Iwon'tgrowup
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2005
- Messages
- 643
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(Dedicated to veteran encouragers Sole Seeker and Milagros317)
She was just out of college, but without the fresh face we tend to associate with new grads. Lillian smoked marijuana . . . a lot (but never tried to interest me). She drank ale by the eight-pack (once in a while, I'd take a sip). Sloe eyed. Unkempt, shoulder-length blonde hair (the real thing, no boxed kit for this girl, too much work. Once in a while a trim, and never a blow dryer).
Pear-shaped. Firm, fleshy breasts I scaled on our first "date." No Alp could compare.
I had to introduce Lillian to courtship. Her ex-boyfriend was a hardcase in black leather who'd punched her face so hard, her teeth rammed through her lip. I often kissed the scar. Lillian didn't know about kisses or dining out or roses delivered to the door. Or about softness. Or caresses.
And she surely didn't know about tickling.
Lillian looked like a slut. She was a slut. And I was crazy for her. Crazy for her foul mouth, her bad habits, her I-don't-give-a-shit attitude, her weird hours, her whorish wardrobe. I loved pulling her cowboy boots off when her feet were tired. I loved her messy single bed. Almost 25 years gone by, the years roll slowly past, I found myself alone. Where are you tonight, Lillian?
The apartment. That's what I remember most. We always ended up at her apartment, on the bank of a major river. The apartment, where I once tickled Lillian until we (my God, did we) OOOOO did we. We did. Together.
On the way to the restaurant that Saturday evening, she swigged from a brown paper bag. Long black dress, kind of Stevie-ish and swirly, black high-heeled sandals, black lace stockings. That mop of hair. I remember dinner. I doubt if she does. She still had the bag in her hand when she pulled me into the dark apartment and, giggling, shoved me onto the couch.
Slow, my darling. Slow slow slow I almost cooed. In the darkness, I kissed my way through the mop to the scar to the tattooed ankle, where I fumbled with the dressy sandals. Suddenly, I sucked her right big toe through the lace. Shocked gasp. No one's ever kissed my feet before.
Quiet I said. (In the light, her feet may have been even sexier than the hair or scar or breasts. She never messed with polish, but as Hannibal Lecter would say, her feet were very shapely. High arches. Long, slender, sensitive. I was about to learn how much). I sucked the big toe, cradled the foot in my right hand and tickled the arch with my left. Her foot made me crazy, scrunching, flexing, twisting . . . but not pulling away. Then the laughter, softly, a little drunkenly. I think I may be very ticklish Lillian said in her booze-roughened voice.
(For those less patient with detail, you may appreciate Part 2 more)
She was just out of college, but without the fresh face we tend to associate with new grads. Lillian smoked marijuana . . . a lot (but never tried to interest me). She drank ale by the eight-pack (once in a while, I'd take a sip). Sloe eyed. Unkempt, shoulder-length blonde hair (the real thing, no boxed kit for this girl, too much work. Once in a while a trim, and never a blow dryer).
Pear-shaped. Firm, fleshy breasts I scaled on our first "date." No Alp could compare.
I had to introduce Lillian to courtship. Her ex-boyfriend was a hardcase in black leather who'd punched her face so hard, her teeth rammed through her lip. I often kissed the scar. Lillian didn't know about kisses or dining out or roses delivered to the door. Or about softness. Or caresses.
And she surely didn't know about tickling.
Lillian looked like a slut. She was a slut. And I was crazy for her. Crazy for her foul mouth, her bad habits, her I-don't-give-a-shit attitude, her weird hours, her whorish wardrobe. I loved pulling her cowboy boots off when her feet were tired. I loved her messy single bed. Almost 25 years gone by, the years roll slowly past, I found myself alone. Where are you tonight, Lillian?
The apartment. That's what I remember most. We always ended up at her apartment, on the bank of a major river. The apartment, where I once tickled Lillian until we (my God, did we) OOOOO did we. We did. Together.
On the way to the restaurant that Saturday evening, she swigged from a brown paper bag. Long black dress, kind of Stevie-ish and swirly, black high-heeled sandals, black lace stockings. That mop of hair. I remember dinner. I doubt if she does. She still had the bag in her hand when she pulled me into the dark apartment and, giggling, shoved me onto the couch.
Slow, my darling. Slow slow slow I almost cooed. In the darkness, I kissed my way through the mop to the scar to the tattooed ankle, where I fumbled with the dressy sandals. Suddenly, I sucked her right big toe through the lace. Shocked gasp. No one's ever kissed my feet before.
Quiet I said. (In the light, her feet may have been even sexier than the hair or scar or breasts. She never messed with polish, but as Hannibal Lecter would say, her feet were very shapely. High arches. Long, slender, sensitive. I was about to learn how much). I sucked the big toe, cradled the foot in my right hand and tickled the arch with my left. Her foot made me crazy, scrunching, flexing, twisting . . . but not pulling away. Then the laughter, softly, a little drunkenly. I think I may be very ticklish Lillian said in her booze-roughened voice.
(For those less patient with detail, you may appreciate Part 2 more)