Dear readers – much of the following story is based on fact. I hope you enjoy it!
We had known each other for many years, always flirting, always brushing against each other in a sensual way.
We met when she was in her early twenties. I was newly married, and some seven years older.
She had graduated young, and was an assistant professor at a university about three hours away by car. I had been invited to lecture for one night.
We met late in the afternoon to discuss my lecture, and for her to learn a little about me. She was to give the introduction.
She was, and is, a small, pretty, petite, dark haired girl. She had a “Peter Pan” haircut that was then shorter than mine. She had a strange air of vulnerability. I like it in women; it brings out the protective male in me.
I felt that there was a degree of instant, indefinable electricity.
We talked over coffee in the refectory. I let her range wide on many subjects. We found that we had much in common. We shared a love of the play, of music, of the visual arts, of history, especially early American, and of people.
She began to unfold, to talk of how she had an affair with a tutor in her final year at university, and how she was looking for a long term mate.
I gave my lecture, said my goodbyes, and left.
I began to see her twice every year when I returned to lecture, and I ‘phoned at odd times.
On one occasion I ‘phoned, she was full of excitement. She had found a man.
I did not ‘phone for a while, then I had a message to call her. It had not worked out. She cried, and raged down the ‘phone. He was an absolute bastard. They had arranged to holiday together, but he cancelled at the very last minute, when she was packed, and ready to go to the airport.
Her travel to the terminal was paid in full, and she had that ticket. He had all the other tickets; it seemed strange, so she decided to take the trip to the airport.
She watched him check in with somebody else!
I think her vulnerability to mean men attracted me! I hoped that I would never be unkind to her.
She was very angry. I calmed her down. Suddenly she asked me to take her out. I arranged another lecture evening, followed by a day of teaching. We would have dinner at the end of that day.
We had a gentle, quiet, meal in an exceptional restaurant. She looked wonderful, sparkling, sexily dressed, a great date for any man. Other men threw envious glares, one even winked at me, when I went to the men’s room.
She knew the affect she was having, and we had to confront our demons. We talked about it, and agreed that we would spoil our friendship if we ever made love.
We continued in this state for years, meeting for dinner, kissing goodbye after a night out together, then meeting again once or twice a year.
Neither of us wanted it to go further. Very early on we agreed that I would introduce her to my wife. This was a great success. They became, and remain, very good friends.
Yet there was always this sexual undercurrent whenever we met.
She would dress provocatively, she would go braless, and set up down blouse situations, where I could see her breasts. She would wear a suspender belt with stockings, and a tight skirt so that I could see the sexy outline of the clips on her fine body.
Other times she would wear flouncy skirts. She would wear stockings and suspenders, and let me see the whites of her thighs. One day she whispered that she had forgotten her panties!
It was innocent fun. I was happy, still fairly newly wed, and had become a father.
Then one evening, after a lecture, she announced that she was engaged, and was going to be married. He was a very high powered consultant, so we invited them to dinner. They stayed overnight.
We decided not to invite others, so there were four of us to drink a bottle of champagne to toast their engagement.
Dinner was a huge success, but it was obvious that he drank too much. She dressed in her normal provocative manner. There was always one button to many undone. I stole glimpses, catching sight of her white bra, and the tops of her small breasts. It remained harmless fun.
They married; we were at their wedding. We continued to meet for dinner. I continued to see her at the university.
Two years later we were asked to become guardians to their newborn first child.
We were tickled pink at the idea, and they were all invited for dinner.
She was breast feeding their daughter. She was put to bed in our resident cot, and we all changed for dinner.
It was a special winter evening. We had a raging fire in the grate. The house was wonderfully warm, and romantic. Our children were away overnight.
We ate by candlelight, and lit the whole house, but for the kitchen, with candles.
We drank vintage champagne again. We had a good claret with dinner, and a half bottle of Chateau Climens as a pudding wine. We had a magnificent dessert to suit.
We were not far into the evening when I realised that her husband had been drinking before they arrived. He continued to drink heavily.
Over the years that we had played our games, and when we had our occasional dinners, we realised that neither of us liked to drink too much. It helped us keep level heads.
We finished our champagne with the starter. We ate a spectacular main course with the claret, and I was clearing away dishes when she made her first move.
She had come silently into the kitchen, carrying vegetable dishes. I was loading the dishwasher, and did not hear her.
She was right behind me when I stood up, and turned. She reached on tiptoe and kissed me fully on my lips. I was totally taken by surprise.
We had kissed lip to lip for years, but this was immediately different. Her arms went around my neck, and she sucked my tongue into her mouth. She crushed our faces together. My hand went to her right breast, and I mashed it hard through her clothing.
My left hand went to her mons, and I gripped the bone hard through her skirt. My fingers went lower, under the lip, to where I had never been in all the years that we had known each other.
They turned the corner. They remained outside her clothing, but I forced them hard to her body. It was a completely involuntary movement. She let out a long, loud moan. We were both rather shocked at our reactions.
We pulled apart.
We paused.
We should have stopped then, but we did not. The others were still talking loudly in the dining room some twenty feet away.
I blurted out, “I love you. I have loved you for years.”
She said, “Oh No!”
Then we kissed again. My hand snaked across her blouse on a journey of it’s own. It went in through her provocative opening. My fingers ran inside her bra, and onto the bareness of her naked breast.
She was still nursing, her nipple was huge, and giving milk.
We broke from our embrace, and she said, “I think I will need some more protection, or I will leak through, and it will be seen.”
She grabbed some kitchen towel, folded two pieces, and unceremoniously thrust them into the points of her bra.
The atmosphere was electric. I had never felt anything like it. All our years of playing, all the pent up love, all the tenderness of many discussions, all her pain, the intimacies, and heartache, all my trials and tribulations, came to the surface in that one kiss.
We had to stop.
We did, walking hand in hand to the door of the dining room, where my wife was still in animated conversation with her husband.
We were carrying the pudding, and wine in our other hands, so it looked completely innocent.
Dinner finished, and I announced that I had decanted a bottle of Graham’s 1963 port. We retired to the blazing fire, and to good music.
I will always associate the third movement of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, the Pastorale, with that night.
It brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. It will ‘til the day I die.
We settled down to listen, my wife sitting at her husband’s feet. He was running his fingers through her hair. We were together on a huge couch. She had her feet curled up under her skirt.
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