26 Nights

by 26 Nights (Memoirs of a Contemporary Gentleman) [MF] (retail) (epub)

  She stood and waited as I walked toward her, and though I still wasn’t sure what she was thinking, I was deliberately not subtle about letting my eyes run over her body as she stood there. She was wearing a white blouse with blue patterning on it and a long, tweed-like skirt which came nearly to her ankles. She showed no reaction to my scrutiny one way or the other.

  “I was just getting something from my bedroom,” she said as I came up to her.

  I gestured at the room behind her. “Is this it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”

  “I certainly would.”

  She turned and entered the room. Following her in, I closed the door behind me, but she turned again, frowning.

  “Why did you close the door?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “For privacy?”

  “Please open it.”

  “Okay.” I did so. “But when a lady invites me into her bedroom, I usually assume—”

  “You assume too much, Mr. Walling,” Sabrina said sharply.

  “Please call me Steven,” I said. “Did you ask me in here just so I could admire the room? It’s very nice, but …”

  “I’m sure you’re used to ladies’ bedrooms,” Sabrina said. “You do have something of a reputation, Mr. Walling.”

  “Steven,” I said. “And I have seen a few bedrooms, yes. Does that excite you, Miss Dunbarton?”

  She didn’t suggest that I call her Sabrina, nor did she answer my question. “How many?” she said.

  “I couldn’t count them.”

  “Promiscuity,” she said, sounding suddenly just like her mother, “is not only immoral and, in these days, dangerous, but it also indicates an immaturity and weakness of character.”

  “On the other hand, it’s a lot of fun. Did you bring me in here for a lecture?”

  “As you are obviously committed to the path of immorality and hedonism, Mr. Walling. I don’t understand why you came here this evening.”

  “To see you,” I said.

  She just looked at me. The signals she was giving off were so confusing that I was … well, confused. But the only way I could see to play it was to press on.

  “Are you really a virgin, Sabrina?” I asked.

  A flicker in those bottomless brown eyes. “Isn’t that a rather impertinent question, Mr. Walling?”

  “Steven,” I said. “Yes, it is. Are you?”

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh?” There was no change in her expression. “And why is that?”

  I shrugged. “Instinct. And the way you’re playing with me now.”

  “But you know that my mother has brought me up to be—”

  “I don’t give a damn about your mother,” I said. “And frankly, I don’t think you do, either.”

  This brought a flush to her cheeks, and for a moment I thought she might slap me. But she just kept looking at me, and then she said, “Suppose I am a virgin. Would that make me less attractive to you? Or more?”

  “Generally I prefer a bit of experience,” I said. “But I have nothing against virginity, provided the lady is ready to give it up.”

  “You are what they call a debaucher, Mr. Walling.”

  “And you, Miss Dunbarton, are what they call a cock-teaser.”

  This time she did slap me. Pretty hard too. I just stood there.

  “Damn you,” Sabrina said. “Close the door.”

  I closed the door, turning away from her for a second to do so. When I turned back to her I caught my breath, for she was sitting on her bed in the manner described above, her entire lower body open and exposed to my gaze, asking, “Is this what you want?” …

  And she was sitting in the same position now, bent slightly forward as she suckled sweetly on my cock, which was fully engulfed by her sensuous lips. Meanwhile her hands worked at my belt, opening it and undoing my trousers and shorts till they fell to the floor. I cooperated by shedding the rest of my clothing, feeling slightly dizzy from the caresses of her mouth and tongue.

  And then her mother’s voice came again from outside the door.

  “Sabrina?”

  She took her mouth from me. “Yes, Mother?”

  “Our guests are leaving.”

  “Please say good-bye for me, Mother.”

  “Sabrina, please …”

  “I’m busy now,” Sabrina said, putting her mouth back where it had been. I gasped, perhaps a bit too loudly.

  “Sabrina …” The imperious voice was taking on a different quality now, the tone less commanding, almost pleading. “Sabrina, what are you doing?”

  “You know what I’m doing, Mother.” Her words were somewhat muffled around my cock this time, but then she drew her mouth away again to say, quite clearly now, “I’m sucking cock.”

  There was what seemed to me a deafening silence outside the door. Then: “I … I must … I have to say goodbye …” Mrs. Dunbarton said faintly.

  “I’m sure you’ll be back, Mother,” Sabrina said.

  “Jesus,” I said. “What’s going on here?”

  “Don’t mind Mother,” Sabrina said. “She won’t come in.”

  “But … look,” I said, with some difficulty, as her mouth found me again. “I don’t want to … I mean—”

  “You want to fuck me, don’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Well … yes,” I said.

  “Then do it,” Sabrina said, taking off her blouse. I hesitated, but when the bra came off I suddenly found myself bending over her, pushing her back on the bed as my mouth paid homage to her firm young breasts and her long, stiff red nipples. Our bodies collided and my hands found her long, smooth thighs and followed them up to the luscious curves of her backside. I drew my mouth from her bosom and looked into her glazing eyes. Then our lips met in a searching kiss as she wriggled into position beneath me. I found the soft, moist entrance and probed gently, then more urgently, sliding deeply into her as she moaned against my mouth …

  “Sabrina?”

  Jesus.

  “Go away, Mother,” Sabrina said loudly, pulling away from my tongue. “I’m fucking now.”

  “Oh, Sabrina … Oh, dear God …” Mrs. Dunbarton said. She sounded like she was about to cry.

  I almost pulled away, but Sabrina’s long legs wrapped around me, her ankles locked behind my back, keeping me where I was. I admit I didn’t fight too hard.

  Using her encircling legs as leverage, she began a slow but definite up-and-down movement of her hips, and with that stimulus I soon matched her endeavors. Our rhythm gradually got faster, and in a few moments the bedsprings began to squeak. Loudly. I remember thinking vaguely that Sabrina could easily have afforded a sturdier bed; but now I suspect she kept the noisy springs deliberately to torment her mother.

  “Sabrina …” From outside, a wail of pleading and despair.

  “Oh, God!” Sabrina cried—perhaps with more volume than would have been naturally engendered by what I felt was her quite genuine passion. “Oh yes, do it! Fuck me! Yes, fuck me hard!”

  “Damn you, Sabrina!” her mother called out, anger now strengthening her voice. “Oh, damn you! Why must you do this to me?”

  As little liking as I had for Mrs. Dunbarton, I was not particularly happy to be in the middle of this situation. But on the other hand, Sabrina’s fine, supple body, her stiff-nippled breasts against my chest, her sensuous, clutching legs and squirming, eager pussy were more than enough to keep me there.

  “Fuck you, Mother!” Sabrina shouted, moving harder, panting and gasping now. “Fuck you, you bitch! You wish it was you, don’t you, Mother? Getting fucked silly with a big dick up your twat! Don’t you, Mother?”

  I was kind of panting myself, but I said, “Wait … wait a minute … you don’t have to …”

  “Fuck me in the ass!” Sabrina cried out, still moving. “Right up the ass! You hear that, Mother? I’m going to take his cock up my ass! You like that, Mother, you dried-up o
ld cunt?”

  This was too much. I stopped moving, but Sabrina didn’t, and though in my mind I was getting turned off, my cock didn’t want to know about that. Still, I tried to pull away, but Sabrina clung to me with her legs, and I succeeded only in rolling us over so that she was on top. I could have pushed her off by force, but I like to believe that I was too much of a gentleman to do that. So there wasn’t much I could do but lie there and watch her bouncing breasts and her squirming body as she moved strongly up and down over my disgracefully dissolute but deliriously happy cock.

  “Yes!” Sabrina screamed, her legs pistoning, her torso squirming wildly. “Yes! Yes! Oh, God, yes!!!”

  Above her shrieks and the noise of the bedsprings—and the roaring in my ears—I could hear sounds from outside the door. They might have been sobs, or they might have been something else. I wasn’t sure.

  Sabrina climaxed with the shrillest, loudest scream of all, and she continued to shout out her defiant joy as her spasms of completion set me off, too. Ready to pop, I shot up helplessly into her twisting body.

  She collapsed on top of me and we lay there recovering for a few moments. Finally she breathlessly said, “You didn’t fuck me in the ass after all. Want to stick around and do it?”

  Even in my depleted state, the prospect was definitely tempting; but I could still hear those strange, indistinct sounds outside the door. I decided I didn’t really want to know what they were.

  “Maybe another time,” I said. “Without the audience.”

  “Oh, no,” Sabrina said then, disengaging herself and getting up from the bed with surprising alacrity. “Believe me, it’s not nearly as much fun without Mother.”

  It’s always inspiring to witness family values at work.

  Chapter 21

  THIS IS A RATHER … AH … DELICATE QUESTION,” I said to Miss Greenglass. I was sitting at my desk, drinking coffee and trying to ignore the persistent throbbing in my head. “But I’m afraid it is necessary, at this point, to bring it up. For purposes of clarity you understand.” I cleared my throat. “Exactly what, in your opinion, Miss Greenglass, constitutes a sexual encounter?”

  “That question seems not only delicate, but, coming from you, rather peculiar, Mr. Walling,” she replied with the barest hint of amusement. “If you don’t know the answer to that question, I can hardly conceive that there is anyone in the world who does.”

  I sighed. “Flippancy does not become you, Miss Greenglass,” I said grumpily, though this statement is doubly misleading. First of all, I can barely imagine Miss Greenglass actually being flippant, and second, I cannot at all imagine anything which would not become her. “I am speaking, of course, of the terms of our wager,” I went on. “Having come this far, I do not wish to jeopardize my eventual success through one of those technicalities which you are so adept at rooting up. And a, shall we say, circumstance has arisen that raises the question of what—technically speaking—may be considered a valid and mutually acceptable fulfillment of those terms.”

  “I appreciate your punctiliousness, Mr. Walling,” she murmured. “But I think you have at least as clear a conception as I to what actually may define an encounter of that nature. Although we have differed on certain interpretations of the rules of our wager you have never been less than honorable in your conduct pertaining to it. I am certain I can leave this latest matter to your own judgment.”

  “Damn,” I said bleakly. “I was afraid of that.”

  The perplexity I was feeling, not to mention my headache, was the result of an unfortunate rendezvous on the previous evening with a lady named Tamara Twindle, a supposedly rising young painter of whom you will probably not have heard, unless you are an aficionado of the most esoteric journals of contemporary art and a frequenter of the type of obscure gallery that specializes more in trendiness than quality. I had met this lady, in fact, in one of those very galleries, to which I had gone at the invitation of David Fenster, an artist-acquaintance of mine whose show was opening there. I attended this event neither from loyalty to my friend nor aesthetic curiosity, but rather because this acquaintance had lately acquired a lively blond girlfriend named Tina.

  Of course, there was something of an ethical complication involved in taking a friend’s woman, but with my usual strength of character I met that problem head-on. “I’m here to seduce your girlfriend,” I said to Dave as we shook hands.

  “Tina?” he said. “Be my guest.”

  So much for the ethical problem.

  But when I was introduced to Miss Tamara Twindle, my thoughts swiftly betook themselves in a new direction. She was a tall, graceful lady in her mid-twenties with jet-black hair and a truly statuesque figure, shown off to perfection in a thin, low-cut dress. I turned on the charm full blast, and soon we were by ourselves in a corner, deep into what seemed to me a very promising conversation.

  “Your work sounds fascinating,” I said with as much sincerity and enthusiasm as I could muster. “I’d love to see it. Perhaps I could visit your studio sometime. I happen to know some very prominent art dealers,” I added, figuring that if the aforesaid legendary charm didn’t persuade her, the possibility of career advancement might.

  Whichever it was, it worked. “I’d love to have you come up, Steven,” she said, smiling alluringly at me. “Any time you like.” Then she surprised me by taking a step back and looking me up and down. Then she surprised me again. “In fact,” she said thoughtfully, “I think I would like to paint you, Steven. Would you consider posing for me?”

  For a moment I just stared at her. Though I flatter myself that in face and form I am still far from unattractive, I can hardly claim to be the young Adonis type these days. Obviously this was some kind of come-on, which was fine with me, but I played it innocent. “I didn’t think you worked from models,” I said. “From what you described—”

  “Oh, I don’t usually,” she said. “But occasionally I do like to use the human form as a starting point, as it were. And you have a certain ruggedly mature quality that I’m sure could translate into something quite strong on canvas.”

  “I see,” I said. “Then you would want me to pose in the nude, I take it.”

  “Of course,” Tamara said.

  “Of course,” I repeated. I couldn’t really see myself posing, but I suspected there wouldn’t be much actual painting going on once my clothes were off. “Sounds interesting,” I said. “Why don’t we do it right now?”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Tamara had a studio loft not very far from the gallery, and once there I looked over some of her paintings, trying to make the appropriate noises of approval, while she set up a blank canvas on an easel. “Okay,” she said finally, smiling at me. “Why don’t you take off your clothes, and I’ll change into my painting duds. And then we’ll do it.”

  Certain that I knew what it was we were going to do, I followed this suggestion with alacrity. As I did so, Tamara moved to an alcove where some clothes were hanging. With casual ease she slipped the straps of her satiny, royal blue dress over her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Beneath it she wore a brassiere and panties the same color as the dress but of even thinner material. Her body was truly magnificent, and I watched it avidly as she hung the dress up and took out an old, paint-stained jumpsuit. Naked now, and gazing at the high, proud thrust of those breasts, the sweeping curve of waist and hips, and the sculpted shapeliness of her legs, I felt myself growing stiff and hard.

  With the jumpsuit in her hands, Tamara turned casually to look at me. Her eyes opened wide. “Oh, my!” she said. “Oh, Steven!”

  Modestly, I said nothing.

  “Oh, dear,” Tamara said as the jumpsuit dropped from her hands. I waited confidently for her to approach me in yearning surrender. And then she laid it on me. “Oh, Steven, darling, you do know I’m gay, don’t you?”

  I stared at her.

  “What?” came my brilliant retort.

  “I’m gay,” she repeated. “I’m a lesbian, Steve
n.” She made a kind of apologetic gesture as I continued to stare. “Well, I thought you knew. I mean, it’s no secret or anything. I’m sorry if you … Oh, dear. But you do understand, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t believe it. “You mean you really just want to paint me?”

  “Yes,” Tamara said. “I still do. In fact, now more than ever. That … that thing you have there is truly classical. I’d really like to do something with it. Just in an artistic sense, you understand.”

  I understood, but I wasn’t exactly happy about it. Even as she spoke, Tamara approached the easel and picked up a piece of charcoal, hastily beginning to sketch. But the classical thing to which she had referred was already beginning to diminish. She had forgotten the jumpsuit, and her scantily clad body was as enticing as ever, but the situation was different now. Despite her evident admiration of my physical attributes, I am not one of those benighted males who believes that all a lesbian needs to turn her around is a good dose of the male member. If she was gay, she was gay, and there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  Tamara was working feverishly. “Oh, Steven, it’s shrinking!” she cried disappointedly. “Oh, no! Can’t you keep it hard? Just for a few minutes? Please?”

  “Ah, well, I’d like to oblige, Tamara, but I’m afraid it’s not exactly—”

  “Wait!” she pleaded. “Just let me get the essence of it, then I can …” But it wasn’t waiting. Tamara groaned in frustration. “Wait,” she said again. “Maybe this will help,” and she took off her brassiere.

  It helped. It helped a lot. Her breasts were slightly whiter than the rest of her body, firm and luscious and large-nippled, and my phallus instinctively came back to attention in tribute. Tamara immediately began sketching again, and the slight sway and jiggle of those breasts as she worked helped to keep me in the condition she wanted. But the knowledge that I was not going to get to play with them worked on me, too, and eventually …