It was one of those never-ending affairs that I hate to attend but, given my status in the current administration, I was assigned to be one of the administration's representatives. That meant that the guest of honor was not sufficiently important or high enough up the diplomatic ladder to justify one of the more significant names from the administration.
It didn't bother me that I was not higher on the ladder — I believed that the work I did was important and I felt good doing it. That marked me for some of the powers that be as not having enough eagerness and hunger to progress in politics. That was okay with me, too. I preferred to work in the background anyway.
This particular get together was mostly for show so everyone who drew the short straw for their particular organizations came, sucked up the hors d'oeuvres of pate de foie gras or stuffed shrimp on crackers or whatever else was floating around on the platters carried by the cummerbund-attired waiters and washed them down with the flutes of champagne offered by the servers in short black dresses.
I had made it through the receiving line, extending my best wishes to the prime minister of one of the world's poorest nations and shaking the hands of the other dignitaries in the line. I spent the next hour going around to the little groups of people and making small talk, the mainstay of our nation's capital.
There were always people to meet, issues to discuss, options to attack or defend. So there was no dearth of things to talk about. I passed from group to group, listening most of the time, contributing here and there, stating the administration's stance when asked. However after a while, the groups all seemed to be just alike. There were the up-and-comers who thought themselves more important than they really were, both men and women, there were the wallflowers who spoke only when directly spoken to, and there were a lot of people who were just completely bored with the whole process.
At first glance, I thought she was one of the wallflowers and I started to pass by her. On second thought, I decided to speak to her. She was an African-American — her name tag identified her as a member of one of the local government agencies. She was probably my age or maybe a few years older. She had a light tan color to her skin that was very attractive. And even though she was somewhat heavy, I thought she was a beautiful woman. She was obviously proud of her breasts; they were large, unsupported, and mostly on open display. I had to force my eyes up to her face when I spoke to her.
"Hi," I said, offering my hand. "I'm Kevin Douglas."
She giggled. "Yeah, I know," she said, nodding to my name tag. "And I'm Stephie Lawrence."
I laughed, pointing to her tag. "Yeah, I guessed. I haven't seen you around any of these things before tonight."
"No. Actually this is only the second one I've had to attend since I got into town."
"Oh? So you've not been here long?"
"No, just three weeks. How about you?"
"I'm an old hand, by D.C. standards. I've been here seven years."
"Oh, wow! That is a long time. Do you like it here?"
I laughed. "Here? Tonight? No! My job? Yeah, I like that part. I could do with fewer of these things though... except that if I hadn't come tonight, I wouldn't have met you."
She put her hand on my arm and ducked her head toward me, smiling. "Oh, honey! Flattery will get you everywhere! I'm glad to meet you too."
"Do you... have someone to go home to?"
"Nope, it's just me. How about you?"
"No, I'm alone too. Have you been here long enough?"
"Yes, I'm getting really bored."
"Me too. Would you like to go somewhere and get some coffee or something?"
"I'd love to."
She tucked her hand under my arm and we headed for the door. There was a line of cabs waiting outside and we climbed into the first one. I gave the cabbie the address of a coffee house out on Wisconsin Avenue and sat back to get to know Stephie. My eyes frequently went to her cleavage and I watched her big beautiful melons jiggle as she talked.
When we pulled up at the coffee house, I paid the cabbie, got out and offered Stephie my hand. She slid out, her slit skirt showing a lot of smooth tan thigh. Then as she stepped up on the curb, she stumbled and fell against me heavily, mashing those beautiful breasts into my chest. We both laughed, once I made sure she was all right.
Inside the dimly lit place, we found an empty booth right at the rear of the place. She slid into the bench with her back to the shop and patted the seat beside her. I slid in next to her, our thighs touching. We talked for several minutes before a harried waitress came to take our order. I found out that Stephie had been married when she was very young but her husband didn't stay very long before he started shacking up with other women so she divorced him and had never married since then. She had had a few boyfriends over the years but none that were really as steady as she would have liked. Her body language told me that she was very sexual and would have liked a more lasting relationship. I guessed that whoever she had that relationship with would not lack for sex — she rubbed her shoulder against my chest several times.
After our coffees arrived, she asked about my background and I told her I was from the southwest, had lived in a number of states in various capacities, usually trying to raise funds for one campaign or another, before being asked to join the current administration's organization. Once our success had been determined, I was offered a job in the White House, although it wasn't a very prestigious job. That didn't matter to me. I took the job.
I noticed that the more I talked, the more Stephie turned her body to face me, putting her breasts in a position I could not ignore them. I turned a little toward her and her smile grew broader. We talked a little about the work she was doing, which she didn't feel really comfortable with yet but liked it so far. I casually put my right hand on her left knee and she didn't react at all. We kept talking and I began softly running my fingers up and down that thigh and still got no direct response.
My fingers found the slit in her skirt and slipped under it. She was wearing stockings so it wasn't touching her bare skin. She just kept talking — until my fingers found the tops of her thigh-highs and finally touched bare skin. Instantly her eyes closed but her knee pushed hard against my leg, seeming to spread herself apart.
I slid my left arm around her shoulders and let my right hand continue the tour. I soon touched her panties, to find her soaking wet.
She leaned close to my ear and whispered, "Do you live close?"
"About three miles."
I picked up the bill, put some greenbacks on it and dropped it on the waitress's tray as we headed to the door. The cab ride took forever, if seven minutes can be an eternity.
Inside my closed front door, Stephie turned to me, started unbuttoning my shirt while I shed my jacket, and said, "Honey, I'll do anything you want to as long as you take it slow and easy and make it last. Okay?"
"Of course. Let's start this way," I replied, my fingers going to the buttons of her dress.
I backed her slowly to my bedroom, pulled her dress over her head and placed it neatly on a chair. Then she helped me out of my pants, shoes and socks. With both of us standing in our underwear, I pulled her to me and we kissed — long, deep, and wet. Our tongues quickly became acquainted intimately.
We didn't stay in the embrace as long as I would have liked though. Stephie pulled back, lifting her tits and said, "Come on, honey. Lick these. My nipples are really sensitive."
I bent to lick her held offerings, and sure enough, her breathing quickly became ragged and shallow as she heated up. Still sucking one of her inch-long nipples, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down. She kicked them away and stepped back onto the bed, climbing into the middle. She propped up on three pillows and spread her legs.
I climbed in after her and lowered my face into the patch of thin curly black hair around her cunt. She was already dripping wet and I loved the taste of her juices, lapping up every minuscule drop I could find. The nice thing was that she kept producing it about as fast as I could lick it up. At one point, I stopped to extract a curly black hair from my teeth.
"Honey, I'll shave it for you for next time... if you think there will be a next time," she said with a touch of a question to the last.
"Oh, I think there will definitely be a next time," I replied. "And in the not too distant future."
She giggled. "Good. I think so too. I promise to make it better for you."
I went back to her puffy pussy lips, gradually pulling them apart to let my tongue delve a little deeper into her crease. Her folds were already frothy with the juices that had been stirred up by the bit of walking we did and my fingering of her twat. After dipping my tongue into her opening, I knew why a man could call his partner 'honey' — she tasted better than any bee-derived nectar I had ever sampled.
.... There is more of this story ...