Thursday, November 25, 2010
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“But dressed to impress all the same…”
Yeah, right. Most families spend Thanksgiving slouched around the dining table passing wind. Mine spend it sprawled around a photo album, passing comment, and while I can’t say I’ve ever contributed much to the conversation… I’ve certainly never brought one of my own albums along for inspection… it’s hard not to get sucked into the occasion. Especially when cousin Margie is around, with half your own teenaged years in glowing Kodachrome.
Gary, her husband, tore his eyes away from the television. “Hey, I remember that outfit,” he laughed. And, a little later, as we made our way into the dining room to eat, he sidled up to me again. “I remember what happened to it, as well.”
I smiled. Well, he had a better memory than I did. “Really? It probably ended up in a charity store somewhere.”
“Yeah. And Monica Lewinsky bought it.”
It took me a moment, but… oh. My. God. Suddenly I remembered what had happened to it, too, and the only saving grace, as my face turned cranberry color, was that he and Margie barely knew one another at the time. Whereas he and I had been study hall buddies back in High School, and still occasionally came across one another in town. Literally, as it turned out.
Barely legal, but dressed to impress. I was working my way through my freshman year at college, shut up in a downtown insurance brokers, mindlessly typing my way through the reams of documentation that the most innocent fender-bender spontaneously created, and wishing every day away, not because I had anything to do at night, but because I hated that job with a passion. So when Gary turned up in the office one day, a motorcycle messenger who viewed his job with only marginally more urgency than I viewed mine, it wasn’t exactly a wrench to put my thoughts of premiums and deductibles to one side, and catch up on what we’d been doing since graduation.
Which took all of thirty seconds, so we moved on to more engrossing topics and, by the time my boss came out to see how I was getting on with the Harrison claim, we’d already set up a lunch date for the next day, and a gig for the weekend as well.
It was the gig where it happened. Shit, I don’t even remember the band we were seeing, one of those early Noughties alt rock whiners that would have one singalong hit and then disappear. I do know that we were dancing all evening, though, and I also know – ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning of the night.
We met outside the club. It’s not there anymore, the building was razed about five years ago, to make way for another one, all ugly and new. Lunch had gone well, but it was tentative and nervous; maybe it was the crowd and the noise in the bar, but our conversation was hesitant, punctuated with so many “sorry, I didn’t hear you”s that it was almost a relief to go back to work. There wouldn’t be any better opportunities for conversation tonight, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter so much. Different surroundings, different expectations.
And a very different Gary. At school, he stuck to T-shirts and jeans, at work he was encased in his motorcycle leathers. Tonight, he could have stepped out of an MTV video, looking so good that I felt positively dowdy alongside him. But he was the same Gary underneath it all, and as we took up our positions at the front of the dance floor, and the crowd began to push in around us, I realized that I was going to get to know a lot more about Gary’s “underneath” than I’d expected. Stretch-jeans never left much to the imagination when you looked at them. They leave even less when their owner is wedged against your ass.
The band came onstage, the crowd started moving, and Gary, to put it bluntly, started growing. At first I thought it was my imagination; that I was focusing so much on the bulge that was pressing against me that even the slightest motion set my mind in motion. But no, it was definitely bigger, firmer, warmer. And the crowd was so tight around us that he couldn’t have moved away from me if he’d wanted to.
I wondered what was going through his mind? It’s easy to think that once the blood starts its pumping, a guy loses all sense of decorum and shame, and just lets his lust take control. But on a second date with a girl who he’d never even kissed before? Hmmm… well, maybe there was something I could do about that. With a hand on his shoulder to help keep my balance, I stood up on tiptoes, turned my head slightly, and brushed his cheek with my lips.
I was aiming for his mouth, but feigning towards his ear; that way, if he said anything, I could always claim I was trying to whisper something. But, if I shocked him, he didn’t show it; with one hand on my waist (and the other still clutching his beer), he pulled me close again and this time our mouths did meet, as tongues entwined and he was holding me so tight that the next time his bulge moved, there was no doubting what he was thinking. Because it did move, straining against the fabric of his pants. Hell, that couldn’t feel comfortable, could it?
One song ended, and we broke our kiss to applaud. Then I lowered my hands to my side and I touched it. I jumped, he… I don’t know what he did, but the back of my hand was on his cock, and I wondered how big the damned thing was, because it was pressing against my hip as well.
He leaned in and kissed me again, and I almost shifted my position to put my arm around him. Almost. But I didn’t want to move my hand. Well, not that far, anyway. Instead, I bent my wrist just enough that now it was my palm that was against his dick and, if I inched my fingers just enough, I could slip them over his waistband as well. Over and behind. Now all he had to do was take just a tiny step backwards and I’d be there.
Except he didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. The crowd was jammed around us, after all. My fingers strained against the so-tight fabric, and I felt one fingernail make contact. I wriggled it a little, felt him stirring in response. But I could go no further. There was just one thing for it. I extracted my hand and unbuttoned his pants, squeezed his cock and then raised my fingers to my mouth. His eyes never left my face the whole time.
“Do you want to step outside?” he whispered.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We went out through the back door that was left open for smokers, and looked around. The alley led a few hundred yards in both directions… one way led to the street, the other to the parking lot of an apartment block. I took his hand and dragged him that way, paused as we reached a long row of skips, and then pushed him against the wall. I didn’t know how busy this stretch of emptiness might be at night, and I didn’t really want to find out. But I had a burning need that stretched from my pussy to my tonsils, and one of them was going to get drenched.
I knelt and tugged; his pants were still open and his hard cock slipped out without a thought. I swallowed it, and kept on swallowing, his helmet lodged in the back of my throat and every gulp I gave sent fresh shockwaves through his body… I know, because I could feel him twitch, hear him gasp.
I started to move, bobbing my head back and forth down his shaft; pausing occasionally to lick, nip and breathe. And then back to the main course, sucking him down, sucking him off, and sucking so much come out of his gorgeous cock that I never imagined there could be anything left by the time I let him fall from my lips.
But there was, one last blast, and you can guess where it went. Splash down the front of my favorite outfit… the one that I’d remember at a Thanksgiving Party years later. And the one that Gary remembered as well.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 8:02 PM