Message-ID: <41123asstr$1046718603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <http@lara.pathlink.com> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!drn From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <b3vehf0r7c@drn.newsguy.com> X-Spam-Level: Level X-MailScanner: PASSED (v1.2.7 71467 h23BX3vn074963 mailbox4.ucsd.edu) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 3 Mar 2003 03:33:03 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} Rondo a la Turk (MF, MF, MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM) Date: Mon, 3 Mar 2003 14:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2003/41123> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, gill-bates Rondo a la Turk (MF, MF, MF) by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin --------------------------------------------------------- * This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's Club, where it appeared illustrated by Sergio Hugo Castro under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club (http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 50 more of my new stories. * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com or neilanthony@austarnet.com.au * DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here in the first place. --------------------------------------------------------- First Movement: In 1986 I slung a pack on my back and randomly toured the world. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. At the age of nineteen, like many young men, I didn't have a clue. Life stretched interminably in front of me and I couldn't make a plan beyond the next time I was likely to be hungry enough to eat. In an introspective state of mild depression brought on by past events and current lack of purpose, I drifted aimlessly from place to place, imagining romantically I was gaining some sort of life education. But I was just drifting. Filling in the days. Fortunately I could afford this indulgence. I had parents not so long dead and an inheritance that would last a while but not forever. At nineteen, however, three years seems like eternity. In September I wandered into Turkey, instinctively following the sunshine as warm days became less frequent in middle Europe. That's where I stumbled across Esra Bedir. She looked cross, but it was just the way she looked. Her black eyes were set deep in her face and her thick, dark eyebrows dipped towards the sharp bridge of her nose. But I didn't know that the first time I saw her. I remember very well the lightning-strike intensity of the moment. It will never leave me. I was in Kekova, a little way off the main track for tourists but popular enough to have its own guidebook. I was thumbing through it as I sat at an outside table at a sidewalk cafe. A shape loomed beside my chair. I looked up distractedly, expecting to see a waitress. She was a waitress, but she was also Esra Bedir. I swear my heart stopped. All women are female but not all females are women. This was a woman, and so much woman the raw force of her blanked out my brain, tripped like overloaded circuitry. Jesus. I sat transfixed at the small, round table, staring. She looked cross. More than cross. She looked down at me thunderously, I thought. "Yes?" she snapped. "You are English, yes?" No. But my voice had vanished and I didn't want to disagree with her, so I nodded affirmation. "Yes? You want coffee? Turkish coffee? Small, black, yes?" Yes. I nodded affirmation. That sounded good. She stood longer than she needed, sweeping her eyes over me, measuring and calculating, taking me in. Then she turned abruptly and went inside the cafe. I fingered away a line of sweat from above my top lip. God's mercy. Where did she come from? She was fantasy, surely. Not real. I was imagining things on a hot day. I was seeing what was not there. Certainly she was beautiful. In her own kind of way, that is. Not technically, not classically, not perfectly beautiful. That wasn't the right way to describe Esra Bedir. But she had power. She had such immediate and intimidating sensuality it was like a sudden confrontation with evil. That's a retrospective view. That day at the cafe, waiting for my coffee, I knew only that I was out my depth. She returned with two cups, one for me and one for her, and dropped heavily on a chair opposite. She leaned forward with her forearms on the table and fixed me with an insistent stare. "I learn English," she said. "I go to England one day, soon I hope. You speak to me, help me get better." I coughed and found my voice. "Okay," I said. "What do you want to talk about?" Two groups of people arrived and were settling at tables. She looked at them quickly, grimaced, and spat out an obviously uncomplimentary word in Turkish. "I must work," she said. "After two on the clock I am finished. You come back for me." Her black eyes flashed at me. "Yes?" "Uh, sure. I will be here at two." She switched on a fierce smile for a micro-second, then switched it off. She rose from the table and headed back into the cafe. I drank the excellent coffee and her cup as well, watching her bustle about. She was wearing a light and loose cotton dress, and sandals. Her body rolled freely around beneath the dress. She looked impatiently dressed. I knew with great certainty she would rip off that dress in one swift and uncaring sweep. Esra Bedir was a naked woman forced to wear clothes. I finished the coffee and left. In the town square I posted a perfunctory postcard to some relatives to show them I was still alive, and found a money-changer to get some local currency. I was back at the cafe at two and she was waiting for me. Just her, in her dress and sandals. No handbag, no purse, no wrap. Just her, standing with arms crossed under her breasts, waiting. She turned on the sunburst smile. "We walk, we talk, yes?" At nineteen I was a young man of accustomed independence. I could look after myself. I had been doing it since my parents died when I was eighteen. I was not afraid of the world. I could handle most anything, but I was struggling to handle this expressive and intimidating woman. I was not wise about the ways of women. Three girlfriends, and they were all good girls, more or less. Polite girls. Well brought up. A good girl never takes the lead. We walked, talked, and I found out her name was Esra Bedir. But nothing else, because I was grilled. She had everything out of me rapidly. She made me nervous. She made me reveal personal details that surprised me as I heard them spill out of my mouth. I babbled and she took my arm. I was overwhelmed by the close presence of her body. It made me babble all the more. "We will go to your hotel," she announced, breaking into my torrent of conversation, swinging to the right direction and taking me with her. The concierge, a man with a polished bald head and a heavy moustache, looked at us and narrowed his eyes. But he was looking at her, not me, and he frowned. She turned away from him quickly, deliberately, and we climbed the stairs to my room on the first floor. In the room she shut the door behind us, leaned her back against it, and laughed delightedly. "You look like a man," she said, "but you are still, I think, a boy. If I wait for you we will waste too much time." She advanced on me, smiling with her eyes, twirling her dress with her hands like a gypsy dancer. As I had known she would from the instant I first saw her, she seized the hem of the dress and snatched it up her body in one violent motion. She drew it over her head, gathered it in a clutched fist, and hurled it carelessly to the floor behind her. She wore nothing under it. I had known that with feral instinct. She was all free swell and curve. Everything about her was ready and willing. At a museum in Budapest I looked for a long time at a stone idol from antiquity. It was of a naked woman, with breasts and belly offered to all men. Esra Bedir was like that. She threw herself on the bed, grabbing my arm as she went, pulling me down on top of her. "Ha ha ha," she said, triumphantly, not laughing. "He looks at me and his eyes fall out of his face." The afternoon was hot and close, and her skin felt damp. There was a smell on her-of cooking pots, spice, sweat, salt, and coffee. And something else I didn't know about, but that I came to know intimately and will never forget. It was the own smell of Esra Bedir, aroused and impatient to be fucked. Her fingers scrabbled at the waistband of my trousers. Together we scrambled them down to my knees, and that was enough for her. She wrapped her fist urgently around my cock and guided it directly into her. I was half inside her almost before I knew it, and she urged me further with her hands at my hips. I was too excited to be other than a rutting and humping dog of a lover. I fucked at her feverishly, in a mad and reckless sprint, and lost both energy and emission in much too brief a time. I slumped on her body, emotionally and physically exhausted. "Crazy fuck," she said, not unkindly, in my ear. She gurgled with soft laughter. "Okay, English boy. I will teach you to be James Bond." I tried to get off her body but she held me tight. Esra Bedir liked to touch and be touched. She liked to hang on to her possessions and keep them close. She stayed with me. It was never a possibility she would leave and go back to the café, or wherever it was that she lived. We didn't discuss it. It was never even a possibility. Early the next day, while it was still dark, she shook me awake. "We go now," she said. Half-awake, I dressed, slung the pack on my back, and left more than enough cash on a chair to cover the hotel bill. We left by the hotel's back entrance. Esra Bedir knew where to find it. Not long after dawn we caught a bus. It carried only two other people besides the driver. I had no idea where we were going, but Esra Bedir knew. That was okay. I was dazed and bedazzled, still not wholly awake. I had fucked her four times. Four times. Twice they were marathons, unbelievable. I hadn't known fucking could be like that. I sat in the bus beside her and looked out the dusty window at dry farmlands. I scratched my fingers across my unshaven face. My fingers smelled like sex. I was very tired. Esra Bedir took my hand and held it. She allowed me to rest my head against her soft body, and I fell asleep as the bus chugged down the road towards a place I didn't know. I woke when the bus lurched, brakes screeching. It was two- thirds full of passengers. I lifted my head from her breasts. She was still smiling at me in her intense, cross-looking way. She didn't look in the least tired. "We are here," she said. "We are on our way to England." England? I didn't live in England. But I stumbled off the bus with her, slinging the pack on my back. She had nothing but the dress she was wearing, and nothing under that. It was a much larger town than where I had been. It looked to be late morning. Busy people were everywhere, and cars honked in narrow streets. She seemed to know where she was going. She had a firm hold on my hand, and I followed her. We arrived at the sort of hotel I usually avoided, a Holiday Inn. She tugged me inside. It was where she wanted to be. I booked a room and let the reception desk take an impression of my credit card. We took an elevator to the ninth floor. Esra Bedir led the way. She seemed excited. In the room she pressed me down on the bed. She lowered my jeans, fished out my cock, and slipped her mouth over it. My cock grew hard in an instant. She was magic. My stomach muscles contracted and I shot stuff into her mouth for so long I thought it would never stop. I fell asleep on the bed, legs dangling over the edge. I woke after a while and heard water splashing in the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the tub and watched, enchanted, hypnotised, as she slid the soap seductively over her wet body. Jesus. She was amazing, and she was mine. She took me out to eat. Christ, yes. I realised I was ravenous. Since I met her I'd forgotten about eating. Clutching my hand, she led me through more crowded streets and alleys to a sprawling, noisy, rambling establishment half- indoors, half-out, that was packed with patrons. There was eating, drinking, music, dancing. It was more like a festival than a restaurant. I ate like a wolf, bolting down spiced lamb carved from a huge vertical spit, and drank frothy Turkish beer. It was a heady place, teeming with activity. I never felt better in my life. Esra Bedir ate little but she drank plenty of beer. She leaned across the table, watching me. I craned my head forward to look down the front of her dress and she flashed her eyes and smiled at me. A three-piece band wandered among the tables, and they stopped and played for Esra Bedir. She was delighted, and she swayed her shoulders as they slipped into a faster rhythm. One of the musicians, grinning, took her hand and lifted her to her feet, and she was instantly whirling and dancing. Nearby people took up the rhythm, clapping in time with their hands. The music got faster and so did she. She climbed up on the table, swirling her dress around her thighs as she danced on, madly. I saw flashes of her pubic hair, but I was sitting directly beneath, and maybe others did not see it. She seemed bewitched. People stood and crowded the table, clapping and calling out to her. The dress twirled ever higher in her hands. All the watchers could see her. She bared herself in flashes, all the way up to her belly. Then she dropped the hem of the dress and switched her hands to the shoulders and sleeves. The crowd urged her on hoarsely as she dipped the neckline of the dress provocatively. She exposed a breast briefly and slipped the dress back to her shoulder. The spectators cheered, and she repeated the gesture, exposing the other breast. She was laughing, dancing, tossing her hair, stamping out the rhythm with her bare feet on the wooden table. With flashing hands she dropped the dress to her waist, pressed her palms together above her head, fingers pointing upwards, and shook her bare breasts so they quivered as the music built to a crescendo. Suddenly it was over. She stopped and slipped the dress back over her shoulders. The band took the cue, finished the set triumphantly, and moved on while applause crackled and crashed throughout the restaurant. She sat down opposite me, panting through open mouth. Her eyes were wild, unfocused. I had the hardest erection of my life. I was certain every male in the place had one just like it. Immediately a tough-looking man, older, appeared beside her and put his hand heavily on her shoulder. He looked at me with slate-coloured eyes, and he was not friendly. He bent down and talked into her ear. She laughed contemptuously and pushed his hand away. She pointed at me, said something to him, and held her hands out and apart. The language was Turkish but the meaning was clear. That is my man, she told him. He has a cock this big and I love it. Fuck off. It wasn't that big. Not nearly. But I guessed that wasn't the point. The man looked at me with cold and hostile eyes. I could read his expression. Him? This soft and skinny foreign boy? He wasn't buying it. She rose swiftly from the table and took my hand, and we left the restaurant quickly. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if we were being followed. The tough guy looked the type who would want to follow. He looked like he wanted to slash my face and cut my belly open. She was running, pulling me along the street behind her. She wasn't afraid, though. She was happy, excited, exuberant. I knew what she wanted. She was hurrying back to the hotel so we could fuck. She attacked me in the elevator, and we stumbled entangled to our room. The dress came off in a blur and she ripped impatiently at my clothes. She pushed me down on the bed and sat astride me, ingesting my cock effortlessly. She hummed and moaned, eyes squeezed shut, and then began pumping frenziedly. She bounced to a rapid orgasm in just a few seconds, shouting in Turkish. Then she slumped forward, her mouth slack and wet on my chest. Christ Almighty. Esra Bedir was the sexiest woman on earth, and she said she belonged to me. Four times again that night. I didn't know where it was coming from. Every time it felt like it was the last there could ever be. I slept late, and it was well into the morning by the time I was trying to open my eyes so they'd stay open. Esra was up and in the bathroom, splashing around. I was ravenous again. The door to the hotel room opened without warning and two men entered. I sat up straight in the bed. What? Breakfast? Room service? No. One of the men was a policeman, wearing a khaki uniform and a braided cap. The other was wearing a white shirt buttoned to the neck. He looked grim, long-suffering, and weary. The policeman's moustache wavered slightly in a token attempt at a polite and apologetic smile. "Relax," he said to me calmly. "Just stay where you are." The other man went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. I heard raised voices. He shouted at Esra Bedir, and she shouted back at him. He re-emerged, bringing her with him, pulling her like a resisting mule. Her dress was wet on her body. She'd put it in on hastily. The man looked at me closely for the first time. Then he swung back his hand and thumped Esra on the side of the head, felling her. She wailed in protest but did not attempt to get to her feet. "Take her to the car," the policeman said to him. "Wait for me. Do not hit her again." He dragged her out of the room. She struggled to her feet and threw me one last look before he took her away. I watched her helplessly, paralysed by indecision. The policeman took out a cigarette and lit it. "She is not for you," he said. "She is that man's wife, and she has two young children." The moustache wavered again. "She probably did not tell you that. She has done this before. She is lucky she is not dead." He picked up my jeans and took my wallet and passport out of the back pocket. He flicked through both, and took off his cap for a moment to run his hands through his short, bristled hair. He dropped the wallet and passport on the bed beside me. "Go away," he said. "Do it today. Go to Istanbul and get a flight home. If you stay in Turkey you will not be safe." He left me, but stopped at the door. The moustache twitched. "She is something, eh? But she is both heaven and hell -- heaven to have and hell to keep." He snorted at his joke and left, shutting the door. I sat in the bed where I had fucked her four times the past night. Four times. That was all I could think about. * * * Second Movement: In 1994 I married Evie Vincent. She looked, dressed, and talked like a good girl, but she was a bad girl. That's why I married her. Evie Vincent had a hunger for sex. On our first date she sat on my lap in the back seat of my car parked in the driveway of her parents' house, gripped my shoulders, and wriggled herself fully-clothed on to my cock. Well, almost fully-clothed. She wasn't wearing pants. Never did. I hoped we were going to neck. She never had the slightest doubt we were going to fuck. Evie Vincent bowled me over. She had bouncing blonde hair, a sunny disposition, courtesy, charm, intelligence, and excellent table manners. Also long legs and perky tits. She was the second daughter in an admirable family. She was out of the top drawer -- an impressive package, and exactly the sort of young woman to gladden the eye and lift the spirits of a young man's grandmother, which she certainly did. You could do a lot worse, my grandmother told me, which was her way of dispensing highest approval. My grandmother didn't know about Evie Vincent's itch and scratch. It took me a long time to come to terms with it myself. When I married her I thought I was just lucky. We went from first date to marriage in fourteen weeks. We looked a model couple. I was twenty-seven, a successful businessman. She was twenty-one, bright and pretty. We honeymooned at a resort island on the Great Barrier Reef. The weather was superb, the scenery awesome, and the sex fast and furious. By heavens, I counted myself lucky. I'm introspective. Friends say reserved. Others say boring. I've never found it easy to develop a relationship with a woman, and especially I've never found it easy to develop a sexual relationship. I'm just not the sort of man who will push to make it happen. I don't force issues. Dating for me was agony. When Evie came along she saved me from more of it, and I was mightily grateful. By heavens, Evie loved to fuck. It was her answer to everything. If you were happy, you fucked. If you were unhappy, you fucked. Laughing or crying, well or ill, hungry or sated, you fucked. If you happened on a blank time of the day or night, you fucked. I can look back on it now and see the whole truth. Evie was not a finished woman. Somewhere along the way she stopped growing. Despite the glossy presentation, she was jerkily insecure, as terrified as a teenager of her status and her appeal. She didn't believe in herself. Sex was reassurance, a quick fix. As any junkie will tell you, a quick fix leads to more quick fixes, and still more, until the quick fixes blur into an unbroken pattern. The signs were there from the start. She jumped me on our first date, and she jumped me on every other date after that. I wasn't the first guy she'd been with. I never asked about that and she never told me, but by the time she got to me she certainly knew everything there was to know. She spent our honeymoon jumping me in every possible way. I don't think Evie was unfaithful while we were dating. I can't be sure, but we had such a whirlwind courtship it's hard to imagine she had the time. When I returned home from my world wanderings in 1987, I began a love affair with coffee. Turkey had taught me many things, and one of them was a deep appreciation of coffee. I became a connoisseur, then an expert, and then I opened my own place. You could get coffee in infinite varieties and styles at my understated little cafe. I knew them all. I also knew about coffee aroma. Let's face it, and I'm still an expert, coffee smells better than it tastes. Even great- tasting coffee smells greater. I installed in my little coffee house a vent that ran outside the cafe and into the street, and under the vent I brewed the best-smelling coffee I could find in the world. Surprisingly it came, by the way, not from Turkey or Brazil, but from Indonesia. It didn't taste so great, but it smelled like coffee nirvana. It was a busy city street, and I opened every morning at ten minutes to seven. By ten minutes past seven the cafe was full. People could not walk by the vent without turning aside and coming in. Within two years I had two shops. Within three I had fourteen in various cities. Within five I was selling franchises. Later I sold the whole deal, but that's for another part of the story. When I married Evie Vincent I was successful. I was also under great stress. My native reserve prevented me taking in business partners, which would have been sensible. I ran the business alone, and it took its toll on me. Every waking minute away from it had to be chiselled out of granite. That's not a recipe for a happy marriage, and it's certainly not the way to keep and hold a woman with an itch that needed scratching. I suppose she fell from fidelity pretty early on. I'm pretty sure she did. I don't know, because I never asked and she never told me. It was a long time, years, before I knew. I may have suspected earlier, but I didn't know for sure until the first time she ran away. We'd been married four years. The relationship had become increasingly tense because of the amount of time I didn't spend with her. It wasn't sex that was the problem. Not really. The unhappier Evie became the more she tried to fuck me, and her sexual athleticism grew ever more innovative and desperate. She seemed to me to lead a full and interesting life. She had no money concerns, and she was involved in a large number of charities and organisations. She was a social whiz and she had loads of friends, so many I could not keep track of them. She was an official prison visitor. It was a good girl job, a worthy thing to do. One of the people she visited was Steve, doing seven years for armed hold-up. Steve was released on parole, and Evie met him at the prison gates to help him get a fresh start in the world. She did this by fucking his brains out at the nearest motel. I know this because I found out. The night she ran away I rang the police, but they didn't give a shit. They took details but I could tell they didn't give a shit. The next day I rang a private investigator on the recommendation of a business colleague. It took him four days to track her down. I went with him to get her. They were holed up in a hotel room in a part of town Evie shouldn't have known. The investigator got a pass key from the desk and we went straight on in. Steve had trousers on and he was sitting at a table, drinking hard liquor. Evie was naked in bed. Steve was no trouble. He was fairly drunk, anyway. Evie behaved badly. She screeched and screamed, flailing at me with her fists. She didn't want to go. She sat on the bed, naked, and refused to budge. "Hey, Evie, just fuck off," Steve said. "This is bullshit. Get the fuck out of here, you stupid slut." Only a hardened criminal could be that cruel. Rejected, Evie came home. Once there, she was all over me like a rash. She needed to be fucked more than ever. Seven months later she was gone again, and this time it took nearly three weeks to find her. She latched on to a rock band on tour. She met somebody in the band through one of her arts organisations, and she didn't come home. When we found her she was horrible. There was a rehearsal at a concert hall. We asked for her and a guy pointed us towards a room. I opened the door and she was sucking on some guy's dick. He looked at me blankly. She swivelled her eyes, still sucking, and looked at me blankly. The private investigator made a face at me. Drugs, he said. We got her out of there because she was docile. A couple of band people shrugged but nobody said goodbye. Evie came home ratty. Something in her had changed. She slammed the door on me. She didn't want to look at my face. Three days later she disappeared once more. This time I let her go, didn't try to find her. Maybe she'd come back when she was ready. Lots of money started vanishing from our joint account. Far too much money. I let it go for a time, but at two hundred thousand dollars in three months I had to pull the plug on it. I closed the account. Evie came home, but only to beg for money. She looked like shit. Drugs had got her. I gave her the beach house and transferred half a million dollars into her own account. She said thanks. I filed for divorce. You don't fight a lost war. * * * Third Movement: In 2001 I bought an Audi allroad quattro in Frankfurt and drove it from the showroom in a general south-easterly direction. I was touring Europe in style and comfort. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. I was alone, divorced, business interests sold, flush with more cash than I could spend, looking and hoping for a signal about what do next with my life. I was independently wealthy, but that wasn't enough. There had to be more to it than that. I intended to go where the car took me, but I drove more or less directly, without thinking about it, to Kekova in Turkey. It was a bigger and busier place. Tourism now ruled. The streets were crawling with nineteen-year-old backpackers. There was a newish Holiday Inn, and I booked into it. There was no Bedir in the telephone directory. I wasn't looking for her. It was just curiosity. She'd be over forty now. If she'd survived. The cafe was still there, but tarted up a bit. I sat at an outside table and drank Turkish coffee, short, black, where it all began. The coffee was excellent and I had another. A well-dressed woman with hair short, black, almost mannish in style, sat two tables over, drinking coffee, short, black, looking through a guidebook. She had elegant hands with long fingers and red nails. She looked up and saw me looking at her. She gave me a hard look back, and then she picked up sunglasses from the table and put them on. I finished my coffee and left. I strolled the streets for a while and saw no prophetic signals. Kekova 2001 was just another town. It was pretty enough, but there was no magic for me. I decided to move on, go somewhere else. I would leave the next day. I had dinner at the hotel. Two tables over was the woman with the short hair and the elegant hands. As women do when they travel alone, she read a book while she ate. She was a little older than I was, by maybe three or four years. She had an interesting, intelligent face with strong planes. A waiter approached and she asked for coffee, and I did something uncharacteristic. I stood up and walked across to her table. "This is a Holiday Inn," I said to her. "It knows nothing about coffee. If you allow, I will take you on a short walk to a place that serves excellent coffee." She looked up at me with smoky-grey eyes, measuring, calculating, taking me in. A wisp of a smile bent the shape of her mouth. "You wouldn't hurt a fly," she said to me with a Scottish burr. I blinked in surprise. It was an extraordinary thing to say to a stranger. But she gathered her things and rose from the table. She had accepted my invitation. Her name, she said, was Eleanor MacIver, and she lived in Edinburgh. She was in Turkey partly to work, partly on a brief holiday. Kekova was the holiday part. The work part had been completed in Ankara. She was an academic at Edinburgh University, and when she wasn't lecturing in ancient studies she translated ancient texts. I took her to the Esra Bedir place, of course. I didn't mention that I had already seen her there and she didn't mention it, either. I admired her manners. It was a good start for us both. The night air was balmy and the coffee a master stroke. I talked about coffee for a little while but stopped short of being tedious. She rested her long-fingered hands on the table. I looked at them frequently. Too frequently. She broke into my conversation. "Why do you keep looking at my hands?" she asked. Her eyes were sharp and inquisitive. There was more to the question than the question. "They are beautiful hands," I said. She had that odd little bent-mouth smile on her face again. "Mostly I get it wrong, but tonight I think I've got it right," she said. "You mean, Eleanor, that I wouldn't hurt a fly?" "Precisely," she said. We walked back to the Holiday Inn. She told me she'd never been married, that she'd had a number of relationships, and that at this time she was alone. When the entrance to the hotel was in sight, she stopped, took hold of my arm, and turned me to face her directly. "I would like to test this," she said. "You will come to my room with me." It wasn't a request. She had made a particular point of not making it a question. "Of course," I said. The light was not bright but I could see that little smile again. There was a play within a play happening and I was not yet caught up with it. Once more, in Kekova, I was feeling out of my depth. The difference between her room and mine was the clothes hanging in a wardrobe with a door swinging open. That, and the faintly powdery smell of a woman's room. She took my hand and held it. "We do this my way, or not at all," she said. "Of course, Eleanor." "Good. Take off your clothes." I began to comply. "It is said that nice girls don't take the lead," I said, but gently. She watched me with her arms folded. "I never told you I was nice," she said. "Get on the bed." She sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand lightly across my stomach. "You have a good body," she said. "I am thrilled about our prospects." She didn't look thrilled. She looked controlled, contained, even aloof. She wrapped her fine long fingers around my erect cock and leaned her face close to mine. "Do you trust me?" she asked in a whisper. "Of course." That smile. "Maybe you shouldn't." She let me go and stood up, looking around. "I didn't expect this on a quiet holiday," she said, as if to herself. "I'm not prepared." She opened a drawer. "Damn. Pantyhose are so expensive." She returned to me, ripping pantyhose apart with strong hands. She took my left hand, held it against the bedpost, and began to tie my wrist tightly to it. I looked a question into her eyes. This had never happened to me. "Shush now," she said. "You said you trusted me." She tied my other wrist similarly and looked down my body critically. "I would tie your ankles as well," she said, "but I can't spare the pantyhose and this bed is all wrong for it." She looked back at my eyes. "It will have to do. Anyway, I'm sure you'll behave perfectly." Eleanor MacIver took off her dress and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe. She was wearing a mid-thigh-length slip, and it was a long time since I'd seen a woman in a slip. It was silvery-white, looked expensive, and had thin shoulder straps. Nipples poked expressively through the top. No bra. She stood beside the bed and lifted the hem of the slip slowly up her thighs. Black pubic hair, free, bushy, untrimmed. No pants. She held the slip at her belly. "This is me," she said. "It's time for you to be formally introduced." She dropped the slip back to her thigh, climbed on the bed, and sat carefully on my chest before letting her weight settle. Her pubic hair was wiry, and it tickled scratchily at my skin. She eased her body up to my face, lifted the hem of the slip, and let it flutter gently over my head. I was in a silk tent, and at point blank was Eleanor MacIver herself. Above me, unseen, she laughed softly. "Don't you dare shut your eyes," she said. "If you do I'll know." Aroma. It was so much part of my life. Hints of perspiration, faint suggestions of urine, soap, even perhaps the slightest whisper of Turkish coffee, overlaid with the strong, musky smell of eager woman. This was the core fragrance of Eleanor MacIver. My nose would never forget her signature. Tentatively I stretched out my tongue. She sighed deeply at the contact, as if waiting for the signal, and pushed towards my mouth. I had no skill for this. I had done it before, but not a lot. I probed with tongue and lips, knowing I was clumsy and blundering, but the sighs and wriggles kept happening. It was damp and humid in my tent, and I felt strain at the back of my neck as I craned forward to do my best for her. I got some things accidentally right, probably, and maybe she was sufficiently excited by the occasion. She clamped her thighs around my head. I heard little grunting noises from above. Then she relaxed, sighed once more, and eased away from me. The hem of the slip drifted off my face. She looked at me with her crooked smile. "Not so good?" I asked "Oh, not so bad," she said, amused. "First class application. You just need tutoring and a firm, guiding hand." She slipped down my body and bumped across my achingly hard cock. She took hold of it, held it upright, and looked at me sharply. "Penetration is not a right," she said. "It is a privilege and a reward." She lifted her body and slipped my cock into her. I pushed up, greedy for all of her. "Shush," she said. "We do it my way." She began to rock on me, gently, slowly. "You could take off the slip," I suggested. "I could, but I won't," she said. "Not yet. First I need you to trust me." Rocking gently, slowly. "This is the way I am," she said. "I have to dictate the terms. It's the only way it works for me. I need a man who understands that, and they are very few and far between. I think you could be such a man, but I could be wrong. I've been wrong many more times than I've been right." Rocking gently, slowly. "It's not all there is," she said. "I can give a great deal to the right sort of man. I can bring him pleasure to black out his brain. I can also bring him exquisite pain that is deliciously better than the pleasure of simple relief and release. I can do all this and more -- for the right sort of man." Rocking gently, slowly. "I am always looking for that man, and I have never quite found him. I have an instinct you have been looking for that sort of woman, and just didn't know it." Rocking gently, slowly. "Sex is all in the brain," she said. "Cocks and cunts merely follow orders." I hunched, bucked my hips, gritted my teeth, and lost myself inside her. "Don't give me an answer yet," she said. "Right now your brain is prejudiced." "Right now," I said, panting heavily, "I'd give you three of my toes if you asked for them." She laughed. "You are a lovely man, and I hope to goodness we can make it." Curled up in the bed, seeking sleep with each other, she took off the slip. She was quite a small woman, slightly built, but she was svelte, smooth, and wonderful. "Sometimes I allow missionary sex," she said, her mouth against my chest. "But I promise you will have to earn it, young buddy." Young buddy. I chuckled silently. For some ridiculous reason, it sounded like the silliest but nicest thing anybody had ever said to me. I didn't sleep a lot, and as the day broke I held her close and waited for her to wake. She stirred, and then cuddled up to me. "I have an answer for you," I said. She cancelled her flight home and we drove through Europe in the immaculate Audi. We drove slowly, meandering, staying here and there as the fancy took us. She began the demanding task of teaching me to be her lover. I will live with Eleanor MacIver when we get to Edinburgh, but for how long I cannot say. I don't know if I am the man she is looking for. I don't know whether this is a life I can lead. She is part of the answer, but what is the question? I have spent my adult life looking, but for what? A strong- minded woman? Excuse me, but that's a solution too shallow. Huh. Who am I to talk about shallow? For half my life I thought the answer was coffee. ENDS Edited by Ruthie and Nat. * It is preferable to write to me at neilanthony@austarnet.com.au -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+