poking out of the "personals" bag was the tip of a good-sized pale-green plastic dildo: a very realistic thing, if one got past the color. Ishmael's estimation of the lady ratcheted up yet again: she knew how to take care of her needs while on the road, didn't she! And – was HE becoming part of that equipment? He immediately decided "YES", followed by an internal grin and "HOORAY!"

"Innovation?" she had asked for... an interesting request. He thought for a moment, then grinned. Easy! First he stripped... his erection was as hard as he could ever remember. He was glad that he'd spent that five or ten minutes this morning shaving his crotch just the way he most enjoyed it, absolutely baby-butt smooth, not a hair in sight or available to touch. The cool air of the room felt good on his nakedness, but he turned the thermostat up several degrees anyhow: most women were more warmth-loving than he.

He donned one of the nice, fluffy hotel robes, turned off the main room lights, left just the bathroom lights lit. He left the bathroom door ajar enough to provide reasonable but quite indirect lighting. Nothing strident, but nothing hidden: Ishmael made love through his eyes as much as through his other organs. Maybe more?

He turned down the bed nearest the mirrors, laid a towel by the pillows, then pulled an armless chair over to where it was just out of sight from the hallway door. He carefully left that door very slightly ajar, so the lock didn't engage. Then he sat in the chair, erection protruding from the unfastened robe, and waited. He sat so that, from the door, only his feet and shins and the hem of the robe would be visible. His pits were suddenly soggy, and his heart was thundering. Adrenalin and testosterone were a heady combination, with which he was exquisitely happy. His erection didn't fade, for his imagination was very, very good, and running wide open.

Salome arrived at the door, raised her hand to knock, noticed that it was ajar. She squared her shoulders, and pressed her thighs together hard: it felt like the little-kid days, sliding down a banister. Electricity down deep inside, where it really counted. She tapped once in warning, then opened the door. It closed behind her with a quiet snick.

He waited. Silence. Then a tiny giggle. "Nice feet, White Boy! And nice calves, too!" He stood, moved to where she could see him in the light from the bathroom, see the bulge under his loose robe, and beckoned her to him. She dropped her purse on the floor, moved catlike to stand before him, close enough to feel body heats, the other person's breath. She tilted her head, waited. They were almost exactly the same height, eye to eye.