Candor in the Dark

Candor in the Dark

Three months later, family relations had returned to status quo. It was nearly the Fourth of July, and Delancy had recently informed his family of a promotion at work. He had just returned, and he called his characteristic version of “Honey I'm home,” without getting the normal response. Wondering if Stephanie was out shopping, he wandered from room to room, looking for her.

When Delancy walked into the bedroom, Stephanie was waiting for him. There were no rose petals, or other extraneous things that would make cleaning up a chore, but she was dressed in a bathing suit that was revealing and, if possible, sexier than her nakedness. Her chestnut hair flowed over her back like a dark waterfall, glistening in the artificial gloom. The gas fireplace was aglow, but other than that, the only illumination was from the track light trained on the Civil War hologram.

"Hello stranger," she said quietly.

He smiled and kissed her, not absently but without exaggerated passion. He was lukewarm to her current affections, and needed the encouragement. "How's Samson?" he asked.

She made a face, and remembered the reason he had such a low libido. Her revenge was three months old now, but he still suffered twinges. The trust had certainly been damaged, but there was a depth of love to his attentions that went beyond her indiscretion. He had responded by buying her a puppy. He didn't name him “Hosea,” (the biblical prophet who married a whore,) or “David,” (the famously adulterous Bible hero.) He passed up variations on the name of his son, as well; that would have been too specific in serving it “for breakfast.” He had finally settled on “Samson,” notable for his dalliance with Delilah, who betrayed him. Should a book of morals really have such a variety?

"I fed him," she replied, "but I thought of YOU when I did it." The available double meaning filled a brief silence. He could see that she was nettled, and regretted it. Dwelling on bitterness was not the way to have an enjoyable evening. "Do we still have that bottle of Burgundy left over from New Years?" he asked, as an olive branch.

She replied in the affirmative. Anticipating his wishes, she left, soon returning with the open bottle in her hand.

He knew that alcohol impairs performance, but small amounts ease inhibitions... he struck a careful balance. For her part, inebriation was much more a part of a pleasurable evening, and she imbibed freely. He selected one of the longer play-lists on her iPod, and set it playing through the stereo. The inequity of consumption was not cause for comment.

Her excuse was Swedish massage. As she rubbed his shoulders and worked him over, his mind had time to wander. He reflected that, what he got simply by observing her nakedness, she needed physical contact to obtain. She was rubbing him down like a horse, but she derived pleasure from it, almost like he did. He soon reciprocated, and the swim suit was an early casualty of war. The gas fireplace flickered pleasantly.

Their mutual attentions had started languidly, but he soon brought matters to a head. Arousal might be like a buffet, but there was no point waiting for a prayer to get started on an act of congress.

They finished their first encounter before he spoke again. "Your boobs are like my high school sweetheart's... did you know that I have never had a more intense desire, or urgent longing for a grown woman, than my unrequited desires for her teenage affections?"

Her grasp became fierce for a moment. This was “sailing near the wind,” but she chose to respond with a slight bravado. "I always wanted bigger ones,” she admitted; it was apropos, after all.

He could appreciate a good rack, but he knew how to allay her worst concerns. "The smaller ones have less fatty tissue to compress the nerves. As a result, smaller ones deliver more sensation," he responded. “Bigger nipples are still better, though,” he ventured.

She believed him. She decided to build on this foundation. "You know how Magicians misdirect the audience while they do another part of the trick unobtrusively somewhere else? Girls can do this to guys without even trying. I've had some success with it myself. A guy walks up, and you know everything about how he dresses, how he looks, where he came from and where he's going, before his eyes rise above your chin."

He smiled, more inwardly than he manifested, but she was able to discern it. "Oh yeah... and they don't JUST look at our BOOBS, either!" she added, underscoring her point.

He came back better than she anticipated. "Well, sex sells right? Women with bigger boobs have bigger advertisements! If sex can sell utensils and cookware, why can't it sell sex? That's biologically what they were intended for, right?"

She giggled. "Not strictly speaking, but pregnancy might be more challenging without them, I'll admit." She paused and then added, "...but if you linger too long over my sex in public, I'll be creative and motivated about embarrassing you back!" Recent experience had shown it to be well within her capabilities.

He responded by turning his oral attentions on the optical stimuli under discussion. His hands were firm, and her flesh was yielding to his touch. When he mounted her for pleasure, she cooed, and told him that she wanted him to make it last; her initial urgency now demanded a more enduring performance.

A challenge in the bedroom was not like a challenge on the sports pitch, and he wasn't sure he liked it. However, if she didn't inform his efforts with information as to her desires, these same efforts would be badly targeted in application, timing, and intensity.

They compromised in a new way. He was seated at the head of the bed, as she accomplished full intromission. She spoke in a low guttural. "Don't reduce me to involuntary servitude," she said, before he suckled her too long. "I don't want you to be used for a sucker." When he got the right idea, she rewarded him with a wiggle and a message from her Kegels. Her pubic bone found his pubic process, and it was surprising how much mileage you could get out of a very small reciprocation.

She put her hand behind his head and held him close. "I'm going to see how long I can keep you hard inside me," she added.

He turned his attentions to thrusting, and she allowed her mind to wander back to one of the more visceral blow-jobs she had ever given him. It had not really been pleasant, but the experience had been acid etched on the holographic photo-plate of her mind, and it helped overwhelm her senses.

He started to cum, and showed every evidence of losing control. She could have allowed an orderly withdrawal, but this was not the humor of the hour: Her legs coiled around him like a constrictor, and she began to do double duty with her Kegels. His stimulating efforts at her breast were the first to go. She responded by wrapping her arms around his torso, and clinging to him like a limpet mine. His voice rose in... something, she was not quite sure what, but pleasure was the topic of discussion. When he was TOTALLY limp, she released his trapped property. "God!" he whispered.

"You're better than you think," she replied by way of encouragement. "I think that's what I feel like, when you use your thumb on my clitoris while you make two fingers work my G-spot. You know that when you do that, you never let me go!"

"Yeah? Well... I'm not sure how often I'll DO it again, if that's what happens!"

The biological trust of oxytocin flowed in her bloodstream. Mixed with her earlier consumption of alcohol, she forgot normal inhibitions. Pillow talk is famously unguarded, and not even reliably about sex, but sex was the context, and sex was what her blurted confession was about.

"I was a virgin until the 10th grade," she began. "I was an ugly duckling, and ALL the other girls in my class had lost it. Even my neighbor had put out. It's not like I didn't WANT to... adolescence was no less a crucible of desire for me than anyone else. But the Mayor's son was in my class, and I ratted him out for cheating on a test in the 6th grade. Puberty came and went while he reliably destroyed my chances with classmate after classmate.

“It wasn't until 10th grade Chemistry that anyone had mercy on me. My Chemistry teacher was married, but rather than using that as an excuse to ignore me, he took my needs and desires into account and understood me. For example, he told us we'd remember that '...when Blue litmus turns to Red, it's Acidic,' better if we made it an acronym out of it. But when he said it, I caught his eye, and I was sure he noticed me. Our tutoring developed into a tryst at a no-tell motel. I had never been fucked, but I'd investigated myself enough that it didn't hurt when we consummated. You can't believe how many things I remember from that day.”

She paused in her telling, but her audience made no such mistake as opening his mouth. He had recovered enough to supply her with a towel for the anticipated wet-spot, and she continued. "I remember how happy I was to feel him put it all the way in, for the first time. Then the surprise at the pleasure available from a bump and grind. Then my little sphincter squeezed, with inexperienced Kegels, as I discovered a new way to please and gratify myself. I'd given myself orgasms before, but when I had an orgasm generated by another person, I felt a tremendous gratitude. Pretty soon, desire mixed with ambition, and I decided to give him one back. He laughed when I suckled at his breast, but he didn't fail to respond. He knew I was telegraphing my own desires to him, and did it in return. Soon after, I got a diaphragm fitted at the pharmacy, and he taught sex as well as Chemistry. We never got caught. He said I made him the King of the world, and his wife learned from ME. Do you think that was possible?"

Delancy felt like he had been progressing well with the painting of a garage floor, only to look up and see no avenue toward the exit. His eyes met hers. "If I did that now, would you learn from the object of MY new desires?" he queried.

Her answer betrayed surprising trust, but was totally against his expected idea of her conclusion. "If it improved your appetite? No telling WHAT I'd say!"

He decided to venture an experiment. He was tumescent, so he instructed her to mount him reverse-cow-girl. She was amused, and relaxed as he drew her to him. His hand sought her out where her own was sometimes to be found. His left hand exercised her left breast, nipple and all, and his words directed her left and right hands to abdomen and right breast respectively. When she had positioned her left hand just above her hairline, his used pressure on her clitoris to announce the commencement of ceremonies. "You tell my dick how it feels with your Kegels," he instructed, "and I'll tell your clitoris how it feels with my hand."

She couldn't kiss him, and she was powerless to direct his efforts with her hips... her Kegel muscles were her sole means of communication. On balance, he was skilled, diligent and thorough.

"This defines feedback," he explained by way of appreciation. Before long she had a reaction like microphone feedback... and not all of it was fake.

When they finished, she turned to him and whispered, "American innovation triumphs over the Kama Sutra.” Their eyes met, and he answered an unspoken prayer. "I love you," he said.