Chapter 4: Whither

George Foster was determined to make this evening memorable. It wouldn’t be his final night with Sylvia, physically at least. It would be their final after-school evening, and he had run out of excuses. He would have to tell her tomorrow that he had decided to take the job in Canada.

It wouldn’t be their last night in the same apartment, their last night in the same bed. It probably wouldn’t even end their sex together. Sylvia enjoyed that as much as he did, and it wasn’t as if he was running away from her. Still, after tomorrow, they’d both know the clock was ticking. After tomorrow, their years-long relationship would be just a temporary fling.

Besides, it was her last day of school. Teachers enjoyed that as much as the students did. He would cook tonight and take her out tomorrow. He had most of the preparations ready for dinner when she came home, even though it was only lunch time. He served her ham sandwiches and a vegetable tray. She stripped to bra and panties and lay down. He rubbed her feet and her back. She slept for an hour while he finished off the dinner prep. Then she changed into jeans, sweatshirt, and tennies.

They held hands while they walked along the Cambridge side of the Charles. They weren’t the only ones, but as a long- established couple, they didn’t engage in some of the public displays of the younger students. They had a room for that.

Dinner was grilled steak and baked potatoes, and he had bought an apple pie to heat up for dessert. She was replete when she pushed back from the table. “You spoil me,” she said.

“The quality of my cooking is in about the same ratio to yours as the quantity. This is the last day of class.”

“And it wasn’t any bother at all. I could have cooked.”

“You could have cooked,” he told her, “but this was my celebration. I wanted to make it special for you.” All of that was true, if not the whole truth. He wanted her to remember this celebration for the rest of her life.

He washed the dishes while she did some chores, putting away her school stuff for the summer, scanning the want ads for jobs she could get. They watched the news before preparing for bed separately.

Once in bed, he kissed her gently. “Lovely lass,” he said, “I like you more like this than dressed as a schoolmarm.”

“You like me more like this,” she said, “than dressed.”

“True.” His second kiss was more possessive. His hands explored her body as his tongue explored her mouth. She spread her legs, but he avoided her vulva while his mouth remained on hers. When he kissed down her neck, however, he placed the palm of his hand on her mound. His fingers rubbed lightly over her outer lips.

She pressed her arms down on the bed and lifted her mound toward his hand. They continued like that for minutes, he caressing her, she accepting all those feelings. When her breath was coming in gasps, though, she reached towards his cock.

He moved her arm away. “Not tonight. Tonight’s for you. Tomorrow’s for me ... Well, for us.” Evening love was fine; sometimes it was grand. But morning love was even better, somehow. It wasn’t just that Sylvia was better rested, not even that he was.

Anyway, she accepted the situation. She relaxed back down, then she tensed further. He thrust one finger, then two, into her vulva. He stroked directly against her g-spot. When she came around his finger, he sucked hard on her nipple.

He kept stroking until she relaxed suddenly. He removed his fingers and abandoned her breast to lie silent beside her. She lay flat on her back while her breathing slowed. Then she turned on her side and snuggled back against him. He cupped her breast. “Good night, love,” he whispered. And it was a good night. She slept in his arms, her breast in his hand, her butt against his cock.

It wasn’t quite so pleasant a morning. He had to piss, and waking with his cock nestled in the crack in her butt didn’t help get it down far enough to hit the toilet. He finally sat on the seat bending over and holding his cock down with his fingers. Still, he’d take the morning as the price for the night any time.

He shaved carefully and showered. He put on his robe before starting the coffee. He delayed his breakfast until he saw Sylvia head for the bathroom. He fried the bacon, and then his eggs. He got up from eating them when she came out in her robe. “Sit and drink your coffee,” he said pouring her a cup. “I’ll fix your eggs. Sunny side?”

“Sunny side. Just one. You’re spoiling me.”

He put two slices of bread in the toaster. “I was up first. Celebration isn’t spoiling; habit is spoiling. Anyway, you’ve cooked me more meals in the last month than I’ve cooked you in the last two years. Am I spoiled?”

“I take the fifth.” She was grinning, though.

When he’d put her egg, toast, and two slices of bacon before her, he sat down to finish his meal.

He brushed first. They preferred to use the bathroom at different times, save when he could talk her into sharing a shower. She’d grown up as an only child in a tract house with a “half bath.” She’d had nobody in the room while she was bathing from the time her mom bathed her to the time she went off to college. He, of course, had had his own bathroom. Somehow, her experience of the minor avoidances necessary for serial use had fixed a much greater taboo than had his monopoly. Or, just perhaps, she had a greater natural modesty. Or it could be a gender difference.

Somebody should study that, however, a great multivariate question. There were people who grew up with their own bathrooms, people who grew up with one bathroom per family -- making for some sharing in emergencies, and people who grew up where you could observe the nudity taboo -- but only with the expenditure of effort. For that matter, his first experience of dorms had been at thirteen, Sylvia’s at eighteen. Still, she’d been in gym classes, hadn’t she? He’d need a decent way of measuring the strength of the nudity taboo. For that matter, there was more than one nudity taboo, same sex -- opposite sex, kindred -- marriage partners -- strangers. Was it different being seen by an older relative than by a younger relative?

He stopped himself. Way too many variables. They could be cut down to a manageable number. There were suburbs where some houses had only one bathroom, and some had downstairs toilets as well. Do the survey among students at one high school in such a suburb. That would cut out any differences in the way that Gym classes influenced the taboos learned at home. Separate out the boys from the girls; that would be basic. Weren’t many marriage partners/live-in lovers yet. Somebody should really do it.

But ‘not I said the little red hen.’ Anthro left that particular society to sociology.

He was in bed when she came out. She took a bra and a pair of panties out of her dresser and headed back towards the bathroom. He knew she was just teasing, but she deserved a response. This wouldn’t be that pleasant a day, all in all. “Why don’t you come back to bed,” he asked, “instead?”

“But I think I’ve had enough sleep.”

“But have you had enough exercise?”

“I can get my exercise outside,” she said.

“We’d scare the horses.” She laughed and returned the underwear to the drawer.

He rose to take her robe. She had on only glasses when they kissed. Sometime he’d point out that she put on her wristwatch as soon as she got out of the shower when she didn’t plan to return to bed. Maybe he wouldn’t; they were running out of ‘sometime.’

But worrying about other times in this situation was absurd. He was hopelessly an academic, but even academics need to live in the present sometimes. This was definitely one such time. Sylvia’s tongue greeted his. Her breasts were soft in his hands -- soft with little hard centers. One of these grew and hardened further against his palm. Her butt was lovely against the other palm, smooth and round and firm. Her belly was firm against his cock.

They separated to opposite sides of the bed. He stripped off the sheet while she set her glasses down on the nightstand. Once in bed, he kissed all over her face before returning to her mouth. She caressed his back while he caressed her front.

She wiggled when he kissed the tendon connecting her neck to her shoulder. When he stroked between her thighs, she spread them. He timed himself so that his first stroke through her vulva to her clit reached there just when he sucked on a nipple. Sylvia -- so responsive, so expressive -- gasped.

He was careful to alternate breasts every once in a while. He was careful to stroke all over her vulva, not concentrating on her clit too soon. He was an attentive lover, and he had his reward. Sylvia tensed beside him, rose against his hand, and came.