Strawberry Fields Forever
A Short Romantic Story
By Charles E.J. Moulton
***
The sensual cream. Soft. Nurturing. Slow. Caressing. The crunchy crust's firm embrace. A farmer who would hug you and have his own arms meet as he did. And the strawberries on top the children of the cream and the crust a sign of beauty. A symbiosis. The creamy meeting the crunchy, the hard meeting the soft, the soft inspiring the hard to find its core. In something as seemingly simple as a strawberry cheesecake, I saw the entire universe.
That cake always triggered a yearning in my heart. And so, at the heart and within the taste of it lay the miracle of love. That and the strawberry fields forever.
They say that the way to a man's heart goes through his stomach. But that would be limiting it. Especially in the light of what I know about the woman I love.
I met Julia on a Sunday at our local St. Patrick's Chapel in Wicklow, Ireland. I was there with my parents and she was there with hers and her grandmother.
We were 9 years old at the time.
The pastor had chosen the Virgin Mary as a sermon and the whole thing was about love. How important a home is and wondrous the gift of giving was. He recited the book of kings, which in truth was a bride and a bridegroom declaring their love for each other. The pastor made it very clear how holy nuptial love was and that a couple should try to find the universal creating in consuming that love. An unusual thing for a Catholic pastor in Ireland, for sure.
Maybe the pastor blessed us that day, Julia and me. We were sitting in the same row with the aisle between us, you know, smiling and waving at each other.
I still remember the dark red carpet leading up to the statue of Mary and the words of the pastor as I gazed at it.
"Did you know that Mary Magdalene loved Jesus?"
I thought about how holy love must be for a holy woman to love a holy man.
So, for me that holy statue became Mary Magdalene to me and how holy love is. The chapel still stands today and looks exactly the same.
Well, Julia looked at me and I looked at her and we both got it. What life was about. It was as if we wanted to touch each other, hold each other, love each other, feel each other. But we had no idea what it was we were feeling.
On the way out of chapel, it was obvious to our families how much we liked each other. So we spent each Sunday with each other, playing catch on the grassy hill by the Celtic coast.
Her father even had her transferred to my school so we could be together.
I still remember that sweet girl that never could stop laughing and the other 9 year-olds all tried to impress someone or just be ... guys.
I thought that was stupid. With Julia, I could talk gibberish. We could tickle each other and it would be okay. I could talk girl stuff and she could talk boy stuff and it would be okay. She would stop on a moonlit night, wince at it and say:
"I wanna live there."
She was the living version of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds", without the LSD, of course, not that it was ever there. And she was amazingly sweet. If reincarnation is real, then maybe she was Mary Magdalene in a former life. But who truly knows about such things?
So we became best friends. On a Tuesday, actually at lunch break.
We made a vow on the lawn after our cantina fries that we would stay friends ... forever. So, Julia found a song that had the word "forever" in it to advocate - she loved that word - advocate that we would be besties ... forever.
And she found that song in her Pop's collection of old 45's.
A song by the Beatles called "Strawberry Fields Forever" and we would sing it all the time as a kind of "best friends hymn".
When I say all the time, I mean all the time.
I bet we were a real nuisance to the other guys and girls in the class, who were in enemy groups against each other in little cliques. Remember, this was before puberty would strike the unknowing pre-teens. A few years later and they would be yearning for each other.
But we were special, weren't we? We were best buds before blokes and lassies usually liked each other.
Whenever some of our gender contemporaries said or even began saying: "Ooh, Tony likes ... a GIRL!!!" or "Oooh, Julia likes ... a BOY!!!", we immediately bellowed "Strawberry Fields FOREVER".
Poor John Lennon was probably whizzing about heaven, knocking down some apple trees, when he heard us, but we screamed that last word "FOREVER" so hard, we must have scared several people away. Including the teachers. Well, I think the teachers thought we were cute. Honestly, so did we.
Well, Julia had her 10th birthday before me. I always saw that as a sign that girls are more mature than boys, as if they lead boys into the light, kind of, anyway. Well, for my 10th birthday, 10 year-old Julia baked me the best birthday cake ever.
She swore, with a lisp, as true as Mary was a virgin, that she baked it herself, adding that her grandma had helped ... a little. The way she pronounced the word "little" had an adorable ring to it.
Very well accentuated clear T's spoken in a high voice, her hands folding elegantly onto her lap. She tried looking posh while speaking her word "little", but when I couldn't conceal my mirth, she broke out into hysterical laughter as well. I think we giggled for ten minutes. And so, there we were, two ten year-olds, a boy and a girl, rolling on a picnic blanket, eating the best strawberry cheesecake ... ever.
Her grandma's recipe had really insured her and us a giant success.
Her grandma, who lived just three minutes walking distance away, we could see the house from our spot, had given us the recipe for a strawberry cheesecake Irish style with the berries forming a four leaf clover.
To make it perfect, Julia brought her cassette tape of The Best of The Beatles and a player. We listened to "Strawberry Fields Forever" on a loop, really getting at it with our rendition of the flower power generation. We had no idea they had been high on pot. We just found it funny that they swung around wearing beads and kakis.
Julia had set dishes with strawberries on a red blanket overlooking the seashore for me, where we played catch that first Sunday.
And so, her sweet and tingling smile was sweet and fertile like those strawberry fields forever.
The grassy seaside cliff in Wicklow had never been so wonderful.
Our family's subsequent move to London came as a shock to both of us. My Dad got a position in a leading British bank with a flat on Abbey Road. That was for me the only positive thing about it, getting closer to where our song was recorded in 1966.
We became avid pen pals. Sending each other letters when letters were becoming passé. In fact, we did loads of things no one ever did. And it was cool. I would send Julia pictures of the famous zebra crossing.
Maybe it was the distance between us that caused us to choose other partners. At least for a while. That went on until we were 24. We had just finished our studies and were now venturing into work. Well, we got our Bachelor degrees the same year, me in London and she in Dublin.
We had other lovers, who still were very keen to meet us, the best buddies. So we arranged for a mutual time in London. We did it all. Stuff that was normal for me. The wax museum. The tower and the palace. And, of course, a pub tour. There was even a picture of her, me and our lovers at the time walking like The Beatles across the street on the zebra crossing, cars honking at us like crazy.
Believe me, that was weird. She was in love with me and I was in love with her. But somehow we had other partners, knowing in our hearts what Sinead O'Connor always sang. "Nothing Compares to You".
We four spent a fun weekend in London, no doubt. But it ended with Julia and me eloping to a supermarket alone to get some "Good Bye Guiness". We could not hold ourselves back any longer. We ended up in each other's arms, kissing each other for ten minutes, devouring each other, sure that we had been one soul in heaven and wanted to become one here, as well.
We were discovered by our partners, who were growing impatient. There was a huge seen that made us break up with them on the spot. Guess what we sang into their faces?
A rather difficult time for our relationship followed. We had jobs and commitments in our cities but vowed to move in with each other eventually.
She opened a gardening shop in Wicklow and I became an internet geek. I had her picture on my computer at work, which pissed off several girlfriends, I tell you.
Then, one day, her grandmother died and she inherited the house. She swore her grandmother stuck around, making sure she baked the cake in the right way.
The day I got a job in Wicklow was my saving grace. I dropped everything, quit my job, told my parents I was leaving to be one with my soul mate and Dad said: "At last!"
Guess what Julia did for my 30th birthday?
The multitude of fresh strawberries decorating the mix of butter, egg and sugar and the crunch made me feel nine years old again. I closed my eyes and imagined coming back from school with Julia, humming the Beatles tunes we had learned in school.
We now sat on the same blanket on the same spot, touching the same grass, the same sea waves crashing against the shore. As I sat there, closing my eyes, holding Julia's now twenty year older hand, tasting her grandmother's recipe, the picnic blanket ruffled against my shorts and it seemed Julia was enjoying looking at me enjoy myself.
Our mutual memories of childhood, sitting by the seaside and devouring her mom’s cake, watching that sun set, laughing at silly jokes until the stars came up: all of that came back in a spur of the moment. All of that joy lay imbedded in a strawberry cheesecake. And that nice song.
When I opened my eyes after enjoying a bite, Julia's mouth was just a breath away from mine, her sinking proverbially into my larynx, cherry flavoured lip gloss now on mine.
"Let me take you down, cause I'm going to strawberry fields," John Lennon sang on the track that was now playing on a loop on Julia's smartphone. "Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about. Strawberry fields forever."
Was this the way John had felt kissing Yoko? Two becoming one? Was that the reason why one heart seemingly were two entities becoming one? The result a child? Paul and Linda. Ringo and Barbara. George and Pattie. Elvis and Priscilla? Romeo and Juliet? Jack and Rose? Rhett and Scarlett?
It wasn't just our breathing, our hormones, our heartbeats. Our energies merged, our consciousness melding to the point that the one could not be differentiated from the other. Which one of us was Julia and which one of us Anthony? John Lennon at some point merged with his audience like the Celtic Sea became the Atlantic. So we merged on our picnic blanket by the sea.
Julia gently lay the spoonful of cake on her tongue and giggled. That splendid new hairdo fluttered in the Irish breeze, one swift lock of blondish red hair falling across her chest and landing on her bosom. The wind threw me a scent of sensual magnolia by the way of a perfumed memory of exquisite sensuality.
“Julia?” I asked, seeing this woman in the light of the setting sun just where we had played so many years ago.
“Yes?” she mumbled, swallowing the bite of her seductively tasty cake.
“Why did we take so long to reacquaint?”
Julia looked up, the beauty of her brown reindeer eyes glittering in the light of that red candle. She shrugged, her flowery dress losing one ribbon and letting it drop down toward her breasts. I saw that woman’s beautiful Irish shoulder and compared it to the sound of the waves behind her. Wicklow, I thought to myself, thou art a memory recollected, a new life relived, a girlfriend well met.
"Better late than never," she responded, caressing me. Her touch electric, I knew she felt what I felt. My parents move to London had caused us pain. On the other hand, now she had inherited her grandmother's house.
“Will you marry me and give birth to our children?”
John's nasal Liverpool lilt made us smile. "It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out, it doesn't matter much to me. Let me take you down ..."
Julia stood up, laying her spoon aside, fixing me with that stare, grabbing a lock of her hair and gently putting it in her mouth. Circling the picnic blanket on her knees, she ended up behind me and caressed my chest with her long fingers.
"Living is easy with eyes closed," the Beatles-song rang and my eyes saw the Abbey Road sunshine where I had lived since and from where I had moved back to Wicklow.
Soon enough, her feminine scent turned more intense and I found myself on my back actually wanting her more than I ever had wanted anyone in my entire life.
I embraced her face with my hands tenderly, moved my lips in slow motion toward her mouth, seeing those cherry flavored lips moving nearer to my vision by the second. As we met, our lips and our hearts and our souls reacquainting, our eyes closed.
I stood up, embraced her face with my hands and tenderly, ever so tenderly, moved my lips in slow motion toward her mouth, seeing those cherry flavored lips moving nearer to my vision by the second. As we met, our lips and our hearts and our souls reacquainting, our eyes closed. I could still taste the strawberries on her mouth and smell the magnolia on her skin.
The heat of our embraces mingled and intertwined and became sheer electricity. In every mutual grasp, our friendship and love proved quantum physics right. We felt our beings meld, morph. I leaned over her, sweetly opening the buttons of her dress, one by one. Their soft cotton clad covered plastic textures were symbols of her soul. Beautiful and handcrafted, feminine and graceful. Her white skin met my gaze under that dress, images of Velasquez Venus coming to mind. I leaned down to kiss her shoulder, the shoulder of a girl I had known and loved since childhood and realized her skin smelled like strawberries. If it was her perfume or her natural smell, I don't know, but I do know that it was closely linked to her natural smell.
John Lennon was still at it on Julia's smartphone, singing about sweet berry fields.
As Julia and I lay there on the picnic blanket, we ventured deep into each other's gazes, feeling the other, feeling the song we heard, knowing it was our song to prove it was right for girls and boys to be besties. And now we were here, making love.
Time stood still as I, almost in slow motion, dived into Julia's soul and she into mine.
We were now one soul.
Julia threw her head backward, smiling, groaning, moaning, grabbing my head and caressing my hair. The sound of the ocean waves against the Irish coast felt like our own heart beat. It was a thump that now was forming, as if our two hearts were working to find a rhythm. This wasn't physical. It was spiritual.
"When two lovers are exactly in tune, their energies are like two instruments composing a symphony."
The words came out of the something-nothingness of eternity and I had a feeling it was John's soul whispering to us through the waves.
In what would seem like a musical allegro, our mingling forms now felt like one form. Two pieces of a puzzle long apart and now after twenty years at last forming completion. I knew she felt me and she knew I felt her. I could hear her thoughts, feel her feelings and I am sure I saw the stars of other world during our copulation.
Julia's hair blowing in the breeze, her skin upon mine, John's voice, the taste of that fantastic cake in my mouth, it was the rise of Celtic springtime.
When we accelerated, we lost our touch with reality and disappeared into ecstatic lust. The speed of our frenzy caught the wind and made our hearts fly.
Soon enough, I felt like flying.
We reached a climax together there on the field.
Afterwards, we lay there looking up at the sun, counting the clouds. We didn't say much about what we thought what cloud looked like. We just knew that we were wondering what each cloud looked like.
As if on cue, for some reason, Julia's smartphone loop of "Strawberry Fields Forever" stopped and we were left with a beautifully magical silence. One that invited the energies to inspire us to sing.
"Something in the way she moves, attracts me like no other lover," came to my mind. Sinatra's favorite love tune was George Harrison's composition.
I hummed it and Julia hummed with through her kisses of my chest and arms, laughing as she did.
"Or what about this one?" she giggled with half-closed eyes. "Desmond has a trolley in the market place."
"That's barrow," I corrected. "Paul sang barrow, not trolley."
Julia pulled back and slapped my chest gently. "In my reality, he sang trolley. And Molly is still working in a band."
"Huh," I mused. "So, Molly is still a singer in a band."
"Mmm-hmm," she nodded.
"What do you know?"
Julia gazed at me looking out across the Irish sea and got a laughing fit.
I looked back at her, baffled.
"What's so funny?"
"Your comment was so serious," she mused through her giggles as I turned her on her back again, laying above her. She mimicked me in a low voice. "So, Molly is a singer in a band, huh?"
Julia tried to finish her sentence, but it was difficult for her to manage.
"Hmm," she continued in her low rumble, "we might have to hire her for our wedding."
Now, she playacted her own six year old lollipop voice, tooth gap lisp and all. "Well, Tony, by now Molly is 90 years old, but she does a helluva Doris Day imitation."
I don't know what it was about her laughter, but the energy of her mirth caught on and I felt it bubble up from my bowels into my larynx and explode out of my mouth. Soon, I was rubbing my face in the grass. Hard to know why some things are funny, but I guess they are when two souls are so aligned that you hear "Stairway to Heaven" being played, then paradise is near.
"Desmond's trolley," I laughed.
I could still taste the strawberries on her mouth and smell the magnolia on her skin. We breathed out through our nostrils, feeling the heat of our embracing bodies mingling and intertwining. I leaned over her again, sweetly opening the buttons of her dress, one by one.
Half naked, laughing and hungry, we walked into the house again, singing
"We all live in a yellow submarine"
really loud all the way to our front door step. Back in the house, we brought out some strawberry ice cream, read comic books, played games all night and tickled ourselves to sleep just like old times.
Julia and me, best buddies, we had proved to ourselves that girl and boys could be best friends and best lovers. This was her house now, her grandmother's inheritance, and we spent it kissing each other for hours on the marble bench by our own strawberry field. Forever.
We got married in our St. Patrick's Chapel, standing on our own red carpet close to Mary. The same pastor wed us and our families were there, crying happily.
Julia and I have a child.
We named him John.
Strawberry fields forever.
All of Me
By Charles E.J. Moulton
„All of Me“, in a smooth-sounding arrangement reeking of yummy Manhattan swing, was my introduction to sweet Nikki. There was still a ticket to the weekly show. The chick with the light brown hair came there every Friday night to play jazz standards with the small band at the edge of Park Avenue. And I admit that I just came in there for a quick red wine after I ended my shift at the office. But after I discovered the fantastic breasts of Ms. Barnes, I tell you, guys, I became much more of a jazz fan.
She was in the midst of playing the slow version of the old Sinatra-classic, literally undressing the song, turning it into a blues-classic. I had no idea how she did it, but it was so sultry that I actually caught myself drooling. I stood there dripping saliva on the floor with the sight of that sexy woman on stage sitting by her Steinway, really hugging that song, leaving a solo over to the saxophone player. I felt like she was seducing me. It was absolutely breathtaking.
Obviously a name over at the swing bar “Suave & Silky”, she had a following of what seemed to be real connoiseurs. I mean, I was a connoiseur of sorts, too. I was a regular visitor at the Minskoff, my fave of the Broadway stages, and, of course, at the Met. I would wine and dine some of the sweet female colleagues in my company to see a show and afterwards pop in for an escargot at the “Tout va bien”, an elegant Off-Broadway restaurant, but I swear you, boys, after I lay my eyes on swing’s sultriest satsuma, my Fridays stopped being about seeing a performance of “Chicago” or the revival of “South Pacific”, not did I take my secretary Mandoline, that was her real name, to see Jonas Kaufmann in “La Traviata” at the Met. No Friday was complete without my two hours of jazz. I stopped dating almost anyone. I had become an addict to Nikki-Time, i.e. Friday. Blues, boogie-woogie, swing, rock, pop, classical, musical, the works. The gal was brilliant. Two things bopped in rhythm to Nikki’s nubile nookies.
The biggest bonus to Nikki’s music was her long flowing curly hair, fantastic legs slipped into sexy stockings, her wardrobe, beige, white or yellow dress, often with a very low cleavage ... and her knockers? A D-cup? A double D? DDD? Round like melons, I could even see her nipples. An opulence worthy of Velasquez and Boucher. The way she swayed to and fro while playing and her coquette smile, flashing her grin, made me really wonder what she would do to me in the sweet twosome sexy dance. I’d serve myself on a dish any day if I could have her eat me for breakfast. A Jimmy Hot-Dog with mustard and cum stuck between two round peaches.
Her behind, well, that, my dears, was another story. Poems and sonatas have been written about derrieres like that. It was a well-sculpted artwork by Michelangelo, round, succulent, beautiful, squirtable, like a peach ripe from a Florida tree. She would stretch it out almost on purpose to pick up a piece of sheet music or something and I would almost hear the audience wow her and sink into their chairs just to get a glimpse of her underwear as she bowed.
She did have a wardrobe, mind you. Sometimes, she would put on those tight dresses that literally hugged her body so nicely, it was hard for me to concentrate on the music. Sometimes she would hand a solo over to the saxophone player, Pete, a black dude, and stand up to take a drink, and I would watch her ass twinkle as she strolled to the table. Amazing buttcheeks. I have seen my share of behinds, but this one deserved a place at the Smithsonian, worth its weight in gold. Guys dream of those buttcheeks at night. Teenage boys keep those buttcheck locked in their secret drawer when they go to school. They want their cum to stick to those ripe pear shaped baby kiwis indefinately.
Oh, and how she bowed. Mmmh, what a sight. Holy Mama, that round Rubens-like behind, it really gave me a hard-on every time she shook it. It was a behind that had created symphonies and inspired Shakespeare plays. Well, that ass deserved to be shagged. I could almost imagine how she would whoop and wail and throw her long hair about as I stuck my large schlong into her buttcrack. A wet tight dream come true. Nikki didn’t just have fast fingers on the keyboard. Nikki had a wonderfully fuckable bum.
Look, I know that I am sex-obsessed, but I really wondered, while looking at her playing “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck, what her pussylips tasted like. And I have licked loads of pussylips. Hairy pussies, daintly half-shaven little cunts, totally shaved ones, tight little things, round ones, long ones, spicy chili-pussies, French Camembert cunts, salty kit-kat-clits, sweet Hershey-bar-tasting pussies, pink pussies, light-red pussies, beige pussies, dark puissies, and my favorite, the ones with multiple pussy-lips to let my cock and mouth travel through to reach the inside.
Now, you ask, I casanova like me, one of the buys with money and a job working in Empire State, who had slept with maybe two hundred women, why had I not dared to approach this babe before. I mean, two hundred bimbos had tasted my lollipop, right? Well, for one, Nikki was completely surrounded by fans after each Friday gig. She had at least twenty authograph-seekers surrounding her and she would tell stories of shows she did simultaneously, with which band she played and what singer she accompanied and so forth. Now, I mostly looked at her swaying ass and her bouncing boobies during her chats, but I did catch names like Billy Joel and Bruce Hornsby, Joshua Kadison and even Lang-Lang there, so usually I’d toddle home after my three Italian dry wines and wonder why I hadn’t talked to her yet.
I tell you, I was in love. More, I’d stopped dating. My colleagues were worried. My thoughts were always with Nikki.
I guess I had too much respect for stars.
The night I got into Nikki’s knickers had been one of those bad days. I’d really had a rough day at Lincoln and Hetfield. A very wealthy client had stormed out of our 33rd floor office because he felt we hadn’t represented him in the best way possible. He called us “the worst financial advisors east of Illinois”. Me, ever the sweet talking Vice CEO of the company, eagerly ran down the hallway, demanded that we had helped some of the most prominent people in the U.S. My CEO left early, leaving me to do the inventory. After that, a babe I had fucked last Tuesday threatened to publish pictures of us in the motel if I didn’t agree to become her boyfriend.
As you can imagine, I was rather depressed when I arrived at the bar. I ordered a steak, had myself three glasses of Italian wine even before Nikki came on. So I didn’t really enjoy the show. I think I might have seemed like a prime party-pooper when the show ended. I was totally drunk when most of the people were gone. I saw my quick fuck from last Tuesday as my next ticket to the unemployment office and our angry client at the end of my firm.
So, yes, my dick was numb.
I sat there for a bit, surfing the net as the audience got their CDs signed, as they left, I ordered another brandy and watched pretty much everyone leave. I even sat motionless by my table as Nikki came out from the dressing room, chatting with the band. She sat at the bar for a few minutes, drinking what seemed to be a glass of champagne. When she looked over at me, I think my cockie woke up. I imagined what would happen if a star like her would grant me a blowjob. Would my dick turn into a clarinet? So far, all the babes I had fucked had been secretaries and interns. Okay, the occasional porn model and a 42nd Street bimbo or two. But a star? I think I was a little taken aback when she suddenly stood there at my table, cocking her head.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I looked up, wide-eyed, my heart suddenly pounding, my mind forgetting possible sexual harassment lawsuits or screaming clients. All I could see were two fantastic titties and a beaming smile.
She pointed at the free seat. “May I, honey?”
I sat up in my chair, brushing off the excess breadcrumb and wine stain. “Sure.” I stretched out my hand. “Jimmy Fallon.”
She smiled. “Like the talk-show-host?”
I chuckled. “Yeah. But no relation. I might earn a good living, but no one has heard of me except a few pissed off customers.”
“I did a show with Jimmy Fallon.”
I raised my eyebrows, smiling. “Ah.”
I nodded again, sort of waiting out the awkward pause.
“You are fabulous, Nikki. I’m a big fan.”
She chuckled, her wossnames bouncing sweetly as she did.
“I see you here a lot,” she whispered. “I always wonder why you never introduced yourself. Probably the fans, right?”
I nodded, letting my eyes wander to her lap and up toward her fantastic breasts.
She giggled again. “You’re inspecting me as if I were a luscious Rib-Eye.” She raised her hands in defense. “I mean, I hope you don’t mind me being honest.”
“You’d look fabulous in a potato-sack.”
She waved her eye-brows and gave me a double-whammie.
“You comparin’ me to Marilyn Monroe, babe?”
“You are a whole lot sexier, Nikki,” I said, my groin growing.
“Hey, boob-man,” she crooned, “your givin’ me that glow again.”
“Glow?”
“Well, my sax-player calls it the cock-eyed optimist.”
She leaned over, giving me a glimpse of her cleavage.
“Your cock is reaching your nose.”
I cleared my throat. “I have a hard-on.”
Nikki sighed. “Yeah?”
I nodded eagerly.
The band had obviously understood what was happening. Everyone, including the bartender, had left.
When I looked back nubile Nikki, just us in the bar, she hasd stood up and taken off her blouse. Those erect nipples of hers were peeking through her white bra. Seeing those yummy tits so big, so close, so big, so incredible, it really my cock turning into a huge ice-cream cone. I guess she wasn’t the kind of girl to discuss any positions, because she didn’t really give a shit if anyone marched in. The stage and auditorium was in a closed and window-less area, okay, but any damn musician could come back, having forgotten a wallet or something. Nikki obviously did this often. I was a one-night-stand and I knew it. But, oh, crap, what a feeling this was.
She went down on her knees, literally heaved out her boobs out of her bra, licked their nipples a bit, spit on them, looked heavenward and then took a long look at my crotch.
I chuckled nervously, rubbing the outside of my pants.
Her hungry eyes would make even Eric Carmen sing high notes Patrick Swayze would have envied. It looked at my hard-on with someone kneeling before a huge Christmas present.
This randy chick studied my bulge almost religiously before unbuckling my eagle, unzipping my fly and caressing my underwear. It was with a smoothe grin that she freed a penis that simply bounced out and smiled at her with its eight inches and one happy eye on a happy plum sized helmet.
When Nikki took my erect cock in her mouth, looking like a Goddess, her bright red lips literally hugging the entire length, squeezing and embracing the entire shaft, closing her eyes, locks from her blonde hair mingling with my black pubic hair, her earrings bobbing back and forth.
I shoved my dick into her mouth harder, forcing it in deeper, feeling really macho and dominant, I bet the bitch liked that, her squeeking now getting higher, her full hair in my hands, her hands on my ass. I felt in complete control, mouth-fucking a wonderful and sexy mouth that had sung beautiful tones just a minute before.
She leaned over into my dick, taking it out of her mouth and licking my cock hair, taking the balls into her mouth, sucking like crazy hyena, making me groan and moan and throw my head toward the roof. Then she took my erect dick out of her mouth again and continued talking while jerking me off.
“Do I suck well?” she moaned.
I nodded. “You’re an expert on sucking cocks. You have lots of practice. Are you a slut, Nikki?”
She smiled. “Yes, I am a slut.”
She bobbed her head, proving what a slut she was, hugging my shaft with her lips, circling the helmet. No one could suck cock as good as she did. I felt my dick grow even bigger in her mouth. It felt fabulous having a big star like her on her hands and knees licking my lollipop. I imagined that girl that had been making music up there and how she now was between my legs, an obedient little girl sucking her man’s big willie. I think I sported the biggest erection I’d ever had, because the harder and faster this little bitch sucked, the harder and more blue did it become. I kept my jizz to myself, though. I wanted to squirt on her face after I fucked all of her holes.
First, though, this whore opened her mouth wide, stuck out her tongue and mouth-rode my shaft like the sex-object she was, bobbing and smiling, biting her lips, closing her eyes.
Now I really couldn’t take it anymore.
“Let’s go to the stage, my concubine,” I croacked, standing up, dropping my pants to the floor and ripping off my shirt. This babe now took off all her clothes, dropping her sexy pink knickers to the floor. The randy crumpet now stood there stark naked before me. I think she knew what I was gonna do. She shrieked as I carried her to the stage, plopped her on the edge and lay down on it.
“Ride me,” I demanded.
“Your wish is my command.”
I felt like the original cowboy, her ass stagging my flagpole, her wonderful wobblers shaking every time she landed on my balls. That sight with the mixture of her gigantic boobies jumping up and down like basketballs constantly hooving into the net.
I now did what I never had done before.
Love her like no one had before.
All of me, she could definitely have all of me.
As Lucious as Spanish Wine
An Erotic Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
What can I say? Once a Rioja connoisseur, always a Rioja connoisseur.
So it was with my high quality cedar top flamenco guitar in hand that I sat on the stage of my dance club in Greenwich Village, slurping, or sipping as they case may have been, a Sangre de Torro from 2006. I knew that this wine had won the award as the “Best European Wine of the Year” back then.
Accordingly, I had phoned Miguel Torres personally and ordered four boxes of that annual wine. Three weeks later, my club in New York had been granted more sexy liquid than a whole army of elegant dancers at the Moulin Rouge: six boxes, two for free, now graced my wine cellar. One large glass, filled with minimal grapewise attire, decorated the mahogany table that filled up the right corner of my podium.
Anyway, I sat there practicing my Bizet and Sor-pieces, my sonatas by de Falla and “La Rubia” by Ahmed Serag, a flamenco ditty I always used when presenting my weekly flamenco shows. My cook was serving Paella tonight to follow my flamenco music. Unfortunately, Rosita Conchales had caught the flu and I was left with the problem of finding a new high quality dancer that, hopefully, could dance a good choreography to my music.
Rita, a good friend of mine that worked as dance captain for “The Lion King” at the Minskoff Theatre on Broadway, had told me three hours ago that she could send me an incredibly good looking dancer named Maddalena Rosario to fill in for Rosita. In Madrid, Maddalena had apparently worked both as an opera singer and as a flamenco dancer. She now lived here in the Village, working as a freelance music teacher and as a dance instructor.
Rita’s description of the woman fascinated me.
“Buxom, voluptuous and sexy,” were the words Rita had used to describe her.
Fate would tell me soon what the outcome would be. If this girl was as good as Rita claimed, I was in luck. If not, I was in big trouble. I glanced at my watch. Ten more minutes of waiting before salvation or calamity. Alternatives? Me dancing, singing and playing guitar all at once or facing a bare stage with only one musician facing lots of yawning people.
A buxom dancer might catch the audience interest. But what did Rita mean by buxom? I loved big tits, no question about that. If I could present the audience with a great dancer with big boobs, all the better. But she better be good. I only had six hours until the show began.
So I put my guitar aside and stood up, sauntering off toward my gilded mirror, adjusting my black hairgel-prepared locks, letting my fingers run across my chinlining beard and moustache. The black Boss-shirt slightly open, my black leather pants gracefully showing off my muscular derriere, the silver buckle with the eagle an absolute eye catcher, I felt I represented a rather dishy manager of a popular Hispanic dance club in this my chosen professional home on 116 MacDougal Street in the Big Apple.
I wandered over to the small table again and took another sip from the red temptation filling my glass. The dry wine caressed my tongue, broke up into microscopic pieces and made love to my tastebuds. I literally tasted the oak barrels, the rich fruity splendor, the sweet and full grape, and wondered if my new dancer named Maddalena could be compared to a 2006 Sangre de Torro. Was she as lucious as Spanish red wine?
Salvation came early on that – oh, so lucky – summer day.
The soothingly lucious voice that came from behind me crooned a greeting that at least sounded promising.
“Hello?”
I turned around, facing the open doorway that revealed a busy street, a couple of honking horns, a barking dog and an angry policeman yelling:
“Can’t ya read the sign, dork?”
The woman that appeared before me was superbly dressed in a red dress, an Andalusian traje de flamenca adorned with ruffles both in the skirt and in the sleeves.
She had a brought a fan with her, a white one decorated with small red roses, which she held open in her right hand, fanning it sideways toward her face. What was better, she let me gaze at what proved to be fantastic cleavage. This cleavage, like my by now slowly bulging silver eagle buckle, was a real eye catcher, as well. This woman’s sizable knockers struck me rather big for a flamenco dancer. Not that I had anything against a dancer with big jugs. I had seen loads of female flamenco dancers, and invited some of them into my silky bed, but most of them had sported only a 32 B or at the most 34 B rack.
This girl? Maybe I was being uncooth, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off her breasts. This had to be an E-cup. What inch size? 40? Yes, certainly a 40. Good enough to provide my gender a comfortable home for fifteen minutes.
The next thing that really struck me as amazing was that her hair had not been tied into the traditional flamenco bun. Hers was a full black hairdo hanging down way past her shoulderblades, hair as black as her eyes seemed to be, a gorgeous pink complexion gracing her face and bare arms, skin as soft as feathers and legs as long flagpoles.
A looker. A real honest-to-God vixen. This was an absolutely gorgeous woman. Just looking at her gave me a spectacular swelling of the mid-region. If she danced as well as she looked, we would have the audience howling at the very latest midnight.
I jumped off the stage and strode up toward her.
“Hello there. You must be Maddalena Rosario,” I said, taking her hand and kissing it, feeling her soft skin, her tender hand-job fingers and sexy long jerking-off nails in my grasp.
She smiled cutely, giving me a bouncy courtsie that had her wossnames wobbling. Man, I had never ever experienced being so turned on by a woman on first sight.
“Hi,” she chirped. “Yes. Pleased to meet you.”
Those dimples almost had me arriving prematurely in the textile garments that underclad my outer bulging leather.
She twinkled in a way that almost begged for me to make sweet “amour” to her.
“Yes, Rita told me you needed a flamenco dancer tonight,” she told me in a husky and very sexy accent that seemed to be ... Dutch?
“Indeed,” I answered. “You’re heaven sent.”
“Nice to be needed,” she answered. “You are?”
“Julio Ibenez from Barcelona, I moved here in 2003. Opened this club here six years ago,” I said. “You are not Spanish? Correct? You are ...”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Half German, half Dutch,” she said, arching her back and giving me another glance at those fantastic knockers. “Grew up in Italy. Maddalena Rosario is my stage name. My real name is Juliana Juho Ramieka. I studied flamenco in Madrid. Moved there for a boyfriend. Lost the boyfriend, gained the skills.”
She shrugged.
“Also learned how to sing opera there.”
“International,” I nodded. “Should I tell you a little about what we do?”
“Sure.”
“Our aims are threefold: serving good Spanish food, providing for good latin dancing and performing good flamenco shows. To provide the audience with the latter is our job tonight. Our regular dancer Rosita called in sick this morning. She has a set choreography, but I would be happy with anything you do as long as it works. Should we just try it out?”
The girl agreed. “I work with castagnettes and a fan. I will alternate, if that’s okay with you. I do all the traditional flamenco moves.”
Her slight boob shimmy again had me cumming.
I gave her a thumbs up, hoping that I could fuck her eventually, dreaming of everything I could do to her and with her titties. “We are dealing with a show of one hour. All you have to do is dance to my flamenco music. After that, we are serving Paella followed by lots of Latin American dances with everyone involved, providing they are not to drunk or full to swing their hips: rhumba, cha-cha-cha, merengue, salsa and so on. Do you have a set choreography?”
She nodded. “I have more than an hour of set choreography. I can adjust it to your songs. Just give me regular breaks of a minute between numbers. You play intermezzos and I will take a few deep breaths and then go full throttle into the next number. We’ll just start working, okay?”
I had honestly never seen a woman with knockers as big as hers be so mobile, so graceful, so sexy and so delicate and hot at the same time. There were Braceo movements originating between the shoulderblades and the arched back, Chufla footlifts, Cierre endings, self-contained Compás rhythms, syncopated Contra tiempos, Desplante count dances, virtuous brushing Escobillas, full audible Gólpe stamps and encouraging Jaleo shouts.
During our hour long session, she clapped, swung, hands on hips, hands in the air, twirled her fan, used her castagnettes, went into pliés, swung down into splits, used fast footwork, stamped loudly and softly, fast and slow, threw her head back and forth, used that long head of hair to create a really erotic form of dance that had bits of ballet and even jazz and swing or even hip-hop thrown into it, still remaining Spanish all the while.
To top it off, the woman surprised me by singing the Spanish aria “La Tarantula” from Gerónimo Giménez’ Zarzuela opera “La Tempranica”.
After all of that seductive temper and dancing spice, we had literally spent one hour giving each other the choreographical and musical fuck of our lives, we sat at the edge of the stage, panting and laughing, trying to calm down.
We looked at each other, gently stroking each other’s backs, complimenting each other for a good session of creativity.
I must admit that I had hoped she would agree to sleeping with me, but I had no idea that she would give in as easily as she did.
“I think I need to go to bed an hour before I do the show tonight,” she said.
“I have a bed in the back if you want to use that,” I crooned.
Maddalena, or Juliana as her real name was, looked at me and smiled seductively, those dimples appearing again.
“I would like that,” she sing-songed in a whispered swoon.
Again, she arched her back, smiling at me and then looking down at her own tits.
I looked at that cleavage again and grinned, a bit embarassed by the fact that I couldn’t look away. Maddalena giggled when she saw how transfixed I was by her appearance.
“What?” she laughed.
“You,” I demanded.
“What about me?”
“Your ... uhh ...”
“These things?”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” I answered, apprehensively, wondering how far I could go with this. “Your tits are ... absolutely fantastic.”
She smiled. “Thank you. That’s sweet.”
My heart started thumping, throbbing just as hard as my cock was growing.
“In fact,” I stuttered, breaking out into fits of cold sweat. “The first thing I noticed about you when you came in here were ... your tits.”
She looked down at the growing bulge in my pants.
“Well, from what I gather by the sight of your pants, you seem pretty excited to see me. I know one thing about men, no matter how much they lie – their growing bulges don’t.”
I chuckled nervously, rubbing the outside of my pants.
She looked down on the spot I rubbed and gestured for me to stand up.
“Come over, babe,” she whisked.
I gave her a slow and hesitant shrug.
“Stand up and show me your groin!”
I giggled, doing what she had told me.
Slowly and surely, this randy chick, sitting at the edge of the stage, studied my bulge almost religiously before unbuckling my eagle, unzipping my fly and caressing my underwear. It was with a smoothe grin that she freed a penis that simply bounced out and smiled at her with its eight inches and one happy eye on a happy plum sized helmet.
“Well, Julio,” she pouted, “I see one little one-eyed weasel that has desperately been longing for a sexy little blowjob.”
“Get to work, baby. Suck it.”
When Maddelena, alias Juliana, took my erect cock in her mouth, she looked like a Goddess, her bright red lips literally hugging the entire length, squeezing and embracing the entire shaft, closing her eyes, locks from her black hair mingling with my black pubic hair, her earrings bobbing back and forth.
It seemed that for every time she sucked I grew harder. For every blow, her sucking grew deeper. I grabbed her head and literally shoved my dick into her mouth, her squeeking now getting higher by the fuck, her full hair in my hands, her hands on my ass. I felt in complete control, fucking a wonderful and sexy mouth that had sung beautiful tones just a minute before.
With a resounding plop, the woman stood up, leaving my cock bobbing and asking for more. Slowly, she carefully unzipped, letting that sexy dress eventually fall to the ground.
Displaying two fantastic jugs, imprisoned by a red bra that seemed criminal in their attempt to hold back their glorious release, she shrugged, shaking her rack at my dick, and said: “Do you wanna fuck here or go into the back room?”
I couldn’t wait, so I jumped on her with a grunt, forcing her to squeal at me like a puppy.
“What if someone comes in?”
I shook my head, unclasping her bra and licking on her big tasty nipples.
“Then they will get a good show,” I replied, ordering her to lay down on the stage and spread her legs. I ripped off my clothes and subsequently also her panties, immediately getting down in between her thighs to lick myself some delicious salty pussy. She moaned and groaned as I dwelved deeper and deeper into her tasty snatch surrounded by lots of beautiful locks of pubic hairy bliss. I couldn’t help myself but love hairy pussies.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Please fuck me, Julio. I want to feel your big cock inside me.”
Well, that was an invitation I wasn’t slow in accepting. She turned around, running to the bar and bending over and pleading for me to stick my cock inside. Her buttocks wobbled as I rode her from behind and massaging her big and lucious boobs from behind sent me straight to paradise. I think she got pretty inspired while I fucked her, because she began singing Verdi’s “Stride la vampa” from the opera “Il Trovatore” as I entered her again and again. Demanding more penis from another angle, the woman ordered me to a chair and began riding me like a jockey on a stallion before eventually pulling me to the back room. Soon enough, we were fucking like crazy on my squeaking double bed.
I think she eventually got tired of waiting, because she screamed at me to “take out my dick and squirt my cum into her mouth”. We men know that we always have to do what a woman says, so I obliged and got ready to squirt on her teeth. The naked, big boobed flamenco dancer sat there on the edge of my bed, sticking out her tongue, her mouth wide open, pleading for me to squirt my sperm into her hungry hole.
When I came, she laughed and thanked me for it, swallowing every single drop.
By the time we fucked a second time around it was four o’clock in the afternoon.
I eagerly suggested we have a couple of hours of sleep on my bed before getting ready for the show. We could fuck again tonight after the show.
We slept like babies.
She woke up before I did and stepped into the shower. Funnily enough, my other dancer Rosita called me right at that moment, telling me how much she missed our pre-show-fucks. She also asked me if I had found another dancer that might be interested in fucking me as well, in addition to her, of course. Rosita had been hungry for a threesome for quite some time, someone to share my cock with.
“After all,” she said, happily, “sharing is what creativity is all about.”
I told her that her new flamenco colleague was a big boobed and very intelligent and very friendly and very fuckable and very beautiful Dutch woman that simply knew how to suck cock just as well as she did herself. I think Rosita became very keen on getting well after that. Within a week, she was back. Before every evening’s show, then, I had a grand old time, drinking my 2006 Sangre de Torro and regularly squirting on two lovely female tongues.
Maddelena and Rosita became best friends.
Thank God.
Me?
I became a very happy man.