Blonde on Blonde

“Jefferson? Hi, I’m Emma.”

“Hi, Emma.” I kissed her cheek. “Come in, come in.”

I closed the door and turned back to her for a second look.

Oh good, I thought.

She’s pretty.

Emma and I were meeting through rather unusual circumstances.

Last summer, I met her son Carl at one of my male orgies.

Carl and I fooled around at the party. Afterwards, we went out to dinner with a few of the guys.

Carl was handsome and sensual. He also turned out to be smart, with a fine quiet wit. I thought it would be great to spend more time with him. I told him about my bisexual parties, and invited him to check one out.

“Oh, thanks, but I don’t that’s for me,” he said. “This was my first sex party, and it was great, but I don’t know if I’ll make a habit of it. I’m not into girls, anyway, and besides, I’m about to go to Paris for five months.”

“Darn, all the good ones get away.”

He laughed. “Actually, you know, my mom might be into your parties.”

I winced. “You want to send your mother to my orgies, Carl?”

“No, she not really my mom. She’s more like one of my best friends. She just refers to herself as my mom. Long story.”

He put me in touch with Emma. I sent her to my blog.

As the two of us traded emails, it was pretty clear that she was just as smart as her “son.” Her notes were also fun and flirtatious, the sort of thing that keeps you whistling while you work.

I kept up my end of the flirtation. Eventually, I was emboldened to suggest we meet.

I was very direct. With no indication that I was interested in a date, I simply asked, “What time next Tuesday shall we meet?”

She didn’t blink an eye. “I get off work at seven,” she replied.

She was evidently the unflappable sort.

I proposed that she drop by my place after work. I would mix up some margaritas and we could walk to the river and watch the sun set.

It was an inspired suggestion, I thought.

A gentleman doesn’t simply ask a lady he has never met to his apartment. But if we met there, and strolled to a nearby romantic setting, we could always return if things went that way.

Besides, I really had no idea what she looked like.

We had traded photos, as correspondents will. She received a bright color photograph of my smiling face. I received a blurry black and white photograph of her, bundled in a heavy coat, scarf, and hat, dwarfed by a view of Avignon.

One assumes a poor photograph disguises unpleasant features.

No matter, I wanted to meet anyway.

Her notes were that good. Carl’s recommendation didn’t hurt.

That Tuesday, Emma’s office was busier than she expected. She didn’t get out until eight or so. By the time she showed up at my place, the sun had already set.

I was open to going out anyway, but then again . . . she was very, very pretty.

Emma was twenty-two, with wavy blonde hair, blue eyes and a sweet smile. She had a fine figure, and . . . well, um . . .

Okay, there’s no other way to say it. Her tits were to die.

As we made our first greetings, I took care to keep eye contact. But my peripheral vision was rewarded by glimpses of her creamy smooth—and ample—cleavage.

“Well,” I said. “You are later than we thought, but no problems. I stand by my offer of margaritas by the river, or, if you prefer, we can just take them here, on my terrace.”

Emma looked around. “Here is nice.”

I smiled. “Great. Two margaritas, coming up. Please, take a seat on the terrace. I’ll be right out.”

As I busied myself at the blender, I resolved that under no circumstances was I going to flirt with Emma.

Here was an attractive, smart young woman, alone with me in my apartment, sharing drinks and getting acquainted after a witty correspondence. She knew I had fooled around with her gay friend, she had read my blog and she knew I hosted orgies.

Still, I wasn’t going to flirt.

Why?

Well, obviously. Sex was very much in the air between us. She knew it, and I knew it. If she wanted, she could indicate her interest.

She would get no pressure from me.

I would focus on getting to know her.

Mind you, I did light candles on the terrace.

And okay, I also put on Ray Charles and Betty Carter.

As we drank our margaritas, I made her the subject of our conversation.

I asked about her friend Carl.

She told me she referred to him as her “son” because she was so proud of his accomplishments, she was forever boasting of him. She decided to adopt him as the son she may one day have.

I detected her Virginia accent. I know the area of her hometown, and so we talked about that.

She talked a bit about her family. He mother is European and her father Middle Eastern. As a consequence, she is very well traveled.

I talked about my travels.

We wound up talking about film.

I began to forget that she was so pretty.

Appearances aside, Emma was at once sophisticated and easy going, as though everyone is just as cool as she is, so what’s the big deal?

She was the kind of person who makes you feel you must be smart yourself if you are keeping her attention.

Despite my resolution, I couldn’t leave her looks alone.

“So, I have to point out the obvious: not only are we both blonde and Southern, we look enough alike to be related.”

“Maybe we are,” she drawled, sipping her drink. “Of course, since we’re Southern, that doesn’t matter.”

“Are you ever told that you resemble a certain celebrity? Maybe you get the same ones I do. Like, are you ever told you look like Richard Chamberlain or Sting?”

“Well, since they are old or dead men, that’s not likely. I don’t hear too many celebrity comparisons, but since I was twelve, my family has joked that I look like a Vermeer.”

“Oh, yeah? I can see that, I suppose. Which one, ‘The Girl With the Pearl Earring?’”

“No, that would be obvious. They say I look like ‘The Girl With a Turban.’”



“Aren’t those two alternative titles for the same painting?”

“Yes, but I mean, that would be the obvious thing to say, as that’s the name of the book and the movie. They use the least famous name.”

I studied her face as my mind flashed though art history slides.

I could see the resemblance.

Not that it mattered.

Once she started dropping alternative titles for Dutch portraits, I would’ve dropped trou even if she looked like Frans Hals’ “Barmaid.”



The talk flowed easily. I was increasingly glad that sex was a given shared interest.

In time, Emma looked down at her empty glass.

“Hmmm, all gone.”

“Would you like another?”

“I can’t say. I’m twenty-something and drunk, so I take no responsibility for my actions.”

She wasn’t drunk.

She was inviting me to make a move.

But I had my resolution.

She had been with me for all of one margarita. I thought it was too soon to pounce on her. I wanted to be a gentleman.

“I wonder how irresponsible you will be after a second drink.”

“ I don’t know,” she said, rising. “But I have to go to the bathroom. If another drink were to magically appear in my absence, I suppose we might find out.”

“Aim for the door at the end of the hall.”

She sauntered off.

I will be God damned, I thought.

She was seducing me—and faster than I could seduce her.

So much for my resolution.

I had to keep up.

When she returned, another drink was waiting.

“Look,” she smiled, sitting. “As if by magic.”

“I have no idea what you are referring to,” I sipped.

“Of course you don’t,” she said, lifting the glass.

We talked as the candles burned.

In time, she looked at her glass.

“Hmmm, all gone.”

“So it seems.” I took a gulp and swallowed. “Hmmm, mine too.”

“Now I am really no longer responsible for my actions.”

That’s it.

“Perhaps I should take charge of them, then.” I stood and took her hand.

“Oh, would you?”

“Yes. But I detect a chill in the night air. Perhaps we’d be more comfortable indoors . . . in my bedroom?”

“If you say so.”

“Follow me, please, Emma.”

“Of course.”

She looked around the apartment as I lead to my room. She stood still, looking about, as we held hands next to my bed.

“You have a nice place,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

I took her face in my hands, and drew myself into our first kiss.

Our mouth was warm, her lips soft, her tongue gentle to mine.

Her body was still, her arms by her side.

I pulled back and looked into her eyes.

She looked back into mine. You wanted to be in charge, they seemed to say. So now what?

I tugged at her sweater, answering the unasked question.

“Let me undress you.”

“Okay.”

I tugged the sweater over her breasts. She raised her arms to assist.

The sweater removed, I could better see her smooth skin.

And, uh, her tits. My God, her tits.

I reached around to fumble with the bra clasp.

“I’m glad you said ‘okay,’ as I enjoy undressing you.”

“Too bad you don’t seem to be very good at it.”

I held her closely, fingers tugging behind her back. “I know, I have never mastered the suave removal of a woman’s bra.”

“Are you better with men’s bras?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Do you need me to help?”

“No, I’d prefer to have the practice.” I walked behind her to get a look at the mechanisms. Three hooks. I unclasped them, one by one.

Her bra fell forward.

“Ah, I am smooth.”

“Yes, you did very well, Jefferson.”

I returned to face her. Again, I kissed her.

I removed the bra, and tossed it aside.

I stood back to see the breasts I uncovered.

Pale, very light pink nipples.

I caressed her shoulders, arms, breasts.

“You must drive boys crazy,” I said.

“Well, I do like to tease,” she smiled.

“And you are very pretty,” I said, unfastening her jeans. “You must enjoy being worshipped.”

“I’m not averse to it,” she said.

My hands went into her pants, separating them from her thighs. I left the panties in place.

“Teasing, though, I don’t know about that. I much prefer gratification.”

I dropped to my knees, lowering her pants. My eyes never left hers.

“But don’t you see,” she smiled down to me, her hair in her face. “Gratification after teasing is so much more . . . gratifying.”

I lifted each foot through a pants leg.

I lowered my eyes over her body.

“Cute panties. Did you wear these for me?”

“I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all.”

“Well, they look great, but I have no patience for panties this evening.”

I took the red thongs in my fingers, and gently lowered them to her feet.

She stepped away from them.

I put my hand on my knee.

“Okay, now we have you naked.”

“Yes, and you still have clothes on. Is that fair?”

“Fair, well, what’s fair, really?” I stood. I kissed her again.

She opened her mouth easily, taking my kisses as delivered.

I cupped my palm at the base of her skull.

Her hair was soft.

I pulled back a little. “Would you lay back on the bed, please?”

She smiled. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it will result in a more satisfying pussy licking.”

“Well, that is a good reason.”

She sat on my bed. I kissed her, pushing her back to recline. My legs wrapped hers, still hanging from the bed.

I kissed my way down her body.

Her eyes closed.

We were through talking.

I wanted to know that cunt I had only glimpsed.

I spread her thighs, leaving kisses like markers on the trail to my destination.

Her body lay before me, lit by a nearby lamp.

My eyes took in her pussy.

Short, blonde curls. Light pink labia.

Moist.

I took a long, slow lick.

She squirmed.

Sensitive.

I licked again.

Sweet.

She squirmed again.

I was going to enjoy this.

My tongue opened her slit as my hands enjoyed the soft flesh surrounding my face.

I probed inside, returning again to her clit.

I listened to her breathing. I looked up to her flared nostrils.

She grew wet quickly, my saliva mixing with her juices.

I wanted more of that.

I lifted back her legs, resting my forearms on her thighs. I stood in low crouch.

“You comfortable?” I asked.

She nodded.

I took note of her silence. Not so chatty now, are you, tease?

I lowered my mouth to her pussy.

I burrowed in deep.

I took myself to that place where time is irrelevant, and all that matters in this life is your lover’s continued orgasms.

Only thing was, this woman was new to me. And suddenly so quiet.

Were those shudders and sighs orgasms? Was she cumming that much, or was I just edging her close?

I needed to know more.

“I’m going to finger your g-spot.”

“Okay.”

“But first, I want to wash my hands.”

“Oh, thanks.”

I took her forearms, and crossed them behind her knees. “I very much like you in this position. Can you hold it until I return?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Don’t move, y’hear?”

“I won’t.”

“Good girl.”

I went into the bathroom, and closed the door.

I washed my hands.

They weren’t dirty, of course. I had washed them while mixing drinks.

I dried my hands.

I sat on the toilet lid.

I checked my nails. They were fine.

I waited.

I wanted to see how Emma did with this little test.

She had been so docile as I undressed her. She went limp when I took her neck in hand, and she was so quiet as I ferociously ate her pussy.

Was she, possibly, a potential submissive?

After a few moments elapsed, I stood and flushed the toilet. I ran water.

I returned to my bedroom.

Emma was exactly as I had left her, arms folded behind her knees, her pussy and ass lifted and lit by the lamp.

“Thank you for not moving,” I commended.

“No problem.”

I inserted a finger into her. Her arousal had constricted her pussy, which was evidently already rather tight when relaxed.

I curved up and found it.

Her face dropped to one side.

I added another finger. This would be all I could do for now.

I fingered her g-spot, toying with her clit with my thumb.

I soon confirmed my suspicion—Emma’s orgasms were quiet, but plentiful.

She went limp as I finished taking another one.

“You cum so softly.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

I leaned over to kiss her. “No, I like it very much.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I’m very quiet too.”

She laughed. “Oh, okay,” she whispered.

“Shhhhh.” I raised a finger to my lips. “ Now Emma, I’m going to fuck you.”

“You haven’t even taken off your clothes.”

“All things in time,” I smiled, reaching for a condom.

I returned to my place at her raised ass.

I removed my shirt, and lowered my pants.

I put on the condom.

I’m not sure she was looking, but her upraised legs hide me from view anyway.

I placed a palm on her buttock.

I placed the head of my cock on her labia, teasing.

I entered her.

Her body twisted as I pushed in and out, but still, she held her legs in place.

I reached to her forearms, and released her from the position.

Her legs fell to my sides. She looked down.

A cock she still had not seen was inside her.

I fucked her slow, fingering her honey-colored pubic hair, watching as it mingled with my own, its identical continuation on another body.

I imagined braiding us together, so that we would be unable to see where one of us began and the other ended.

We fucked for over an hour, the lights blazing.

I turned off the lamp as we drifted to sleep.

I woke in the dark, under the covers, spooning her.

Her ass flexed, pushing forward and back against my erection.

Side by side, we fucked with our legs interlocked.

She gave me more of her orgasms, and took one of mine.

I exploded over my chest, moaning loudly.

“I thought you were so quiet,” she said.

“I thought I was,” I panted.

We slept.

I awoke, holding her shoulder.

I was hard. I wanted her.

I rolled her on her back.

She woke, slightly.

I entered her.

She woke more fully as I gently rocked her.

She rolled over on me.

I took a breast in my mouth as she hovered over my cock.

I waited.

“Why aren’t you fucking me?” I murmured.

She held my cock against her pussy.

“I told you,” she smiled in the darkness. “I like to tease . . .”

“No, please, don’t tease me . . .”

I pushed upwards.

She lifted her pussy away.

“Oh God, Emma, this is torture.”

“Wait, you’ll get what you want. Just, not yet.”

I took her breast.

She took it away.

“Emma, please,” I begged. “Please.”

“Well, since you said ‘please’ . . .”

She lowered herself, and in that gesture, my cock was plunged deep into her, my face full of her skin.

I held her hips firm to prevent her from leaving me.

I devoured her nipples.

Her alarm went off at seven.

We were asleep side-by-side, not touching.

Without speaking, we began to fuck once more.

Half an hour into it, she stopped.

“I don’t think I’ve ever said this,” she said. “But I think I’ve reached my limit.”

I grinned. “Wimp.”

We showered and she dressed for work.

We took coffee onto the terrace where, less than twelve hours earlier, we had first conversed.

Now, I felt I had known her for so long.

“This is dangerous,” she said. “Staying with you could make me late for work.”

“I will always help you to get to work on time. I want you to know you can see me and still be responsible.”

We spoke as if seeing one another again was a foregone conclusion.

I kissed her as she left.

I took my coffee to my desk.

It was a bright morning. I felt content and very well sexed.

I began to write about Emma for my blog.

Then, I thought better of it.

Why report everything? Maybe this time, I’ll just see where it goes. This time, I’ll keep Emma to myself.

I moved on to other tasks, smiling to myself.

I had a secret.

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