Chapter 120

“For women, the best aphrodisiacs are words. The G-spot is in the ears. He who looks for it below there is wasting his time.”
—Isabel Allende, Of Love and Shadows

MOM WAS CONCERNED. Not about me spending the night with Donna but it was a school night. I assured her I had all my homework done—and so did Donna—and I’d be home right after my morning run to get to school. The way Donna was looking at me, I wasn’t sure I’d get a morning run in.

We were still holding each other, naked from the waist up. We continued to kiss and pet on the porch swing for a long time after I finished talking to Mom. We didn’t rush to bed. Now that we knew we had all night, we slowed down and took our time exploring each other. Kissing. This was the Donna Levy I’d fantasized since 1952 and my fantasy was living and breathing in my arms, kissing my lips, exchanging nipple caresses. Intoxicating.

“We’re all hot and sweaty,” she whispered. “Let’s get a shower and cool off.” I kicked off my shoes on the porch and grabbed our T-shirts as I followed Donna’s bare breasts to her bedroom and the master bath. She started the water and then turned to push my shorts down. She had no trouble getting my waistband over my cock but got me naked with quiet confidence. I unzipped her shorts and pulled them down, exposing the soft blonde down that covered her mound. I kissed over it and heard her sigh as she pulled me upright. “Not that I’m opposed to that but it will be better when clean and fresh.” She pulled me into the big shower in the master bath.

There was no way my cock wasn’t going to take every opportunity to announce its presence, slapping into her and pressing between us. Donna neither attacked it nor avoided it. The cool shower brought our body temperatures down as we rinsed but did nothing to cool our ardor. We continued to pause for long deep kisses with our bodies pressed tightly together and water sluicing over us.

“Mmm. We should make love beneath a waterfall one day,” I whispered.

“Yes,” she hissed. “One day when we are much better acquainted with each other’s body.” She turned off the water and led me out of the shower where big fluffy towels awaited us. She wrapped her towel around her chest so it covered her from breast to thigh and walked out to the kitchen. I followed her example and tied mine around my waist. She had the refrigerator door open and was pulling things out. “I know I usually do chicken but I have a couple of steaks for us tonight. Can you light the grill, please?”

I paused long enough to kiss her shoulder and went out to the porch to prepare the grill. Having just had our naked bodies pressed together as we kissed beneath the shower, I was a little impatient to move to the next stage. V1 laughed in my head. I’d waited sixty-eight years. I could wait until after dinner.

Even wearing nothing but our towels—a potent reminder that we were merely at an intermission, not the final curtain—we relaxed at the dinner table and resumed our discussions of life.

“It was an interesting conversation with your music advisors and mothers last night,” she said.

“I’m sure I’ll get an earful from LeBlanc in orchestra tomorrow,” I laughed. “But it was Mrs. Marvel’s idea to keep everyone in the dark after we’d shown her the video.”

“She confessed to that. I’m not sure Monsieur LeBlanc will be too harsh. Maestro Sokolov was most stunned, but he is twenty years older than LeBlanc and somewhat more set in his ways.”

“I hope it doesn’t cost Cindy her place in the orchestra,” I sighed. “That wasn’t what we wanted. But if she’s going to rise to her full potential, she needs to move beyond what just playing in an orchestra can do for her.”

“Both of you do. I hope you don’t mind, but they wanted to know why I was in the conversation and I simply told them I was your producer,” Donna said. “We can change that anytime you want to, but I felt you needed someone more familiar with your goals than either Betty or Mary. I mean, since I was present during the planning and filming, and arranged to get John involved.”

“Donna, I’m wholeheartedly in favor of you as producer. I should talk it over with Cindy, but she’s different from me. She just wants to perform. What I’d compare it to is that she is a product—without intending any slight but just so I can get this comparison out, let’s say she’s a Lamborghini. I don’t even know what their hottest model is but the name says it is a high-performance car. The orchestra is a day job. You drive a Ford Focus to it. The Lamborghini needs to be taken out on the highway and opened up. Preferably in Europe where they aren’t so particular about speed limits,” I laughed.

“Okay. Putting aside the idea that you are comparing a talented young woman to a racecar, I can see the comparative merits. But I don’t see the relationship to what you called a product.”

“Well, it gets a little tricky there. The car isn’t meant to sit on the showroom floor. That highway thing, okay? But to get it on the highway requires an entire staff. Someone has to design and build the car. Someone has to develop marketing and advertising—create its image. Someone has to build a showroom and attract the right customers to look at the car. And someone has to buy it. But even then, there are more people. Someone has to provide fuel. Someone needs to do maintenance and make sure it is tuned up. And someone has to take it out of the garage and show it off. Cindy won’t do any of those things on her own. I think she’s creative enough to write some of her own music. But, in general, she won’t choose it. She’ll wait to be told what to play. She’ll step on stage and turn on the talent and charm and win an audience. But she won’t be the one who advertises the performance and sells tickets and pays for an orchestra to back her up and hires a videographer ... and, and, and. She’s the product. The rest of us are all the other people she needs to be successful.”

“I still have difficulty with the concept of comparing her to a car but I get the point of what you are saying. How is that different from you?”

“Well, I’m more like one of those self-driving Teslas. Not a cheap car but one that takes over a lot of the tasks itself. I can design programs for us to perform. I can talk to potential sponsors. I can go out and hang up posters. I can encourage her when she’s down. I’m not just the product, I’m a lot of the support staff, too.”

“Well, now that you are a car, too, I can forgive much of the Lamborghini,” Donna laughed.

“I started that whole diatribe as a way of saying I think Cindy will be happy and relieved to have you as our producer,” I said. We finished our meal and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Donna led me not to the bedroom but to the sitting room, looking out the big windows toward the back of her property. She settled me on the sofa and then sat across my legs, mostly on my lap as we looked out. We were still just wrapped in our towels and they were pulling apart. I put my arm around her and through the gap in her towel to caress her soft skin from her thigh almost to her breast. She kissed me again.

“What do you think about when you’re running. Music?” She asked as we softly petted each other. I stole another kiss and then sighed.

“Sometimes music,” I said. “Especially if I’m racing but not so much when I’m just doing a morning run. Music helps me even out my stride. You know one of the first things Nanette taught me when she found I was still limping when I ran last year was to three-count my steps.”

“Three-count?”

“Yes. You know marching cadence is a four-count. Left right left right. The emphasis is always on the same leg. But if you count out a waltz while you’re running, the downbeat switches from left foot to right foot. One-two-three, one-two-three. It makes it hard to favor one foot. It took a couple of months but I lost my limp when I was running.”

“That’s amazing. What else do you think of?”

“Well, on a long practice run I often listen to my characters talk. I get a lot of story ideas just listening to them yammer on about what is happening in their lives. And sometimes, I just let my mind dwell on my girlfriends and how much I love them.”

“You do love all of them, don’t you?”

“Yes. You know I know what you’re doing, right?” I laughed. She welcomed my kiss and my hand squeezed her left breast, eliciting a moan.

“What am I doing?” she asked innocently.

“You are getting to know me better while still keeping us sexually aroused.” I let my hand drift down her stomach and across her pubic mound as I continued to trace down her legs. When I reversed my direction, her legs parted slightly and the last wrap of the towel tugged loose, exposing her breasts to me. I wasn’t sure if my towel was covering anything any longer or not.

“Both objectives are being met,” she said.

“Do you study psychology and human sexuality as a pastime?” I asked.

“No!”

“Seriously,” I said next to her lips as my fingers ruffled her curly pubic hair. “Besides mowing the driving range and reading, what are your hobbies?”

“Well, there is reading, reading, and reading,” she laughed. Her legs parted more fully and I could feel the heat and moisture gathering there. Her hand had found its way between us and was lightly rubbing the head of my cock with my precome.

“I think you can only count that once.”

“No. I read fiction, poetry, and biography. Those are definitely three different things. And lately, I’ve become interested in men’s erotica.”

“Men’s erotica? What about women’s erotica?”

“I include that with fiction.”

“Men’s erotica is different?”

“Yes. Most women would consider men’s erotica to be pornographic. For example, a woman would spend three-quarters of a book describing our afternoon together and never discuss what your lips are doing to my nipples right now. Then she would let slip that your fingers found the evidence of my arousal and drove me to orgasm. Which would be ... an accurate ... description. Jacob!” Donna pressed her mouth back to mine, entwining our tongues together as she shuddered through a climax. I felt more of her liquid heat drench me. Her hand briefly clenched my cock tightly, driving back my own urge to come.

“Men don’t do that?” I whispered as I caressed her lips with my own.

“I only have your writing to compare,” she panted. “But I think I know the words. They are just embarrassing to say or to admit to.”

“As we kissed, I felt the heat rising from her center,” I said in a mock narrative tone. “A heat I recognized from our kisses and, as I probed more deeply, I discovered was just as wet. Collecting her juices on my finger, I stroked upward to her clit and circled it. The tiny shudders racing through her body were precursors of a greater quake to come as I pressed down beside her little bud and slid into her wet depths. I captured her left nipple with my lips and flicked it with my tongue. Her nipples and areolae, normally so pale as to almost blend with the paleness of her breast, were now flushed red as they engorged to meet my questing tongue. As I dragged my fingers once again out of her depths to circle her clit, I nipped lightly down on her nipple, eliciting...” Donna groaned and shuddered through another orgasm as I demonstrated my words on her body. “ ... a groan of passion that rose from those same fiery depths as she shook in the throes of her climax and flooded my fingers again, telling me the time was imminent. Soon we would consummate our love.”