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Page 8.
Chapter 4. The Story of D
 D was a surfer chick in her mid-20s at the great University in our city. She was from Long Beach, California and studying pre-med in New England. She had never been married and had no hang-ups about men, young or old. She had short blond hair with sun-touched (and frosted) highlights, and a square, bluff face. Her eyes were hazel, her nose a cute little ramp, her chin small and angular. She had a high, intelligent forehead and a way of looking fearlessly into one's soul. Her problem was that she was studying organic chemistry and didn't have much time for socializing, especially with men who had agendas and were demanding. She didn't cook, she didn't clean, and she didn't do much foreplay. She liked to @ and then have someone warm sleep beside her. I didn't blame her a bit. We met one day while I was walking through a park downtown and she was hustling past with an armload of books. She was short and muscular, with a swimmer's body—broad shoulders, muscular legs and arms, and places with firm meat or fat.
"Gonna read all those today?" I joked.
She was equal to the situation. "Want to carry some for me?"
I shrugged. "What's in it for me?" even as I held out my arms and she started piling them on me. They were library books about esoteric chemistry and microbiology subjects.
"You're cute. Help me out and I'll buy you a soda."
"Sounds like a fair deal."
We walked together. This was on a balmy spring day around noon. I carried her books to her dorm room, met her roommate—a dark-haired girl of 22 from up north, who wore glasses and sat amid her own mountains of reading material in a dark little cell they shared in a neo-Gothic campus building. D was true to her word and took me to a diner, where she treated us to sodas and ice cream. We talked about our lives, and she admitted that she missed having someone to hug. So I hugged her, and we drove down to the beach. "I miss surfing," she said. "It's hard to find a place with good waves in New England."
"I don't surf," I said. "I hardly even like to swim, but I hear there are great waves up at Cape Cod."
She grasped my bicep in hard fingers. "You look pretty buff. What do you do for a workout?" "I bicycle, walk a lot. I have a degree in English and am saving up for grad school, but I have a miserable job right now as night watchman. I walk miles on my rounds."
"Sounds relaxing," D said. She was ever one to look on the bright side.
"You must work very hard," I said. She sighed, "yes," and I slipped my arm around her waist. She slipped her hand around mine in a carefree, thoughtless motion. "Poor kid," I said, and hugged her. She stood frozen, with her eyes closed and her chapped lips slightly parted, waiting for me to kiss her. Which I did. It was like eating tangerines. Tangerines that fought back with energy of their own.
She spoke on her cell phone. When she took me back to her room, the other woman was gone. D locked the door and showed me the nook where they had a sturdy wooden bunk bed. "I'm on the bottom," she said. She plopped down. "Like it?" I slid in beside her. "Cozy," I said. We sat looking at each other. "You can kiss me," she said. I said: "What a deal. First a soda and ice cream, then kisses. Can I carry your books again?"
"Mm," she said. She took my face in her hands and pulled me toward her. Her tongue entered my mouth and flicked around as if looking about and seeing where to get comfortable. I guided her so that she stood before me. Her tongue never left my mouth. I took my time loosening her jeans and working them down over her solid thighs. I unbuttoned her dark blue flannel shirt one button at a time, until I could open it to reveal two pendulous white breasts like a pair of melons—laced with tiny blue veins, and with enormous flat pink nipples that puckered as I touched them.
She pulled my head against her breasts and waited as I suckled them alternately, palming them, while she pressed my head into her shirt and held me to her. I glanced up and saw that she tilted her face skyward, eyes closed in ecstasy, while a faint blue light from a clock shone on it like on the moon. She looked beautiful and almost unearthly that way. I pushed her panties down so that she stood up to her ankles in heaped clothing. I kept nuzzling those heavy breasts with my lips, while my hands run up and down the smoothness of her calves and thighs. She was not very tall, and this gave her a nice ability I will mention in a moment. She had nice wide buttocks and firm, ripe thighs that begged to be handled. When I touched the little blond tuft of hair on her Venus mound, she readily took it as a cue to part her legs slightly. I pressed my fingers between her thighs. This was a girl who soaked easily. Her oyster was drenched. I had her part her legs more, and then more, while I worked two fingers up into the jelly that she made for me. All the while, she hugged my head to her breasts. Finally, she began to weaken as I stroked her clitoris. She exhaled loudly from the heat, and slipped her shirt off. She looked blue and cool now in the dim room. I swung her gently around and laid her backwards on the bed. She was not acrobatic in the sense that long-limbed, thin women are, but she breathed loudly in and out. She made small moans, and I confess I moaned to have her. My cock was stiff and hard like a wooden bowling pin, and began to hurt from being dry and unsheathed.
When I say she wasn't very tall, I have to be more precise again. It's not just a woman's height or shortness that can make a difference in how she makes love, or how she plays with herself. It is interesting how a shorter torso on longer legs, or a longer torso on shorter legs, can affect what she does and how she does it.
Because her torso was short, and her arms long, she was able to put her fingers into herself. I learned from each of the women in my life. I think a younger man is intrigued by older women because he senses that they have lost the shyness of young girls, and if they weren't shy girls, they have lost the brashness and indelicacy they may once have had. A younger man senses the mystery of what he doesn't know. He sees the mysterious smile of the older woman, even if she is partly laughing out of amusement at him, and he longs for the adventure she takes him on. She takes him into a dark unknown that can only result in pleasure and orgasms. Each woman has her own world, her own flavor, her own nuances, her own way of inventing her place to be. Some are more interesting than others. I'll say more of this later.
D was fascinating because of her directness. You could watch how she took you to her, and, as with many women, you could readily guess what she did alone to satisfy herself. When I slipped my cock into her tight little hole, we had to go slowly. Wet as she was, her sphincter was like an athlete's muscle. She couldn’t control its strength. It guarded her precious entry like a warrior. Slowly, working together, we appeased this warrior. It seemed to hurt her a little, forcing this wild thing to open, but we got through. "You're so big," she whispered at one point. "You have a cock like a car."
"Compact and convertible," I quipped. "Sorry if I don't put the roof down. It's raining."
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