Woman With A Past
Copyright© 2005 by Tony Stevens
Chapter 14
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 14 - Chad Prince had known, and perhaps loved, Shirley Kiner for half his life. But, for the last half, she'd been away. Everyone knew that, years ago, she'd posed for Penthouse. But there was more: the rumors about her were disturbing. Who was Shirley, today? And how much had she changed?
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Caution School
Two or three generations ago, a lot of couples -- not all, by any means, but a lot -- held off on having sex until they were married. No doubt such now-quaint behavior led to its share of pretty terrible disappointments, temporary or long-term trauma, and galloping globs of unhappiness.
Then again, I imagine that some of those couples -- more than a few of those self-denying pairs -- experienced their first time together as magical: a mutual discovery of their sexuality which, however naive and groping either or both partners may have been, was thrilling; deeply satisfying; unforgettable.
Shirley and I were both a long-way-removed from our first times. As Betsy had so graphically pointed out to me, my own sexual exploits had left me with no basis, whatsoever, for questioning Shirley Kiner's supposed sordid past.
Still, Shirley was, herself, far from innocent. Betsy Elliott's method -- counting up our sexual partners and declaring me the more profligate serial make-out artist -- was meaningful, but perhaps not the last word.
Shirley had used sex in an attempt to advance her career as an actress. And she had dishonored herself by exhibiting her body, frankly and fully to strangers -- knowing that she was arousing their lust. It hadn't been for "art," either, and Shirley Kiner had known it.
Today -- tonight -- neither of us was interested in dwelling, very much, on the supposed "immorality" of any of this conduct -- hers or mine. But even without invoking fundamental religious concepts, we both knew that we hadn't exactly done ourselves proud.
I had decided -- on my own, without consulting Shirley, that just getting laid was no longer a worthwhile goal, at least, not where Shirley Kiner was concerned. I had been thrilled to hear her confess that, from that very first night, back in June at the reunion, she had wanted me.
That had been a revelation. But if it only meant that we were going to enjoy a quick little roll on a mattress somewhere, then to me, it meant very little.
What if I had invited her back to my motel room, that night in Cloverdale? And what if she had agreed? Where would the two of us be now? Tonight?
No. I was glad that it hadn't happened that way! Oh, I wasn't thinking about saving it for marriage. Oh, hell no! I wanted to have her -- all of her -- this very night!
But it was just as Shirley had learned, in talking to me, and listening to me, in those early days: I didn't just want to fuck her! No, I wanted to keep her with me, that night, that weekend, and for always. I wanted to help her move into this enormous old house, and for her to help me open up all those big empty rooms upstairs.
And maybe, someday, they wouldn't be so empty.
So those three months of celibacy; my "investigation" of Shirley's past; those earnest, privacy-invading discussions of her with my friends -- none of that was going to be just "down time," preparatory to getting myself laid.
It was going to become the foundation for something a whole lot more permanent.
Shirley went to get her overnight bag out of the car. I went with her to carry her books. I made a stupid joke, outside the house, about carrying her books, and she smiled tolerantly.
Inside, I asked her if she wanted any more wine and she suggested I bring two glasses with us, upstairs. I went to pour them and she, with her bag, headed upstairs. When I got there, I heard the shower running.
I took off all my clothes and primly arranged myself in the bed, propped up on pillows and chastely covered below the waist with the blanket.
No erection, but I knew it would be there when I needed it.
The shower stopped running. Bless her, she hadn't dallied in there. With amazing, gratifying dispatch, she completed her ablutions and opened the door.
In the bright backlighting from the bathroom, I saw that she was, as I was -- naked.
It looked good on her. No playful nighties, no false claims of modesty. Just Shirley's wondrous, voluptuous, rich, ripe body -- so familiar from my fantasies, from my long-ago furtive peeks at forbidden photographs, from the more-recent appreciations of her well-lighted nakedness, as captured on film.
