Womanly Woman

I could see the sky, but it was pale blue, not deep. There are no shadows in L. A. in the summer. The light smog in the air is nowhere near as serious as it used to be, but it diffuses the sunlight like a big reflector and shines it into places generally shadowed. I miss shadows. I sometimes think the minds of Southern Californians also have no shadows, no stark blacks and whites. Everything is relative, and nothing is entirely clear. Maybe that's a more realistic approach. I don't know.

I-110 petered out in Pasadena, and I drove down Colorado Avenue to my hotel. There are parts of Pasadena that aren't great, but the average house price there is over $400,000, so even the dumps are too expensive for the sort of people who usually live in dumps. There are lots of shady trees, palms, fountains, good restaurants. A valet took my car. I checked into the hotel, found my room, put my clothes in the drawers, hung up some things, and put away my suitcase. I like a neat hotel room. When I walk in after a long day, I don't want to be reminded that I'm living out of a suitcase.

As I had driven to Pasadena-an hour and a half to go about thirty miles-I had thought about Cassandra. She filled my mind. Not only was she utterly beautiful to me, utterly sexy and touchable, but she radiated warmth, compassion, friendliness, intelligence-things I treasure in a woman. She was like a dream. I thought of how I had touched her. For me it had been not sexual but sensual, a banquet of tactile sensation. The touching was so sweet, so delightful. I wasn't thinking, "I wonder if I can score with this woman? How far can I get?" I was simply enjoying the feelings.

I wondered if I had gone too far, encroached on her privacy. Was she offended? After all, I don't just go around rubbing the arms and legs of women on airplanes. This was something new for me. What if she felt molested or something?

I sat at the leather-topped desk in a comfortable desk chair. At my side was a telephone. In my hand was the paper towel on which I'd scribbled both her Los Angeles address and number and her Pennsylvania address and number. Maybe she wouldn't want to hear from me, but at least there was a chance. We had passed like ships in the night, but I'd caught the name of the other ship and had access to my ship's telegraph office. There was hope. SOS-SOS-SOS.

Still, I'm rather shy, and initiating phone calls isn't easy for me. I sat at the desk for a long time, planning my call, wondering if she'd arrived yet, what I should say, what my tone of voice should be. Finally I brought my courage to the sticking point and dialed.

Joe answered. I could tell it was Joe. The voice. Were they already letting him answer the phone there? "Hi, Joe," I said. "May I talk with Cassandra?"

"Okay," Joe said. No questions.

"Hello?" Cassandra said. I recognized her sweet, full voice.

"Hi there," I said. "This is Steve, from the plane."

There was a moment of silence. Was it discomfort or shock or anger? Was it a pause to regain lost self-composure? "Well," Cassandra gasped, "prayers ARE answered, after all. How did you get my number?"

I confessed my theft of personal data. "I hope you aren't mad," I said. "I've never done this before, and I don't want to invade your privacy, but it was such a pleasure meeting you that I didn't want you to disappear out of my life."

"I'm glad to hear that," Cassandra said. "I felt the same, but I failed to spot your luggage tag, and when I tried to find you you'd disappeared."

"I don't know what your schedule is," I said, "but if you have any time available when I don't have to be in a meeting, I'd really like to see you."

"I'd like to see you, too," Cassandra said. I sighed with relief. "I can't see you tonight," she continued. "It will take a while to get Joe settled. He hasn't seen his sister in quite a few years, and it will take time to rebuild his memories of her and her family."

"How about tomorrow?" I asked.

"Well, that depends on how he's doing, but my guess is that he won't be ready to spend a whole day alone with his sister yet."

"Can we take him out somewhere together?" I said.

"Sure. Where?"

"There's Disneyland, but that might be pretty crowded."

"Well, people like him sometimes don't do too well on the fast rides, anyway. Sometimes they get sick and lose their lunch. Not pleasant."

"That's true," I said. "When my youngest son was little he loved to play with Legos, and his greatest desire was to visit Legoland. It's down toward San Diego."

"Oh," Cassandra said. "That sounds perfect. Joe can't do the little Lego sets very well, but he loves the big blocks, and he loves those monthly catalogs. Someone from the state home signed him up. He brought some with him in his suitcase."

"Okay, great," I said. "When shall I pick you up?"

"How about one?"

"That's fine. I have your address, so I can find you. See you then."

I didn't sleep very well. Maybe that was because I usually don't sleep well my first night in a strange bed. I think it was more because I couldn't get Cassandra out of my mind.

It turned out that Joe's sister lived in Covina, about an hour from Pasadena, and at one the next day I was there. It was a lovely day, dry and sunny, of course, clearer than usual for the summer, with a pleasant breeze from the west. I knew there would be a nice ocean breeze down at Legoland.

Joe was leaping around like a puppy as I drove up. Cassandra was gorgeous, her beautiful face glowing with joy. She wore a black knitted thing with straps over her shoulders-I don't know what to call it. It had patterns of sequins on it that caught the sun. It exposed her creamy, satiny neck, shoulders, and arms. She wore a full, flowing skirt down below her knees. It swished gracefully as she walked and emphasized her shapely, womanly figure. No heels today, but sensible shoes for walking. Good girl.

Cassandra came down the sidewalk and gave me a quick hug. "A little complication," she said. "Would it be okay if Joe's sister's two kids come, too? They love Legos, and they've never been to Legoland. It would be a good bonding experience for Joe."

"Sure, no trouble," I said, "so long as you come, as well." We went into the house and met Joe's sister and met her kids, Jill and Bill, aged eight and ten. They had all eaten lunch. We packed into the car and set off.

The car was big enough. Cassandra sat beside me. The three "kids" sat in the back-it was hard not to think of Joe as a kid, even though he was at least forty. The kids chattered and argued and fought in the back, commented on everything they saw. Cassandra and I talked in the front when we weren't answering questions about our estimated time of arrival.

"I hesitated to call you," I said. "I was afraid you might be angry."

"I was," Cassandra said. I glanced at her fearfully. She laughed. "I was angry that I didn't get your phone number. I told my sister Linda about meeting you, and she told me I was socially inept."

"Oh! You didn't seem socially inept to me yesterday. It was just a special sort of time for us."

"You can say that again," Cassandra said. "Definitely special, definitely a first, but not, I hope, unique."

Her hand was on her lap. I took it in mine. It was small and soft and graceful, yet rounded. I didn't seize it. I didn't clutch it until the sweat poured from us. I held it lightly, rubbed my fingers over it. I could feel her thigh and her silky skirt beneath my wrist, but I controlled myself. It was daytime, and there were children watching.

The traffic at one wasn't bad, and we reached Legoland by three, when the traffic gets dramatically worse. By this time the early birds were leaving, so we found a parking space near the entrance. I put the five tickets on my credit card. Joe's sister had sent along money for her kid's tickets. I saved it for snacks.

Actually, I like Legoland. It's my kind of place. I hate rollercoasters. The rides at Legoland are all appropriate for six year olds. Just my speed. I also like sculptures and castles and towns made of Legos, millions of them. It was fun. Not so much exciting as fun. I'd love to have enough Legos to make something big enough to live in.

Joe and the kids had a great time. When we walked around, Cassandra and I walked behind them, hand in hand. When we went on rides the three of them took up a whole seat, and Cassandra and I rode in the seat behind. This gave us a little privacy. We held hands. I massaged her silky thigh beneath her silky skirt, and the flow of the skirt made this much more exciting than when she was wearing jeans. The feel of her made me hard.

When we entered a tunnel for a subterranean ride I took her lovely face between my hands and gently kissed her. I fed on her lips, sucking first one than the other into my mouth. I darted my tongue into her mouth, and she moaned. She shared her tongue with me.

I felt fingers tracing the length of me in my jeans, and again she moaned. But then we returned to the light, and we disengaged. After all, there were families in the cars behind us.

It was a delicious game. We walked, waited in line, rode on little rides, kept an eye on the three "kids." When I had the chance I kissed Cassandra. Oh, my, what a wonderful kisser. Just the way I like it: slow, relaxed, exploring, reveling in the sensation and taste of it all. Sometimes I nibbled her ears, gently tracing the inner and outer whorls with my tongue. Sometimes I kissed the sweet hollows of her neck. Then, again, the light.

We stuffed the kids with pizza, hot dogs, ice cream, all the food that makes kids smile with contentment on outings like this. They were all surprisingly good together. The younger ones seemed very comfortable with Joe, as if he were a big playmate, and he was more relaxed than we expected. We rode more rides as the sun set, then enjoyed the fireworks that closed the evening's entertainment at ten. People flooded to the exits. We made sure everyone went to the restroom before we left. I kept an eye on Joe and Bill in the men's room, and Cassandra kept an eye on Jill. We didn't want anyone wandering away in the darkness.

We found our car and eventually got out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. The "kids" chattered happily as I held Cassandra's hand or stroked her skirt-covered thigh in the darkness. Then they chattered sleepily. Then they fell silent, one by one. I looked back. "Looks like they're all asleep," I said.

"I'm nearly there myself," Cassandra said. "I'm on Pennsylvania time. It's after one in the morning my time."

"Why don't you just lean your seat back a little and relax?" She put her seat back about six inches, closed her eyes, and sighed.

I had to keep my eyes on the road-you don't dare drift off on an L. A. freeway. That way lies destruction. But my hand was free. Cassandra disengaged her hand from mine and placed it gently on my forearm. I stroked her thigh through her skirt, but now, with her hand elsewhere, I was free to use my fingers on it. Her legs were relaxed, opened a bit, not pressed tightly together. I was free to caress the thigh closest to me, enjoying the soft give of it.

Then I noticed that really that silky skirt slid over her thighs very sweetly, and it occurred to me that it slid up as well as down. I slowly inched up her long loose skirt until my hand was on her soft bare knee. It was a lovely knee, not bony, but yielding, supple. I gently massaged her knee. Cassandra said "Mmm" quietly.

My hand drifted upward, and I was caressing her naked thigh. I glanced over. It glowed palely in the glare from headlights and the broader light from lampposts along the road. It looked creamy, milky, utterly smooth and luscious and giving. It felt even better than it looked. I slid my hand along the top of her thigh. I slid my fingers deep around the curve of her thigh, and her legs opened wider. She liked this.

Women have a hollow in their inner thighs. For many women it is exquisitely sensitive. That's the way it was for Cassandra. I trailed my fingers up and down this hollow. She moaned again, and I sensed rather than saw her face tensing a little.

Higher up and deeper in-was there treasure to be found? I slid my hand up, and what I found made my already hard cock even harder. My hand sunk into hot, wet, bare woman-flesh, not covered by panties. It was an utter turn-on, utterly unexpected. Cassandra inhaled deeply and loudly, and her legs opened wider. When I had myself under control again after the shock, I glanced over at her. She was looking at me with her big eyes, smirking at my reaction? "Like it?" she said quietly? "I took them off in the restroom before we got in the car. I wanted to give you easier access."

"You are an amazing woman," I said. I began squirming my fingers back and forth in the slick, slippery wetness of her. She loosened her seatbelt enough so she could slide forward in the seat. Then she rested her right foot on the edge of the dashboard and her knee against the window. Discreet? No. But it was night, it was late, the "kids" were asleep, and it was L. A. If anyone was watching, let them. They could look, but they couldn't touch.

She had pubic hair. That made me happy. I know a lot of women shave it off these days, but I like it. I wished I could see it, but I couldn't. I ran my fingers through it. I grabbed handfuls between my fingers and gently tugged. Again I traced my fingers up and down her inner thighs. Her eyes were closed, her expression intent on herself, focused, her lips parted, her breath deep and steady.

I cupped the swelling lips of her cunt in my hand and squeezed. They were a delicious handful. I squeezed rhythmically and tugged them outward and downward, pulling at her clitoris without touching it. I pulled the handful up, over and over, putting pressure on her clit each time. Cassandra exhaled in a puff every now and then.

I slid my fingers between the lips. She was so juicy, so squishy. Yum. I wanted to plunge my face between her legs, but that wasn't really an option at the moment. Half of my mind was concentrating hard on my driving. Keep the speed up; don't weave.

My mind flashed back to New Year's Eve, 1974, just a few miles away from where we were now. I had invited a girl to spend the evening celebrating at Disneyland. There were supposed to be great fireworks at midnight. We'd gotten lost and driven around in Watts for a couple hours, terrified. We finally found a freeway on-ramp about one a.m. and were driving home to Riverside, never having found Disneyland. A cop pulled us over. I knew I wasn't speeding. What's the problem, officer? I had weaved out of my lane slightly.

This was the night the new sobriety tests came into effect. I hadn't had a drink in a month. That didn't matter. I had to walk straight along the white line beside the road. I've never been able to walk a straight line like that. Then the cop told me to close my eyes and stretch out my arms. I did. Now touch my nose with my right forefinger. I did. Now straighten out my arm. I did, vigorously. Right into the nose of another cop who had pulled up behind the first cop and walked up beside me without my realizing it. My eyes opened in surprise and fear. I thought I was going to be beaten or shot. Instead the first officer smelled my breath. Clean. He told me to get on home and drive carefully. Happy New Year! Thanks; you, too. We drove on home. This time my girlfriend kept her head OUT of my lap. That's why I had been weaving a little. I hadn't explained that to the cop. If I had, I might not have had to walk the line.

Anyway, half of my mind was concentrating on the road, but the rest of me was sliding into Cassandra. Her wetness was, what? What was it like? It was wet and slippery, but not greasy. It was fluid, rather than thick, clear, highly lubricating, but quick-drying in the air. Sometimes I analyze too much.

I pinched her inner lips between my thumb and the side of my forefinger and rubbed them together. They were delicate, but substantial and rubbery. I tugged on them, stretching them out beyond her outer lips. I slid two fingers between the lips, around the little curve of her urethra, and around the corner into her vagina, shallowly, just enough to coat them thoroughly.

Then I slipped them up to her clitoris, my index finger to the left of it, my middle finger to the right, my thumb and other fingers separating her. I could feel the body of her clit between my fingers like a tiny cock. My fingers squeezed it gently as they rubbed up and down. With each slow stroke I pulled down on it, stretching it, tugging at the delicate nerves. Cassandra's involuntary moan was almost like a sob.

That seemed to be a good place for her. I continued, slowly, stroke after stroke. "A little tighter and higher," she said. I like it when a woman tells me what to do. I obeyed. "Now a little more pressure a little further down." I could do that. "That's it. Don't stop."

I rubbed her lovingly, smoothly. Cassandra seemed more and more intent on her feelings. She emitted little squeaks, as if she were a mouse squeezed tight. Then her face puckered up and her body jerked several times, almost as if she were having a seizure. Then, as I stroked her, she began to sob quietly, tearlessly, in time with my strokes, with a little cough-like jerk with each sob. Finally she placed hand on mine and said, "Wait. Give me a break."

Cassandra panted for a while, then her breathing slowed and steadied. "That was so good," she said. "Thank you. It's been a long time."

"You deserve it, and a hundred like it," I said.

When she had recovered her balance, I slid my hand up under her sleeveless sweater and slid my hands over her bra with the back of my hand-the front of my hand couldn't reach them, of course, given my position. I could barely feel her erect nipples through the fabric. I could more easily feel her breasts above the bra.

Cassandra placed two hands to her bra and slid it up over her breasts, freeing them. One nipple fell into my hand, between my fingers. Her breasts were full, round, delectable. They weren't new breasts, I sensed. They had been used. She had children. She wasn't fourteen. Her breasts were full, long, and pendulous, but the areolas were small, the size of silver dollars, and thick. They were lovely and loveable breasts. I teased her nipples, tugged at them, enjoying the curves.

Then I returned to the garden between her thighs, and once more I lifted her to the heaven of feeling she had experienced before. Once more she quivered and shook, squeaked and sobbed quietly. The "kids" slept on.

"What about you?" Cassandra said when she'd recovered. "Can I do anything for you?"

"I'm okay," I said. "This is about you, not me."

But Cassandra wasn't satisfied with that. She straightened up, leaned toward me, and kissed my cheek. With her right hand she unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, then slid her cool fingers beneath my underwear. I could feel them sliding, pushing hard because of the tight jeans. Then she had it. Her soft fingers slid around my cock and grasped it gently.

It took two hands to get it out, and of course with my pants on she couldn't get it all out, but it was out, and the cool softness of her hands was heavenly.

Then she leaned her head into my lap. I could feel her warm breath on my cock. Then I felt her tongue slowly circling the head of it, exploring, licking the rim. Then her mouth sank down over it, engulfing it with wetness as her right hand massaged the shaft. I groaned and barely kept the car in a straight line.

I put my hand to the crown of her head and gently raised her head. She mewed like a kitten withdrawn from its mother's nipple. "Sorry," I said. "I have to drive; on the road; right side up. I love what you're doing, but let's wait until tomorrow. Let me do you. Just relax and enjoy it. You don't need to reciprocate."