It wasn't just her warm, moist breath. She was nibbling on my ear in a full court press. Holy Smokes!
I'd known Kitty about 5 years, she was with Rick and I with Becky – It was a socially polite relationship. Kitty had always been a looker, but one bound up in slightly too much clothing. She didn't mind wearing a clingy skirt or blouse, but if she did, she would inevitably wear a jacket, scarf, or frilly something to obscure her form. She let it be known that she had the right curves; she just didn't let you appreciate them fully. Irritating, actually.
For that matter, she wore too much makeup. It's not like she was trying to portray the image of a very attractive but modest housewife; she fully succeeded in doing that, in style, all the time. Even at a pool party, she would wear a one piece, but cover herself with a wrap up until the exact moment she entered the pool. Or got out. But, always, there was something about the shape of her face, the depth of her blue eyes and her full bodied mid-length blonde hair that begged the notion of a tigress, regardless if she kept herself on a leash.
It is, of course, wrong to think that way about another person's wife, but with a teasing name like Kitty, and those looks, thinking of a hellcat in bed wasn't difficult. Add in good conversation and a quick wit, and she was enjoyable company at any function.
Advancing forward, I'm a widower, and she's fairly recently divorced. And as of 30 minutes ago, she's wearing a sleeveless blouse and assuming all sorts of cute poses in the seat above me as our group awaited a speaker in the auditorium.
Let me define "cute poses." She's smiling at me. She's wearing a skirt that cuts off above her knees, affording me gracious views of her impeccably tanned legs. And a bit of thigh. (Don't stare). Everyone knows that high-heeled shoes are back in vogue. Hers take the minimalist look, with only several wispy thin, black straps that suggest "It's a business function now, but you should see what else I wear with these shoes. " And I'm not "into" feet, but dang those are cute toes. And well manicured toenails, and soft arches, and ... well, naked begins at the tips of her toes and goes exactly how far into that skirt? It's just too impolite, at present, to fathom the depths of those shadows. And does she ever so slightly squeeze her arms inward when she's talking to me, just enough that her breasts swell against the form revealing cotton blouse? And those breasts are holding a beautiful position, casting a slight shadow over her tight abdomen even in a well lit room. "Cute poses."
And it's a Tuesday. Afternoon. I'm tiger bait, helpless in her domain.
Just as I had been thinking about how to set up a plan to have a discussion after the session ended, she had taken the lead. "I'm thirsty. Do you want to come get a drink with me?" I was spellbound. What else could I have done? Fortunately, none of our adjacent associates decided they were thirsty as well.
And so it was that she guided me to a stairwell to have a "quick personal conversation." Ultimately, as she drew closer where I could capture the smell of her, it was a personal proposition delivered in business form. "You're the one that I've wanted, for longer than you know. I know this is awkward, but I need to know if you're interested, now, because there is another opportunity, and I don't want to miss both."
Wow. Flattering. I think.
And in my vast experience in such instances, there are a flurry of possible responses. To wit:
1) I'm really not attracted to aggressive women.
2) Are you proposing a serious relationship that possibly ends in something permanent?
3) Kitty, as your friend, I think it's too soon after your divorce to jump into anything.
4) Why me?
5) Who is the other guy?
6) How long have you planned this?
7) Is modesty your true nature, or the more forward woman I see now?
And, with it being improper to ask all those questions, they're crossed off as follows:
1) I've actually never had a woman come on to me. I like it.
2) Obviously, yes. Or, I think obviously. She's not the type, I think, to be booking her bedtime plan for the evening. Or lunch.
3) It's long enough. Don't be a wuss.
4) Don't go there. It doesn't matter.
5) Don't go there. It doesn't matter.
6) At least as recently as she got dressed this morning, but possibly earlier. Likely earlier.
7) That is, indeed, the question. Proceed.
So, I gathered her in my arms, pulling her close, and began with a romantic kiss. I peeked. Her eyes were closed. And now, to see if she's still wrapped up in layers...
Yes, her body didn't just remain in an embrace, it adjusted for fuller body contact. There was a slight but noticeable periodic pressure against my groin. Nicely done. And her tongue became alive. I could, and probably should, fuck her right there. Which was at the forefront of my thoughts as she stretched her head upwards, and, as noted earlier, was making good work of my ear lobes.
But I'm not that kind of guy. I don't want to jump fully into a relationship, or a business proposition such as this, without the details of the contract. And, honestly, despite the thrill, I'm not so thrilled at the prospect of being found in the stairwell in a civic auditorium by the Police, ushers, or anyone else, which would be likely as I wouldn't want this particular experience to be a quiet one. Yet, my hands found themselves grasping a very firm butt as I pulled her even closer. Yet, as I was grasping her very taut hips which begun a circling motion, I wasn't in a hurry to end whatever this was. Tigress.
How could I possibly be a victim of too many thoughts with a raging hard on? Yet, not now and not here. I broke away.
I looked at her. She looked ready to eat me.
I had to take a few breaths to let thoughts form more fully into words.
"Kitty, I want you to come to my place at 7:00 tonight. I'll prepare dinner, but I want you bring with you three to five questions, at least one of which has to be about sex, written down, that you would want to know about me."
"You'll do the same?" she asked.
"Yes, of course." That was really my point, though she wouldn't know that.
"That should be interesting. And fun. Looking back, I definitely want to get things right next time."
Indeed. Maybe she understood my agenda after all.
I don't think either of us heard anything the speaker said that afternoon. Real Estate law updates are not exactly compelling, and, in fact, they turn to vapor given Kitty's toes periodically grazing my neck and ear. I couldn't look back, but I couldn't help but wonder if anyone noticed what she was doing to me. I tried to fashion how I might phrase questions for that evening, but the thought of twisting around to suck her toes there and then interfered.
Afterwards, departing pleasantries were exchanged by everyone except us. Her eyes, though. Her eyes ... I'm glad she didn't press to follow me home. I needed the time.
To vacuum, for one. And clean the bathroom. And change the sheets, and ... think. And think mostly of what I wanted sexually from a new partner, if not a new wife.
After my wife's passing two years earlier, I dated very little. I loved her deeply, but our sexual relationship was fiery at its beginning and settled into a very dreary world of vanilla, "that felt good," almost obligatory sex. Fantasies can sustain, but as rewarding as they may be, they're also a reminder of distant reality is. And some fantasies I certainly wanted to be a part of my reality, regardless of how tempting the dish. And Kitty was definitely dishy.
That afternoon notwithstanding, "Ms. Modesty" was my prevailing understanding of Kitty. She clearly had passion, but I had no idea whether she would revert to that in time, or whether she had a gravitation to kinks, for lack of a better word. It was a nervous endeavor to craft questions that met my needs, and speculating on her reaction was tortuous, never mind her doing those things that I so wanted her to do. So, as I prepped for dinner, I confined my thoughts on how she might dress for the evening. Patience.
She arrived on time. I had alerted the Concierge to notify me and send her up when she arrived, and I greeted her at the elevator lobby on my floor.
She stepped forward, raising an arm to lean against the open elevator door, stretching her opposite leg at an enticing angle.
"You like?" she asked.
I had expected thin, clingy party dress or dressy sophisticate would be her wardrobe. I had countered with black dress slacks and a short sleeve button up casual shirt with a casual jacket. Boring on my part, well-conceived on hers.
She arrived in a college T-shirt from my alma mater. She knew the team I loved, and she had apparently gone shopping for it. It wasn't particularly tight, but it's cut was short. Her particular position raised her shirt, where I could see a taut abdomen and a cute belly button, pierced with a small gold ball. That was fairly shocking, actually.
Almost neglected, but not quite, were the blue jean shorts, rather, the short blue jean shorts and her long, well defined legs. No high heels this time, but rather sandals, the sort you have around for comfort wear. A toe ring added balance to her navel piercing. The overnight bag behind her was an encouraging accessory. I now understood the uncertainty in the Concierge's voice when she had called to let me know Kitty was on her way up. Most residents and their guests dressed to impress. Obviously, that depends on the audience.
The elevator interrupted my thoughts with a loud "buzz."
.... There is more of this story ...