Voice from The Past

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Old flirtation returns unfettered.
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romancer
romancer
395 Followers

There was nothing significant about the day - I'd gotten up, had breakfast with the kids before they headed off to school, read the front page and some of the comics, made a piece of toast and headed off to work. Once there, I'd grabbed a cup of coffee, booted up, and started deleting through the daily pile of spam and much of the formatted stuff from within the corporation.

Clicking through the list, looking for significant failures in our system, calls for help from my far-flung managers, taskers from my taskaholic boss, I hit one that said, "Hello from Becky Andersen Donley." It stopped me dead in my tracks. Was it spam? How would that happen? Checking that no one was approaching my door, I read on:

"Hey, if this is you, this is Becky, aka Airman Andersen, from the Air Force - I'm hoping you remember. I've been meaning to contact you, if for no other reason than to say "how's it?" It just dawned on me that this year marks 10 years since you and I last saw each other! God, where did the time go? I've run out of G.I. Bill time!! How the hell did that happen????? Well, what all have you been doing?

"I ran across the old squadron's reunion information, and there you were - bigger than life - still making fun with words, explaining what the alumni could expect at this summer's reunion. I'm so sorry I didn't see the info in time to attend - I understand the reunion was a smashing success thanks to your efforts, as well. Sounds like it was a blast, and I enjoyed seeing the photos - was that you in the ball cap at the barbeque? I think so, although you're way in the background, and if so, you haven't changed a bit!

"Speaking of photos, I've attached a few for your viewing pleasure from my unofficial farewell party, which of course you missed, being an officer and all, and my party definitely NOT being for officers. I cannot thank you enough, even now, for all you did to make my time in the squadron so memorable and good for me. You shielded me from a bunch of bullshit, if I can say that now, and I especially remember your comments at my official farewell party about how 'Natural Disasters Seem to Follow Becky Wherever She Goes.'

"People were falling off their chairs they were laughing so hard (in the beginning), and then the trepidation set in and the laughter got v-e-e-r-r-r-ry NERVOUS and sporadic... you are a great speaker, Dan, and I could almost hear the relief when you didn't go in several directions you could have. Always the gentleman. And you had that audience in the palm of your hand. Not to mention the nice words you said about me. I still have the video of that momentous occasion..."

The email went on, but I was more taken by the photo, of that young airman who worked for me in the squadron. She wasn't the classic bimbo, busty type that Hefner thinks make up our fantasies, but she was blond and tanned and young and attractive by all measures, and she had a spark in her eyes that broadcasted sex appeal in every direction, or at least in mine. We had flirted subtlely, nothing inappropriate, just the more cheerful greetings, the knowing glance shared during "Dilbert Moments," that sort of thing. I was married, she wasn't - I was an officer, she wasn't - I was older than she by 8-10 years or so. So it had been not even a flirtation by any standards, just a vibe thing that made the day a little brighter. The photo was of her in a bikini top, one that I'd never seen - officers weren't in a position to see subordinates so attired usually - and she looked stupendous, just enough cleavage to beckon, to leave it open to whether she was offering a come-on or just being innocently and marvelously attractive.

Then the photo called to mind an encounter with her that was distinctly embarrassing for me, yet mildly erotic. My commanding officer then was a real bozo - great braggart when things were going great, and a blame-laying hip-shooter when they weren't - the antithesis of the buck-stops-here leader that we needed at that time. Air Force regs explicitly required females to wear appropriate underwear, i.e. bras, with their uniforms. Normally not a problem, the lack of a bra became evident especially when the uniform for various work details was t-shirt and dungarees. Becky had neglected to wear a bra so often it had become almost expected, and all of us males tried not to blatantly stare, and all of us officers pretty much mentally looked the other way while "eyeballing" her surreptitiously, more interested in the view than in a strict interpretation of good order and discipline.

One day the skipper actually noticed something other than his career path, after some sort of screw-up that the wing commander had chewed on him about. Casting about for a target, he spied her bralessness, and I was soon directed to tell her to "get those damn tits covered up!"

Reluctantly, and without much of a plan, I called her into my office, where at least the "counseling" would be audibly in private, and glassed in from the passageway, so safe as well. I could so clearly remember the outline of her nipples straining against her t-shirt, with her innocently reporting to me, "You wanted to see me, Mr. Ford?", as she closed the door behind her. I don't recall the words, and I expect that I was probably stammering my way through the reminder and caution that she should wear a bra on duty.

I do recall her blushing appropriately and saying she'd been unaware that she was making me uncomfortable and promising to adhere to the regs. Meanwhile, her eyes laughed at me, silently but clearly saying, "And if you were doing your job, just how did you notice... and what would you like to do about it... really... and as a matter of fact yes, so would I." And all the while breathing steadily, making her breasts rise and fall, with those nipples... Obviously, it had made an impression, although that's as close as I got.

But for that moment, we both knew that the chemistry was there, and that we both wanted to go with it, and that we wouldn't. Some time later, she was embroiled in a dispute with a more senior enlisted member. It fell to me to sort things out, and I did, not taking sides yet not relying on seniority to decide right or might. In the process, it came out that the senior enlisted person had misused his (or her) rank in the past, which led to a poor evaluation and transfer.

In retrospect, I think that fed something like a combination of gratitude and father figure projection in her, and by the time of her farewell party she was showing all signs of a crush - I was glad to avoid anything further, knowing how dangerous it would be, but still couldn't deny the chemistry.

Over the next couple of months after that internet rediscovery, we exchanged occasional emails, and the flirtation got more overt. She emailed me other photos, all very proper, which I raved about and which led to a whole new round of double entendres. She'd turned into a more mature woman, still flashing those sexy eyes, still radiating sexuality and love of life. She carped about having gained weight, and I admitted I'd lost hair as well as expanded my beltline (although not much, I was pleased to keep to myself).

I also learned that she'd married, no kids. It was a bit vague as to whether she was still married or not, and I left my side of that unsaid as well. Meanwhile, there was an unmentioned understanding that this was between two old coworkers who'd felt the electricity between us at the time and had done nothing about it then. Now each of us was recalling that interest, wondering a bunch of what-if's, and thinking about renewing the "relationship" with fewer if any restrictions of propriety.

Eventually, about six months later, my company sent me across the country to where she lived, near Washington DC, on a business trip. I wrestled with whether or not to say I was coming, whether or not to limit this to a fantasy occasional email flirtation, whether or not to go for the mutual attraction I knew we'd shared a decade before.

When the time came, I cheerfully left town, flew to DC, and checked into a hotel near Dupont Circle, without mentioning my arrival to her. The itinerary didn't really allow for all that much off-time, but I had the last evening in town free. I had told my cohorts I was going to meet an old squadronmate for dinner on the last evening. That done, I called Becky the day before, reached her at work, and invited her to dinner.

Thankfully, she bought my "sudden trip, little time, free tomorrow, then back" story, and we agreed she'd arrive at my hotel (since I hadn't needed to have a rental car) at 6. I told her to call my cell phone when she was close and that I'd meet her in the lobby bar.

I finished my last meeting at 3, took a cab back to the hotel (one of those upscale suite places - very nice deal our company's got with their chain), and decided to sublimate a bit with a run. I stripped down, brushed my teeth to banish the coffee of the day, changed to my shorts, a t-shirt and running shoes, and hit the Washington neighborhoods for a little over a half hour. I re-thought through the frequently imagined scenario while running, deciding that it was best all around to play it straight, take her to dinner, enjoy the flirtation, but go no further - that it would be best for us both that way.

I got back to the hotel, wringing with sweat, and went up to the room, dragged in using the standard, old-style key, and stripped to the buff, tossing the gym gear into a hotel laundry bag in the empty one of two closets - I'd attend to them later. After 15 minutes of cool-down, checking the TV channels, and setting the alarm for my early flight the next day, I'd stopped sweating, felt pretty damn virtuous for having run, and went into the shower, a glassed in arrangement next to a big whirlpool-style bath tub.

I'd soaped up, gradually increasing the temperature to pretty hot, and had steamed up the bathroom, when I heard her voice, "Dan? Is that you in there?"

"Yo! You're early," I yelled out, recognizing her voice immediately. That Californian accent was undiminished, despite her now living in the Capital. How the hell had she cracked the code on which room, gotten in, and so forth was less a mystery than a reminder of the crafty efficiency of America's enlisted force.

"Not that early," she called back.

"I'll be with you in a minute," I replied, starting to rinse off the vestiges of soapiness.

"I'm looking forward to it!" she said, and I got the humor in that.

Shutting off the water, I opened the door and took a big bath towel, starting to dry off, when I looked up and saw her watching me from the suite's living room, through the open bathroom door mirror. I could see the mirror was too fogged to yield any details in either direction, but it turned me on that she was watching, and that I was exhibiting, however unclearly. I was glad I worked out regularly, less glad that the calendar showed I'd aged along the way.

"Hey!" I said, turning sideways and drying my legs, the combination of angle and towel concealing my privates as the fog started to clear.

"Hey you," she said back, her voice a bit husky.

"You have me at a bit of a disadvantage, you know." I offered.

"I don't know - you don't look disadvantaged to me from here."

"Well, thanks, but I did expect to be at least decent when I met you - I'd been hoping to give you a big hug - we could never do that when I outranked you!"

"And there's a reason you can't now?" she said.

"No reason unless you come up with one, and quickly," I said back, quickly wrapping the towel around my waist. I walked out of the bathroom, parts of me not yet dried, hoping my chest was still full enough and my belly flat enough not to totally turn her off.

Finally seeing her, I knew why I'd felt so attracted in the years before. She looked great - short wraparound skirt made of that jersey stuff that clings so nicely, good leg partly peeking through the slit created by the wrapping of the skirt (immediately I was drawn to wonder how it came apart and was gratified to see it tied and hoped that was all it did), sandals, and a thin white t-shirt with a "Carpe Diem" logo and as I looked closer, obviously no bra. She'd also put on some weight. She'd gained enough that I immediately knew she'd be sensitive about it, but I also liked it - she looked fuller, more womanly than the young airman I'd remembered, not overweight per se, just more mature. I loved it, and started to respond.

After all, I was essentially naked, and she was barely dressed, and we were in a hotel room. I glanced over and saw that after having come through the door that I must have failed to close fully, she'd not only closed it but slipped the brace over the lock. Crafty and efficient, like I said.

I held out my arms, she came to me, and I hugged her to me, loving the feel of her t-shirt-covered breasts pressing into me, and pressing my hips a bit further forward than a hug would require.

"Hmmm... After all this time..." I murmured, not letting go.

"Yeah, and why'd it take you so long?" she countered.

"Damned if I know - just lousy judgment, I guess."

"I should let you go dry off and get, uh, changed."

"If I don't, I'm afraid it won't be the clothes that get changed," I said, not letting go, but feeling my dick growing.

"Hmm... So I can tell. Did you stash the soap in that towel, or are you just happy to see me?"

I laughed at the turn on the old Mae West line and stood back, taking her hands in mine, to look at her.

"You look stupendous," I said sincerely.

"Ooh, flattery will get you everywhere!" she came back.

"'Everywhere' - such a great word," I mused thoughtfully. While trying to keep up the banter, I was pretty amazed that here I was, seeing her for the first time in years, immediately turned on, and that she was acting as if she were the same. I'm not used to the barely hidden blatant thing we had going here, but I was certainly enjoying it. "By the way, I especially like the wet t-shirt look!"

Looking down, she saw that my wet chest had soaked through parts of her t-shirt, most notably the parts that had stuck furthest out - her nipples were visible and pointing, the tips a good half inch, it seemed, in front of the also exposed areolae. "I see you still aren't supporting the bra industry, and I can see why there would be no need in your case."

"Damn! No use trying to hide anything from you, is there?" she laughed. "I'll never forget your 'counseling' me on my uniform habits - I didn't know whether to be embarrassed, or flattered, so I picked flattered, and found myself enjoying your discomfort about the whole thing, sorry." Then, she continued, "And speaking of flattery, if that's soap, I thought soap was supposed to get smaller with use! You must be a boy scout - you brought your tent along!" The friction of the hug, the sight of her nipples showing through the wet material, and the intensely sexy banter had me harder, and the towel was tented in front.

"I think soap does get smaller - that could only mean two things," I said.

"And what would they be?"

"One, that's not soap. And two, even if I'm no boy scout, it looks like I'm definitely prepared for something!"

"Well, I'm not the kind of girl who just walks into a man's hotel room while he's naked, then pushes out her boobs at him and makes dirty jokes and jumps into bed right away, in case you're getting ideas."

"I figured as much, but what kind of girl are you?"

"Apparently I am one who walks into a man's hotel room while he's naked, and apparently without meaning to, I'm finding it hard to stand here without my boobs being stuck out in front - they sort of remain there, I find. And I am enjoying the dirty jokes, so that leaves the jumping part. I think I'd have to say I'm the kind of girl who walks in on a naked man, sticks out my boobs, enjoys checking out his scouting skills, and then expects at least to be plied with liquor or dinner or something."

"Well, I can take care of that - we can go out, have dinner, go partying until we're exhausted - or, we can opt for the expansive hotel mini-bar and room service - or, I have a bottle of scotch as well - what can I offer you?"

"Scotch will be great to get started - I'll just run get some ice while you wait here."

"Well, I guess you are better dressed than I am to be wandering the hotel halls, although there are a couple of spots that may attract some attention if you encounter others. I'll just change into something less comfortable. Oh yeah, I gotta shave, too."

"Don't you dare! I went to beautician school once upon a time and learned how to shave a man, and I never get to practice. Here's the deal: I'm going to get some ice, mix both of us a drink, and then I'm going to shave you and dry your back for you."

"Damn, you sure know how to keep a guy wet! Maybe I can do the same for you later."

"What, keep me wet or dry me off?"

"We'll have to see, won't we? Maybe both, if you give me the chance. Here, before someone sees how sexy you look and pulls you into his room," I said, tossing her a fresh shirt of mine from the line in the closet. There's something extra sexy about a woman in a man's shirt. "Hurry back before I air-dry, and don't get lost."

"I'll hurry."

With that, she collected the ice bucket and turned toward the door. I went back to the bathroom, hearing the door a moment later.

I was practically breathing hard from inhaling the sex in the air. I went back into the living room for a moment, opened the bottle of scotch and set it on the room's wet bar, then headed back for the shower. If she was going to dry me, I was damned well going to be wet all over.

After a couple of minutes, I heard her voice, "Damn, you have got to be the cleanest man I've ever met! Is that some sort of compensation for your state of mind?"

"Hey, if you're doing the drying, I'm going to make sure it's worth your while. Plus, shaving requires a saturated beard, or so the directions say." I grabbed a fresh towel from the stack as I stepped out of the shower, rewrapping myself. I was enjoying the flirtation so much, I didn't want it to become totally forward until just the right time, which I believed we both knew was going to be soon enough as it was. She was just outside the bathroom door, watching, and I couldn't tell how much of me she'd seen, with the mirror fog gone by then.

OK, let me parenthetically offer that I'm not called 'The Horse' for nothing. In fact, I'm not called 'The Horse' at all, not even the pony. I'm one of those guys who's not quite big enough in his own opinion, and in my case, the ruler confirms the opinion. I measure maybe 5 3/4" fully erect, while I almost triple in size from very softest to hardest, which leads to coming up short, so to speak, in the locker room shower sideways glance comparisons as well as in the bedroom. I know that puts me at statistically average, and I've never heard any female complaints, but over the years and through the women, I've definitely sensed a few who may have stayed a bit longer if I'd been a bit longer myself.

Maybe to compensate, I'm a dedicated cunnilinguist, which I think I'm good at because I love it as well as having been repeatedly told it, and I'm an enthusiastic and long-lasting lover, having conditioned myself to that end over the years. My wife was virtually always multi-orgasmic and enthusiastic as well, and a number of lovers before I met her were as well, so it's not the end of the world or something I think I dwell on... but it's something that I am aware of all the same. So there.

Back to the hotel room - I came out and noticed that she had on the shirt, but the t-shirt neckline had disappeared. Glancing around, I saw the dampened t-shirt draped over the desk chair. There was also a backpack in the corner that wasn't mine. Before I had time to think too much about that, I refocused on the shirt. She had the cuffs of the shirt rolled up above her wrists, the top 3 buttons undone, creating an image I wanted to jump immediately.

romancer
romancer
395 Followers