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Close Up

Home from work on Wednesday afternoon, Valentine’s Day, Emily was ablaze and I could not be happier.

Nine a.m. to six p.m. Monday through Friday I was a wage slave. For twenty-four years five months twelve days I had served honorably in the United States Navy on arduous sea duty and isolated shore assignments working strange hours, standing duty every few days and always at someone’s beck and call.

In the civilian world after being piped ashore in a low-keyed retirement ceremony, I lucked into a job in which my unimportance to the organization’s operation was a prime factor in my taking it. A surprisingly lucrative paying job considering I did meaningless work, labor worthy of a sharp chimpanzee or a partially programmed automaton. Before and after work, weekends and holidays, no one from the job bothered me at home, called at inopportune hours seeking advice, assignments or assessments of manpower, logistics or financial issues.

I was so uninvolved, so irrelevant, so below the scope, fellow employees I had worked near for ages saw me in around the building, it was clear from their curious glances they identified me as the new guy. It was a gas watching their discomfiture trying to remember my moniker so they could properly welcome me aboard. Of course I responded to such salutations with proper deference and courtesy. Patiently, I listened, for the thousandth time as they briefed me on the company’s politics, who to watch out for. Most of all stay away from Dan the Man Muston, a morose looking gentleman invariably wearing black garments head to toe and never without his black derby. He always spoke in a hush of nothing but funerals, mass murders, disasters, terminal diseases and such. Several employees after conversing with Dan the Man required counseling for post traumatic stress. He was one hell of a computer programmer though.

As long as I kept a steady pace, my head down, mouth closed, never looked anyone directly in the eye, showed up on time and maintained a permanent quizzical look; I had no fears of termination, advancement or being asked to work overtime.

The job paid the bills, allowed me to read what I wished to read, write what I wanted to write and cogitate on any idea popping into my head.

Emily, an eminent poet, author of romantic potboilers under the pen name of Margo Farmington, was my better half. Our happy union the preeminent reason for appreciating my leisure, referred to as liberty by swab jockeys and jarheads. I had lucked out this time. Me as Billy Pilgrim in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse-Five when busty, nine tenths naked Montana Wildhack, Playboy centerfold, showed up in Billy’s transparent cage on Tralfamadore. Emily was my Montana Wildhack, my soul mate, my companion, my seasoned sexual partner. We were two peas in a pod, not a transparent pod on distant Tralfamadore, but a comfortable Cape Cod on two acres of wooded ground with a green canvas hammock strung between two white pine trees and a bubbling brook at its northern boundary.

Today was as good an example as any of why I placed such value on my off time.

Emily was sitting in the middle of the pale yellow sofa, narrow bare feet barely touching on the floor, a sparkling gold chain on her left ankle, shoulder length auburn hair bound in a ponytail with a heavy duty rubber band. A solo strand of hair fell over her forehead. Incredible how such a wayward coil imparted a wholesome, girl next door quality to her face, directed attention to her emerald eyes, eyes as semaphores signaling warmth, intelligence, eyes corroborating her Gaelic ancestry, her passionate nature and yet held something back from anyone’s scrutiny.

Late afternoon sunlight, muted, tired of shining all day, anxious to close up for the night edging between the semi-closed slats of the vertical Venetian blinds wrought a golden orange nimbus about Emily’s ginger hair, lacquered her in a rosy light. What a stunning portrait done by Thomas Kinkade, the noted painter of light.

To say she was sitting on the sofa was true enough but it does not adequately do her justice on this particular afternoon.

Not on fire in the traditional sense of the word, Emily was fired up with sexual hunger. Nearly naked as Botticelli’s Venus, in my opinion the better beauty far and away, she had opted for a Valentine motif. Hot pink bra, cups shaped like Valentine hearts bordered in white lace, pulled down below her full, round breasts, a tiny patch of scorching pink satin the same heart shape covered her shaved pudenda.

Can you think of anything more appealing after pushing papers around all day? Eight hours spent listening to Lester Shumway’s monotone, Bo Cassidy asking where my form 3645 slash N was or banging away at a computer keyboard to the accompaniment of Gwen’s nasal twang in the next cubicle yakking on about her stockings, her nails or something perverse her boyfriend did the night before.

After five years ataşehir escort together, I was no less transfixed then the first time I saw Emily sans clothes. Hell, Emily bowls me over wearing cut-offs and a tank top, a gown adhering to her multiplicity of curves or nothing but a pair of classical black high heels. Large busts showing cleavage, long legs in come fuck me heels, bare feet women standing on their toes, such iconic eroticism vital to my sex life as it is to about 99.99 of male heterosexuals.

Emily was breathtaking. Genetics, breeding if you will, diet, nature, exercise had bestowed her with all the appropriate accoutrements necessary to be judged a beautiful and sexy woman. A pleasantly shaped oval face, firm chin, a slight upturned nose and sensuous mouth. Firm, melon-sized breasts spectacularly displayed in low-cut garments. Her shapely, sleek arse hard enough to pound nails. Pleasing legs, the prettiest feet anywhere. Being a dyed in the wool leg man with a serious fetish for a woman’s feet my opinion has weight from years of dedicated study. I was a card carrying member of the Mary Hart Fan Club from way back.

The askew brassiere, the swatch of cloth over her cleft bolstered her nakedness, naturally made me hard, fidgety and threatened to overload my brain’s pleasure center. So far a leer was the extent of my involvement in this explicit setting. It was difficult not to fling myself on her with all the gentleness and sympathy of a Russian soldier raping his way through Berlin in the final days of World War II.

I restrained myself, enjoyed the tableau she had created for our mutual amusement. I concentrated on her lush contours, flaring white flanks, pink painted toenails and ear lobes she liked to have nibbled. I envisioned stroking the pink globes on her chest, sucking her nipples, inserting my fat pecker into her dripping pussy, touching her wet thighs doing so. I nearly shot my wad imagining my cock in her mouth. Emily going down on me never rested or slowed down. She attacked my cock, swallowed, blew, sucked, bounced it around laving it with secretions and gave my balls the treatment with love bites and surrounding them with her mouth. All the while she maintained eye contact, kept up a running monologue, saying something like “You want to come in my face don’t you baby” or “Come on my tits” or “I want to be your whore.” The words and music of her symphony performed on my rocket always accompanied by killer smiles, a jolly attitude. Everything orchestrated to show not only her willingness giving me head but that she liked nothing better then getting me off with her mouth.

My pants unzipped, my cock poking out, I stroked away. Emily her lips pursed was imitating a catatonic, mindless drone; starring at Doctor Phil on the tube, she looked serious as a judge with a hangover passing a death sentence. Two glasses of red wine on the edge of the coffee table, Doctor Phil’s voice the only sound in the room. Emily’s busy left hand under the tiny pink veil at her juncture was the only noticeable movement.

That is, until I nearly strangled myself removing my necktie striping out of my work togs with the dispatch of one dusted with anthrax.

Five years ago our sex was fantastic and sixty-two months later it has lost none of its gusto, its zing. Which makes it about ten billion times better then sex with my ex-wife. A woman, who lived and died in the missionary sex position, thought we had failed in our lovemaking if we did not have simultaneous orgasms. The bitch.

Two months ago Emily and I were browsing in a Barnes and Nobles after dinner at Jack’s Bistro. No, it was not a fancy name for Jack in the Box. Jack’s a stylish venue highly regarded for its haute cuisine especially the Salmon Wellington Florentine. A room scented with cut flowers, lit by flickering candles looking out on the twinkling lights on Lake Olson at night. Bobby Van Oren tickles romantic tunes from the keys of a grand piano and folk dress to the nines and come for the romantic ambiance as much as they do the food.

In the warehouse sized book store, me in a gray sports jacket and crimson tie, Emily wearing a black cocktail dress and black high heels, I bought a new book by Bill Bryson; Emily found a book called The Theories and Practices of the Courtesan.

Doctor Antonia Webber, a noted sexologist, had written a foreword for the book and Empress Lia, a celebrated courtesan, had scribed an introduction. The book full of romantic anecdotes was penned with humor, sensitivity and a dash of seriousness by a blond haired, svelte looking woman named Daphne Andrews. Replete with hundreds of lovemaking scenarios guaranteed to escalate erotic tension and pay off with exhilarating sex.

Our sex life superb as it was went into warp drive. This book was like squirting charcoal lighter on a bed of scorching hot briquettes. Flash, a towering inferno nearly singing your eyebrows off and melting kadıköy escort your lips.

A week after Emily purchased the book, home after work; I found the house empty. On the dining room table a tiny piece of crisp white paper rolled into a tube, tied with an equally small red ribbon. Written in verse it was a clue directing me to another clue. For several hours I followed clues from location to location. Each succeeding clue was a bit more ribald in its wording. I found Emily naked in a RV parked near the screen of the soon to be raised Belfair Drive-in, a hangout in the fifties for randy teenagers and parents with small babies. In gas guzzling cars with clouded over windows boys with greasy hair and pegged jeans got to third base and girls in poodle skirts put out or at least went down on their dates. In the splendid isolation of this crumbling passion pit we did what those teens did on Friday and Saturday night during the Eisenhower administration. Fooling around on a remarkably big bed considering it was in a recreational vehicle led to frenzied coupling lasting until breakfast.

Another time Emily said, “This weekend let’s go to Boo Mountain State Park, have a picnic.”


The wicker basket sold at Ikea with all the accessories for outdoor dining came down from the shelf in the utility room. Emily packed it with cold chicken, coleslaw, apples, pears, baked beans, apples, Appenzeller Reserve cheese and a bottle of Seyval Blanc 2003. Into the car’s trunk next to the basket, I loaded the periwinkle outdoor blanket with its fleece on one side and water-resistant nylon on the other.

As usual I puttered around the house waiting for Emily. I watched an interesting documentary on cave men, read two chapters of an Alan Furst book, sharpened all the knives in the kitchen and made a pot of coffee using Starbuck’s Espresso Roast.

I was coming out of the kitchen, the thermos of coffee under my arm as she came down the stairs. “Honey, I made a pot a coffee to take…” I didn’t finish. She looked so beautiful, so enchanting in a new sun dress. Designed with a beaded halter top, falling to her ankles, loose, the color of ripe tomatoes and printed with an assorted of tropical flowers in pink, blue, orange and green. Red canvas flats on her feet decorated in a collage of psychedelic flowers as drawn by Peter Max or a painter made squirrelly by bad acid trip. Hair brushed out in gleaming waves bounced up and down on her bare shoulders. Make up muted, deftly applied as she learned to do as a flight attendant for Sun Air. Smiling, showing perfect white teeth, not a flight attendant’s on demand happy face, but the personalized jovial countenance she cast my way. Talk about an entrance.

The dress concealed a beautiful body I was intimately familiar with, under the coiffure a brain with the same stuff found in Stevie Smith, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Going to bed with a beautiful woman is good, but going to bed with a beautiful woman with an intellect to match is great and essential for me.

At the bottom of the stairs we embraced and kissed.”Honey, I have nothing on under this dress.”

No gentleman, I yanked the dress up to her waist. Sure enough she was naked. I grabbed her left hand, wanted to go back upstairs.

“No, tiger, we are going on a picnic.”

Off we went. In less then a half hour we were at the entrance of Boo Mountain State Park, a 3000-acre natural reserve along the crests and inside slopes of Boo Mountain and Hudson River Mountain. From its lower elevation these two mountains joined at their northern termini appear to be a single ridge, but inside the park they form a spectacular basin filled with sugar maple, poplar and white oak trees. Deep inside the park was a slope where limestone outcropping and a dense grouping of white pines offered lovers privacy.

Spreading the blanket on the ground, Emily took off her shoes; we ate lunch, sipped Seyval Blanc, enjoying the wine’s flinty, lingering lightly oaked flavor. I especially enjoyed tasting it on Emily’s lips kissing her.

W. Somerset Maugham wrote in The Razor’s Edge: “There are few things so pleasant as a picnic lunch eaten in perfect comfort.” Boy, did he have that right.

Me on my back, resting on my elbows, Emily sat down on my thighs, spread the dress out wide. I got off my elbows.

“Sweetheart, reach under my dress. Remember, no panties.”

I did and it was glorious.

“Unzip your pants honey.”

“Of course.”

Emily ran her fingers along my shaft, stroked me through her dress. Then by God, she drew the fabric across my cock, wrapped it in the dress’s material and squeezed.

This was so hot. At any moment a hiker might stumble by. Emily was as aroused as I was.

“Fuck me baby, stick your cock in and fuck me.”

My cock slid in, Emily rocked up and down. Intermittently, she leaned forward, we french kissed. I pulled bostancı escort bayan down her halter top and alternated kissing her engorged nipples and pink throat.

She came, leaned down once more and looked into my eyes.

“I love you.”

“Honey, I love you so much,” I said.

Several squirrels watching us, the scent of pine, a light breeze brushing at Emily’s auburn hair, we kissed, possibly the longest buss in human history. Whenever we kiss, I feel it on my lips and in my loins.

This turned out to be scenario number 14 from the book.

One evening I found Emily naked, spread eagled on the dining room table, a three by five card taped to her mons, the words EAT ME written in a flourish across the card. I did.

Another evening Emily entered the bathroom as I bathed. Wearing crotchless red panties, nothing else, she squatted down on my cock, for the next hour or so she licked virtually every inch of my body. After lifting off my shaft she used her left hand to stroke me to orgasm. That was for starters.

She has had me handcuff her to our bed, use a large ceramic black dildo on her, then repeatedly sucked my cock to the sound and furious tones of Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyeries.

The book has 378 scenarios.

I had no idea what number this one was but I liked it. I said nothing. Silence was critical to the heightening of the sexual tension. She continued to stare at the television, play with herself, totally oblivious to my presence.

I was naked; cock cradled in my left hand as I stroked it and watched Emily busily fondling herself. I do not know if it was her nakedness or her self gratification I found more stimulating but the silence and the surprise of seeing here this way when I walked in the door was so erotic.

Doctor Phil, his head shining under the television studio’s light, everyone in the audience hanging on his words of wisdom, was talking about dysfunctional families or a deadbeat dad as I used my free hand to push the coffee table back. Wine jostled from the glasses, several large drops of the wine formed a chain of islets across the table’s walnut surface.

Comfortable with the silence, my hand off my “Denver” as HM2 Pullman, yes Pullman, called his cock since it was a mile high, I dropped to my knees, removed Emily’s hand from under the tiny portion of cloth, kissed her wet fingertips before sliding the thong down her thighs.

Bending forward, spreading her legs into a wide v, I kissed her slit before licking her once, twice, thrice. Her head resting against the back of the sofa purchased from Ikea, my mouth and tongue probed into her. She tasted of lemons and sandalwood and her cleft was wet as I had seen. Now, I saw the bath towel under her.

Stroking my cock, my tongue snaked in and rolled about her moist interior. Emily against my tongue soft and satiny as rose petals. I blew, twisted and turned my tongue, jammed it in far as it would go.

Lifting her legs, squeezing them down on my head, pulling me forward, my mouth, tongue, nose, occasionally my fingers, stayed busy loving her.

Dining in Emily’s Y pleases me. Another sexual act my ex resisted as she did going down on me. The bitch. I may not be as competent at oral sex as Emily but I do try my best to gratify. I do not hold with the belief only a woman on a woman gives the best head. Patience, keeping your eye on the ball, sensitivity, pressure, gingerly walking your tongue, knowing your way around the labia majora and that holy place: the clitoris is critical. What astronaut would journey to the moon without knowing the difference between Mare Tranquilatis and the Aristarchus Plateau? It is no less essential to know a woman’s geography as intimately. Then it is mechanics, skillful munching and ardor.

Her twat’s texture and taste thrilled me; twisting and shaking against my probing tongue excited my stiff wood. My tongue was eager to bring her off no less explosively then my cock did.

I stopped stroking my member, stopped eating her for a moment and inserted several fingers into her and swirled them around.

I re-applied my mouth to her center. My tongue flitted across the folds of flesh at her exterior and rubbed across her clit.

Emily’s legs bore down on the sides of my head. Moans escaped her mouth as I continued to eat her. Doctor Phil’s voice in my ears as I pursued my muff diving adventure.

My face was drenched from her moisture and my cock nearly ready to boil over.

I felt Emily’s body shudder in orgasm against my penetrating tongue. I thought of ant eaters, vacuum cleansers and fly paper.

As Doctor Phil looked portentously at the camera and said his farewell, I carried Emily to our bedroom and damn if it wasn’t the missionary position we assumed.

I love this woman. Praise the Lord, I love this woman.

We lay entwined enjoying our liberty.

I kissed Emily on the nose, then a long, lingering kiss on her lips before giving her a diamond pendent and a box of chocolate covered truffles for Valentine’s Day.

“Honey, next week a guy named Giuseppe Frost is coming out with a book called The Theory and Practice of the Gigolo. I should buy it.”

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