Salome and Ishmael

Then there were fingers in both pussy and bottom, sliding, slithering, doing marvelous things inside her. She came so hard she was afraid she might have peed. He didn't slow down, just shifted, moved about. A momentary lull, emptiness, stillness between her legs. Then the tip of his cock was against her bottom. She waited. He nodded, whispered "Push. You have to take me inside yourself, to begin... just like I did with you!"

Wide-eyed, she did so.

He entered her, she engulfed him, with the most amazing amalgam of strength and partnership and gentleness and slowness and care.

Gerald was gone.

Her universe was concentrated, narrowed to just the point of contact between her anus and this pale cockshaft. She bit her lip as sensations flooded her. This was very, very different from ordinary fucking. Much more intimate, much more sensual. Why? She couldn't parse it. Maybe because it was so evil-delicious? Newness helped. So did release from her long-standing fears. Uncle Gerald was, she thought very clearly, "fading" - in fact, nearly gone.

Thoughts flitted through her mind, but not about Gerald. She tried to isolate, concentrate, remember. Dig. Yes - back when Gerald had done her bottom, yes, she had definitely climaxed, somehow, for some reason. It was hard to believe it, but... yes, she had. Through everything else, all the emotional uproar and fear and other sturm and drang, her body had taken over and found pleasure and she had never forgiven herself for that.

NEVER.

She knew it had happened, now that the memories were open. After all, back then she'd been deeply into masturbation, had known all about orgasms, you BET!. But why oh why with Gerald? Maybe she would never know why? Probably it really didn't matter anyhow. Maybe there was no answer to "why?"

She should quit this analysis and center herself in the moment! Besides, Ishmael was doing things to several highly sensitive loci simultaneously, and she should enjoy it. Carpe, carpe, carpe! Ishmael's attentions pulled her back into the moment. What had happened, or hadn't happened, way back then simply wasn't germane any more. Faded to black.

She should only pay attention to Ishmael, to her bottom, to her here-and-now sensations... she could tell there was an incredible suite of climaxes building inside her like big, breaking surf atop a surging tide. She could FEEL them lining up, getting ready.

God Almighty, but she was FULL! As he slid inside, each stroke seemed to take the longest time, so long, so slow, so patiently forceful. Each repetition surged through her whole being. Long, slow penetration, then the strangest little pause, a feeling of release deep inside her, and then another two inches of cock, then his thighs solidly against the backs of hers, his balls slapping gently against the inner-thigh skin each time. But no brillo-pad!

He eyed her as he stroked, grinned at her suddenly, flexed her legs and put both her big toes into his mouth simultaneously, used his fingernails on the soles of her feet. And stroked her bottom with his cock, long, slow, steady. It was unreal, ethereal, and double-damned delightfully NASTY! Nice, nice, nice!

Then he was handing her the vibrator, leaning up away from her to give her room, putting two fingers into her pussy and massaging her G-spot as he thrust. Butt as pussy. Vibrator on her button. His free hand on her tits, hard, caressing, pinching. So many sensations incoming, all at once. Then, awkward at first, he managed to get the dildo into her pussy, filling her in both places, filling her beyond any belief. Double-fucked, and with her own Green Weenie! What an absolute HOOT!

She threw herself into the cauldron of sensation. It was insanely, superbly erotic. She went nearly catatonic with pleasure, then with a long, keening wail she started to come. And she kept on coming, wave after wave, as if it couldn't possibly ever end. She couldn't breathe, it must be because the end of his cock was in her esophagus, her heart would burst, her legs would crack from the tension. Lava in her belly, moving, spurting, flowing. Butterflies and rockets and other indescribable things in her brain. Sweat everywhere.

Who needed baby-oil when you could get this greasy just from pleasuring one another?

She shut her eyes, he ordered her to open them, he seemed to enter her soul through her pupils, and finally, wonderfully he let himself loose deep inside her butt, climaxing hard and long. One corner of her mind wondered what the sperm would do in THERE!?

Slowly, slowly, they came down. Click: the vibrator's purr disappeared, leaving no sound but their breathing. She giggled up at him when he twitched inside her, and asked "So? How did M'Lady find the experience? Repeat sometime?"

She simpered, then finally whispered back "Wonder if the neighbors heard any of that! GOD! You come so hard... and ME, JEEZUZ Mary and Joseph, I never came so hard or so long in my entire life! Thank you... and YES, we need a rematch. Preferably lots and lots of them..."

They slept.

They went to breakfast together, sat in a remote, relatively private table at the far end of the dining room. She liked the same coffee he did – strong double-lattes, slightly sweet.

Over their seconds, he looked at her, reached for her hand, and said "Do you suppose there's any reason why we shouldn't be seen together in the meeting"?

She squeezed his hand and replied "Very sweet of you, Ishmael. And NO, there's not a reason in the world. I'd like that."

They spent the day commenting on and discussing the speakers and the topics, discovering rapidly that they shared plenty of interests both professionally and far beyond. And where they didn't share already, the other always seemed genuinely interested and curious about the topic. By late afternoon, they were ridiculously close.

That night was a long drawn out lovemaking session, punctuated by wide-ranging discussions of random topics.

The following morning, the question posed by Salome over coffee was "Do we absolutely have to stay for today's talks? This is a nice city, and there's plenty to do if we wish. Do you feel required to attend every talk?" He didn't.

They spent the morning in the local art museum, lunched there, and the afternoon in a rowboat in the central lake of the big park. Necking. Talking. Necking some more. By four, mutual agreement sent them scurrying back to the hotel. There, as they undressed, Salome commented that her underwear were getting caught on her crotch stubble, and she would have to shave again shortly. Ishmael volunteered his services as barber. She looked at him almost coyly, and asked "That's a very gentlemanly offer... but those are some pretty delicate parts down there. Do you know what you're doing?"

He just grinned. Shortly, she was on her back, widespread, her butt up on a towel-covered pillow. Between her legs knelt Ishmael, razor in hand, shaving foam covering the landscape before him. Had she EVER felt more open and vulnerable? She didn't think so. Yet it was erotic in the extreme, lying here, fully exposed. Not to mention the razor-blade in his hand! She watched him as he began: his face was a study in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth. From his first stroke it was obvious he'd been here, done this before. He knew exactly how to tug and tighten the slippery, evasive tissues so as to pop up the stubble, how to glide the blade at the proper angle so as not to nick. She relaxed. He worked ever so carefully around the merge of her outer lips above her clit, then up to rinse the razor: in his brief absence, she wondered about his expertise – what serial number was she, in his string of personally-shaved women? She decided it didn't matter. Somewhere, some other time, in another universe, he'd developed this skill, and she was the current beneficiary. That's all that mattered, wasn't it?

He sponged and toweled her clean, and as he did, she asked almost with a giggle, "Very nice, Master Ishmael. Do you do pits and legs?"

He just grinned and said "You bet!" In moments he was lathering her armpits, muttering "Legs, however, are best done in the shower. Later."

Salome decided that the very best part of the shave was the way he repeatedly tested, at great length, to make sure the stubble was entirely gone... long, slow tongue-lappings and lip nibbles. Many, many minutes of them. When she couldn't come any more, he declared it to be her turn to shave him, and she tried to refuse but he wouldn't have any of that. She learned more about the details of his anatomy in the next fifteen slippery minutes than she would have believed there was to learn. And at the end of it, she returned the inspection favor. Residual menthol tingled her tongue and throat, only to be overwhelmed by the scent and taste of his come she extracted his afternoon's accumulation from him.

They moved Ishmael into Salome's room, cancelled his. There was no point in pretending to themselves or anyone else. And the next two days passed in a haze of fucking, lovemaking, conversation, cuddling: the conference faded in importance, and they attended only a few sessions. Much to their mutual satisfaction.

Saturday morning came: departure day. It turned out that both had to be at the airport at about noon, so a leisurely morning seemed in order. Ishmael stood up after their gentle wake-up fuck, and started to dress, saying "I'm off downstairs to get our coffees. You just stay there and be lazy, woman!" She agreed. When he returned with their lattes, she was sitting in her robe at the little table on the balcony, watching the city below. He joined her, and they sipped silently.

The obvious question, the future, hung in the air. By continued, unspoken agreement, they had never revisited the bit about identities: it was purely Salome and Ishmael.

Salome broke the silence: "Well... are you by any chance going to the three-day affair in Atlanta, ten weeks from now?" Her heart was pounding: she really didn't want this to end, didn't know of a good way to suggest they continue it, and couldn't be certain that Ishmael would either want to do so or be able to.

Unbeknownst to her, Ishmael was beset by exactly the same problems. He nodded: yes, in fact, he was going to attend the other meeting.

Neither said anything for a moment, then, finally, Ishmael said "I hope you won't mind... but I really, really don't want this to end with a whimper. You already mean far too much to me. So, go get your little zipper bag with all your erotic toys in it and bring it out here, please. Will you?'

She eyed him, puzzled, then shrugged and kissed him hard as she got up to fetch it. She sat back down with the bag in her hand, looked at him. "Open it."

She peeked into it: atop her gear lay a business card, folded closed. Her option what to do with it. She looked up at him and smiled, then said "Okay, Mister Ishmael, now YOU go get your jacket!"

He stood there, jacket in hand, looking at her. She looked like the proverbial canary-filled cat. "Check the pockets!"

In the right-hand pocket his fingers encountered an envelope: he removed it. Hotel stationery, unsealed. Inside it lay a business card.

They looked at one another, and laughed. "Promise me I'll always be 'Salome', whether or not you like the real name on the card? And you have to remain Ishmael, too. Deal?"

"Done!"