Naked Martinis

NAKED MARTINIS

Before Joan and I were married, I worked for one of the state's universities, in the continuing education college. I lived in a basic two-bedroom garden apartment a half mile or so from the campus. As is typical of college towns, most of the other tenants, my neighbors, were students with 2, 3, or 4 of them sharing a unit to help reduce the inordinately high rents. Two floors above me was another "civilian," Shirley B. She used the B with her name since she worked with two other Shirleys, and adding the initial kept their identities straight. I met Shirley B. at the laundry room shorty after I moved in, and with both of us being enough older than the students surrounding us, we kind of bonded right away. She was tall, likely 5'10" or 5'11" and slender with strawberry blond hair, not unattractive in any way.

During that first summer we started sharing beers and conversation poolside many nights after work and got to know each other more as the season went on. As our friendship grew more personal, and our dialogue more intimate, her utilitarian one-piece swimsuit progressed to a more provocative two-piece mirroring the evolving relationship between us.

Shirley B. was a physician's assistant at the Veteran's Administration Hospital and was dating a doctor there named Andy. I was dating a woman, Judy, who worked in an administrative position at the University Hospital. We never articulated an exclusive relationship between us, but given our degree of intimacy, either of us could have assumed some exclusivity. While neither Shirley nor I seemed to have relationship-threatening problems with our dating partners, we both felt something was missing. I described mine as being "plain vanilla," while Shirley just said hers was lacking "pzazz."

Soon Shirley B. and I were sharing our most personal and intimate problems and finding both a sympathetic ear, and when needed, a stern "Dutch uncle" in each other. It seemed we both had found our own personal "Ann Landers meets Dr. Ruth."

In mid-September, with cooler weather encroaching and the pool closed, we moved our impromptu happy hours to her 3rd floor balcony, which had a much nicer view and more privacy than mine on the ground level. Hers had an inviting view looking over the pool with the University's lush golf course visible in the background. We decided to try to get together every Tuesday and an occasional Thursday, when possible.

For our first balcony sessions she stayed in the scrubs she'd worn to work. Coming from my office, I generally stopped to pick up a sixpack of some more exotic beer than we'd shared at the pool. As our meetings progressed, we'd message each other if we had other plans and couldn't make our now once or twice a week casual rendezvous. Our friendship continued to grow and by mid-October she had started taking time to change into "civilian" clothes, often a casual dress or skirt and tee-top outfit. While I'd certainly seen a lot more of her shapely, long legs at the pool, there's something extra sensual about watching a woman teasingly cross and uncross her legs as they protruded from a shorter dress or skirt.

She also suggested we switch to wine for the cooler weather and began serving just below top-shelf bottles and demonstrated that she knew quite a lot about them. I was impressed. The more I got to know her, the more I really liked her.

In early November she greeted me in a mid-length dress, and when she sat and crossed her legs, I was amazed to discover that she was wearing classic nylon stockings suspended with garters. This evoked some sensual nostalgia beginning with the girls from my high school days and later from Susan Sarandon's sensuous role in the movie "Bull Durham."

I struggled unsuccessfully to keep my eyes off her remarkably inviting legs. She couldn't have helped but seeing where my eyes were focused and soon responded by lifting her extended slender and toned leg and dangling her shoe from her toes. With a flirtatious smile, she asked, "What do you think?"

I wasn't sure exactly how to reply. I didn't want to cross any boundaries that could jeopardize our friendship, but I sure didn't want her to think I found her alluring hosiery to be anything short of breathtaking. I could only say, "This is absolutely among the most captivating, sensuous moments I've had, maybe ever." And it was. I sensed this was the moment that would put our friendship on a different level. Judy would have never considered wearing such sexy underwear.

"Thank you, I want you to know how much I enjoy wearing lingerie like this. I often wear these nylons when I'm at meetings, or conferences, where no one else will likely ever know. It makes me feel extra sexy and special, while Andy thinks it makes me look trashy and cheap. So, I don't wear them when I'm with him, and I miss having men being first surprised and then quite attracted to my legs. Your eyes and words tell me you approve, and I appreciate your honest third-party affirmation."

I shared with her the appeal I found in her that was reminiscent of Susan Sarandon in "Bull Durham," and with my high school girlfriend when my ambitious hands got caught in her beneath-the-skirt amenities. To reward me for my appreciation of her lingerie, she crossed her legs higher giving me an even better view of the tawny stocking tops and her contrasting pale bare skin above.

This was an incredibly arousing moment for me, and I wrestled with the ethical dilemma of having such a sexual interest in Shirley B. while being so emotionally involved with Judy. I couldn't help wondering how she was reconciling her behavior with me vs. her relationship with Andy. Maybe this was a symptom of the lack of pzazz she was feeling, or maybe she was just being harmlessly playful with me.

After letting her strappy pump fall off her toes, she asked me if I knew the term 'friends with benefits." I told her I did, and she explained she was hoping to find in me a friend with some limited benefits, while reserving the more intimate things for our primary romantic relationships. I was more than intrigued with her proposal since it could put the "pzazz" she was seeking into her life and offer me more than "plain vanilla" excitement too.

She went on to explain that what friends with benefits meant to her. Each sexually playful "benefit" she shared would be an act in and by itself; a "gift" in its own individual box tied up in a bow, and not foreplay leading to sex, or a promise or guarantee for any increasingly intimate activity. I took this to mean that being treated to her leg show tonight may very well be a one-time event; but certainly one I was more than grateful for.

This was demonstrated the next week when our cocktail hour was just that, and she wore her work uniform again. Our conversation was lively, but without mention of the last week's entertainment. Given her detailed description of how she wanted our "limited" relationship to be, I sure didn't want to rock the boat. I'd never had a "with benefits" friendship and it was clear she made the rules and the agenda.

Fortunately, for me, the next week she again wore a short dress and those beguiling stockings. After a couple of glasses of a nice merlot, she playfully put her stockinged feet in my lap and asked. "Would you mind massaging my feet? They're really sore tonight.

While a woman's feet may not qualify as proverbial or literal "private parts," this was the most personal physical contact I'd had with her. Her subtle, yet evocative "aahs" contained an undisguised admission to feeling some palpable, if not sensuous pleasure beyond just the relief from being on her feet all day. And the soft, silken texture of her nylons atop her supple feet had an equally stimulating tactile effect on my hands. After enjoying my massaging for a while, she excused herself and returned with more wine, and a small bottle of lotion.

When asking me to lotion her feet, it was clear that one of us would need to remove her stockings. She again described the excitement she received from wearing stockings and from letting selective men get a peek of her wearing them, often when she was at bars or restaurants. She reminded me that each act she performed had its own sensuousness, with one not necessarily leading to another. Again, putting her feet in my lap, she raised her skirt to give me an unobstructed view of her legs and access to her garters.

It was obvious she wanted me to remove her stockings. While it was easy to unhook the front garters, she needed to put each foot on one of my shoulders to raise that leg and allow me to reach the back ones. I got a nice view of her sheer white panties as her legs moved apart to allow my access. Slowly rolling each stocking down her leg had its own special visual and tactile sensations for both her and me. I hadn't been nearly mature or patient enough to appreciate and savor the sensuous nature of this act with my high school sweetheart.

I applied lotion to my hands, letting it warm-up before massaging her fetching bare feet. Her "oohs and aahs" became breathier and more pronounced as the lotion enhanced my ability to please her.

"Don't forget between my toes," she cooed while suggestively offering the subtle symbolism, and I complied immediately. Moving to her arch, then heel and moving up the back of her ankle brought more pleasure. I wished I had a reflexology chart to better know which areas would maximize her sensual stimulation.

Despite my growing arousal from seeing and touching her, I understood her rules about not assuming one sensual treat would lead to another. This despite her appearing to escalate our intimacy.

I had an out-of-town conference the next week, so it was two weeks until she welcomed me barefoot and wearing a white velour robe. After some catching up on our longer absence, she suggestively asked, "Have you ever had a 'Naked Martini?"

Not having heard of a "Naked Martini," I was hoping the double entendre implied by her words was intentional. She then explained that her Naked Martini was fresh ice, top shelf vermouth and gin which she kept in her freezer that were then "shaken, not stirred," James Bond style; and no olives or twists to distract from the "naked" taste of the liquor. Her demeanor seemed to recognize my disappointment with her now apparently single meaning of the word naked.

Her over-sized robe was held in place only by the sash around her waist which appeared to loosen every time she bent forward reaching for her long-stemmed glass. Soon, I could see she was not wearing anything beneath, at least above her waist. The more times she sipped her drink, the less confining her robe became, allowing me progressively better views of her bare, modest-sized, and shapely breasts. While I got only a fleeting and possibly accidental glimpse of her nipples, I savored this as another gift of our "limited benefit friendship."

She offered a second Naked Martini, and I gladly accepted. When she returned, she sat back and held her glass while putting her inviting bare feet on the edge of the cocktail table between us. With her knees together and feet spread more widely the robe parted below her knees, and I was treated to a seemingly unintentional, stolen peek at her bare pussy now on display behind the gap between her ankles. This seemed to be another escalation of the open robe gift, possibly violating her claim that there was no connection between her actions. I sure wasn't complaining, but I doubted Andy would feel the same. And I had to admit that Judy wasn't on my mind right then.

The next Tuesday Shirley had to work late and asked if I could still join her at 9:00 for a later evening "Naked Martini" and to come "just wearing a robe." This time she met me in a short, bright red kimono artfully highlighted with Japanese characters and escorted me to her candlelit balcony while she went in to pour the drinks. I had high hopes the "naked" part of her martinis was about to expand in its meaning tonight. I wasn't sure if I should be naked when she came back, or if I should wait and follow her lead. Not wanting to be presumptive, I went the safe route and kept my robe on.

She returned in her robe carrying two frosted lovely long-stemmed martini glasses along with a chilled shaker. She poured us each what she announced were her most special naked martinis, made with Wixworth gin she brought back from South Africa. She proudly pointed out, "This gin is not imported to the U.S., and I have a very limited supply I only share with my closest friends on special occasions."

Before we lifted our glasses to toast, she stood, looking into my eyes and softly said, "For this special Naked Martini we should probably be naked too, in order to fully appreciate the drink and the intimacy of the moment."

With that said, she untied the sash around her kimono and pulled it off her shoulders spreading it open wide enough to display her modest sized, modest shaped breasts with nipples prominently displayed, and let it fall to the floor. I followed suit with my robe, but kept my eyes open wide enough to take in the full measure of her sensual exposure.

Seeing her completely naked for the first time was a truly breathtaking moment. Not because she had the most perfect figure, but because she was willingly sharing her most private, intimate body parts with me and trusting me to appreciate her just as she was.

While images of perfect beautiful bodies are available everywhere: on-line, in magazines, movies and social media, seeing someone you know, respect, and find captivating, now naked for the first time, is an unexpected, rare, and stunning event. Her subtle imperfections, and "girl-next-door" commonality are what made her uniquely appealing in a "forbidden fruit," now revealed sort of way. I was totally absorbed in Shirley B.'s allure. Neither of us were giving Andy or Judy a second thought. Where did the limits of our friendship with benefits end, I pondered with some guilt-inspired ambivalence.

Over several weeks of naked, naked martinis, she started spreading her legs wider in response to my visibly growing arousal from seeing her naked body. Her confusing, if not mixed messaging only further heightened my sexual interest and challenged my ability to understand and follow her "...limited benefits" rules.

During the next of these teasing evenings, she moved closer and softly said to me, "I can see you're getting more excited by my nude body, and probably wanting some relief, so I'd love to watch you come while you're looking at me. I want to see how you stroke yourself as you get more aroused by me and then follow the final mechanics of your ejaculation."

It was clear again, this was to be a mutually pleasurable experience in itself, with no promise it would lead to more. I could sure live with that, and at the same time selfishly convince myself this activity didn't threaten or compromise the primary love relationships we both maintained.

Shirley B. left to get the remaining liquor in the martini shaker to freshen our drinks and bring a box of tissues. After a couple of sips for courage, she brought her chair closer so I could better see her aroused nipples and freshen my own arousal. She next took several tissues into her hand and put her legs over the arms of her chair giving me a direct view of her now widely spread pussy. As I'd been told, not all pussies look the same, and hers fully owned my attention and admiration.

I literally got 'hold of my now throbbing member and began to pleasure myself and her it seemed too. While I'd gotten myself off looking at images of naked women since I was probably 12 or 13, this was the first time looking at a real woman, as a grown man, where my masturbation wasn't part of either foreplay ending is sex, or an alternative when my partner was hygienically unavailable.

In any case, those thoughts gave way quickly to incredible fervor over her naked body as she watched me stroke my cock more aggressively. I leaned forward as she readied the tissues to catch my semen by holding them flat on her palms where she could watch my ejaculation as it occurred. That was all it took to get me to spurt my load on to her tissue covered hands. The release was amazing, in both intensity and volume, as it soaked through the tissues. When I was finished and caught my breath, she left for the bathroom to dispose of my cum and wash up.

When she returned, we finished our drinks in our robes and planned to meet again next week. I couldn't believe the increased intimacy of tonight and despite her rules, I couldn't help but wondering where this might be leading. With the exception of my naively curious high school girlfriend, I had never had a grown woman want to watch me come, and certainly not so intently. While the benefits I was receiving from Shirley B. were maybe "limited" in ultimate culmination, they seemed "unlimited" in intensity and imagination. I considered myself a very lucky man.

I wore only my robe again for our next cocktail hour, as did she. After half a martini, she untied her robe and let it fall open. Her modest breasts always got my attention, and after opening my robe, she noticed my arousal.

"That was quite an orgasm you had last week," she remarked with a smile.

"Ah, yes it was," I replied. "Your intimate fascination with my self-indulgence was reflected in your eyes and seemed to bring me to new heights. It felt like you gaze had as firm of a grasp on me as my hand did, if that makes sense."

"Yes, it does. I am a visual person, as I see you are too. I've never had a man look at me with so much flattering interest," she said, making me think this must be part of what makes her relationship with Andy lack "pzazz."

"But let's get back to that orgasm you had," she retorted. "Did your pleasure match the size and intensity of your emission?" she asked, almost sounding like the clinician she was.

"It sure did; I don't remember a time I've come so much and so hard."

"Well, tonight I'd like to see if we can outdo that, if you're willing to maybe expand your repertoire of acceptable sexual activities," she softly asked.

It seemed like definition of "limited benefits" in our friendship was ever expanding, though I wasn't permitted to have any such expectations. "I'm open to suggestions." I said cautiously, but not wanting to give her any second thoughts about whatever she was proposing.

"Have you ever had a prostate massage?" she asked, sounding even more clinical. She must have seen my hesitation, and added, "Its mechanically not totally unlike a prostate exam, but it's done just before you reach orgasm, and it can increase your pleasure exponentially, if you let it."

I'd never experienced anything anal before, so this needed a little more information to convince me, and my silence must have let her know that.

"Just trust me, you'll love it if you relax and give up your prejudices and fears. Come with me," she said as she led me to her bedroom.

She had me lay on my back naked and put a pillow under my lower back and raised and spread my knees wide enough for her to get between them. She put a box of tissues and tube of KY beside her. "Now relax and look at me, she said while putting her hands behind her head to show me her breasts prominently. I responded as she hoped I would and I took myself in hand. She fluffed her "pillows" sensuously and again told me to relax, clear my mind, and just enjoy myself.

I was amazingly hard as I took in the view of her supple naked body as she leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees. This allowed her breasts to hang forward like long slender cones with incredibly hard nipples. This is a view of a woman's tits that is one of the most arousing to me, and she could tell I wasn't going to last long, so she softly admonished me to, "Slow down and let me do my magic."