Susan Gets Over It

Well, Gentle Reader, here's another one that comes from something I got from another Literotica reader. I got a note telling me how this reader had been affected by "Boob Man," that little 750-word piece I did for one of the Literotica contests (which, by the way, I didn't win, kind of disappointing me). When I replied, I explained that while much of my stuff is at least in part autobiographical (you know, write what you know), "Boob Man" was inspired by someone I had known. Then I realized this was a story that should be written. Yes, this happened. And yes, she was beautiful.

"Oh good,"I thought, seeing Susan sitting at her accustomed place, which is to say near the geometric center of the room at one of the tables, sipping coffee and looking around, being inconspicuous,"I'll know somebody."

I snuck up on her, not hard to do in the general hubbub of a conference before it gets going and they signal for you to put your asses in chairs because it's getting started, laid my hands on her shoulders, making her jump, bent down, and whispered in her ear - "So glad to see a friendly face among these pagans."

She laughed at that, smiling up at me, and said, "Sit."

Susan was about a decade and a half my senior at that three-day conference. I met her when she was the Executive Director of a sheltered workshop, and I was a junior planner working with her to get funding from one of those government training programs, the awkwardly named Jobs Training Partnership Act, if it matters, with an unpronounceable acronym JTPA. Our friendship developed as we struggled to craft one of those examples of creative writing that's called a grant application.

My boss had told me once, the only thing that really matters when it comes to government funding. "The government plays a game, Dave," he told me as he handed me the first application I was directed to complete, "we have money, can you get it?" Since I've always enjoyed games and, I flatter myself, have a bit of talent for writing, I got pretty good at it, and since Susan's project was going to be difficult, I got the project.

Now, since I had my own Executive Director's gig, Susan had morphed into my Rabbi when it came to things administrative, since the job required administration, and that isn't my strong suit. Most importantly, she taught me the benefit, indeed, the necessity of regular reporting to the Board of Directors and several of the tricks that went with that.

Stuff like that.

As I sat, turning the coffee cup in front of my chair over and filling it, and Susan's, from the carafe on the table, I turned to look at her.

"Damn, Baby," I said, leaning forward to block out the background noise, "are you all right?"

The thing is, she didn't look "all right."

Susan was one of those women who worked hard to make the best of what she had, as the saying goes. Her hair had already gone grey when I met her, but she had always kept it done nicely with some subtle highlights and, I presumed, some sort of product to give it body. Now it was flat and lifeless. In the same way, her face, one of those not unattractive faces (with apologies to Mrs. O'Neil, my third-grade teacher who would always rail against any double negative), was almost handsome rather than pretty. But, again, she always did the best with what she had with carefully applied makeup and scarlet lipstick. Today, she had no makeup on.

"I've been better," she said.

Before she could elaborate, the lights dimmed, and the overpowered public address system made personal conversations impossible. For the next forty-five minutes we were told how things worked, where the breakout rooms would be, eating schedules, bathroom locations, how glad they were that we were here, how we would leave the conference better grantspersons, yadda yadda, blah blah, we're so happy to teach you, blah, blah, and finally, blessedly, "So, let's go."

I was on the panel for the rest of the afternoon's breakout session/seminar. I was considered a bit of an expert on rural economic development, although most of what I did, it seems to me, falls well into that special realm of common sense. So I took Susan's hand, looked into her eyes, and said, "Dinner and drinks, on my agency, I'm in room 1213. Call me when you're ready."

She smiled weakly, "wanly" is probably a better word, and said, "Yes, Sir."

I laughed, kissed her on the forehead, and headed off to spread enlightenment.

I'm always amazed. I mean, I know I'll never get rich doing what I do, I'm actually too honest at my core to take the freely offered "gratuities," what you might call a bribe. But it's a good living and as close to being a professional student as I could find. But so much of what makes me successful is just common sense.

Here's an example.

One of the things I stress is that you put your original, blue-ink signature on any correspondence with a client. Just common sense, right? But so many in my line of work think that a rubber stamp is acceptable, never mind how goddam phony that looks. Another one that seems opaque to many of the folks who do what I do is the necessity to put the damn information in, no matter how many times the application forms call for the same information. Since "cut and paste" became a matter of moving a mouse and doing a little clicking, there's no reason not to, and if you don't do that little thing, you've given the bureaucrat a reason to say "no," and, after all, that's what they live for.

So I enlightened until I was hoarse, made my jokes, gave my examples, and told all of the folks in the room how brilliant they are, feeling a little like Tony Robbins.

Then I went up to the room, checked my email quickly, not much, I run a good shop, and when I'm gone, pretty much nobody notices, and checked out the news to see who we were at war with today.

The phone rang, and it was Susan.

"I'm in the bar," her voice said, that distinct whisky coarse voice I'd always found kind of sexy, "now get down here before I let this guy giving me the eye buy me that drink."

I laughed and said, "Are you sure you want me to? I can always order room service."

"Yes, David," she said, suddenly serious, "I'm sure."

I ran my fingers through my hair and headed down to the hotel bar.

She was at one of the hubcap-size tables, some sort of drink in front of her, something with a straw and umbrella, watching the trio on stage.

I moved behind her, kissed the top of her head, making her jump, and sat.

"Beer, whatever's the darkest thing you have on tap," I said to the waitress who had materialized like a magician's assistant.

"Sooooooooo," I said, leaning across the table and touching the back of her hand, "What's up?"

She smiled, a bit forced but better, I thought, leaned forward conspirationally, and said, "I'd like to get laid."

I stood and offered my hand, making her giggle.

"Well, at least buy me dinner, Sir," she said, and this time the smile wasn't forced.

"Soooooooo," I said again, "hubby not taking care of business?"

The waitress materialized, she seemed to be some sort of magician, and we ordered. Sirloin with the fixin's for me, something called theOriental Saladfor her.

"Robert left me," she said, meeting my eyes.

"What..." I started, but she talked over my question.

"I don't want to talk about it, David," she said, "but I do want to get laid, and I don't want to pick up some stranger so you're elected."

"Oh, not that," I said, "Not the briar patch Br'er Fox."

She giggled and said, "Ohhhhhh yeah, it's the briar patch for you fo' sho', Br'er Rabbit."

I was curious, of course, but let her steer the conversation to things professional. So instead of lost husbands, we talked of how to digitize time sheets, what went into a good response package, and how to read a profit and loss statement. It was actually interesting. She was still much better at that stuff than me, but I was learning.

Dinner done and napkins tossed onto plates, she smiled and said, "Okay, I'm fueled up, take me to bed."

I leaned across the table again, touched her hand, and said, "Are you sure this is what you want, Susan?"

Her eyes got red, and tears welled as she said, "If you don't want to, I understand."

I moved my thumb a little so that I was grasping her hands now and said, "I didnotsay that. I just want to make sure that you're sure."

She smiled, and the single tear that escaped to run down her cheek made me want to touch it with my tongue.

"I'm sure," she said.

This time, there were no silly questions. I took her hand and led her to the elevator bank.

We didn't speak on the way up to my room, just held hands. It wasn't an awkward silence, just companionable.

In the room, I reached for her, but she caught my hands.

"No, David," she said, "I asked. Now let me do the work, please. You enjoy."

I smiled, dropped my hands to my side, and said, "Work your will on me."

She giggled and started on the buttons of my shirt.

This was a complete role reversal for me. Normally, I'm the, well, the "aggressor" is a good word, with a woman. I like to undress them. I like to be the one who decides when and how hard to kiss. And yes, I like the subtle dominance of stripping her naked while I'm still clothed.

But I liked what Susan was doing. I watched her fingers, trembling a little with nerves or excitement, I couldn't tell which, as she worked on the buttons of my Oxford-cloth, button-down shirt. She would lightly touch and tickle, and then kiss, each new section of skin she revealed. When the shirt was off, tossed onto the single chair in the room, she eased to her knees.

We laughed together as her knees popped when she did that.

She lifted my foot, forcing me to grab her shoulders for balance, to get my loafers and socks off, making me squirm and laugh as she played with my toes.

Her fingers trembled more as she worked on the belt, finally getting the prong out of the hole and loosening it, and then the button and zipper of my pants. She worked them down past my hips, taking the boxers with them, and smiled up at me when she saw my erection hard enough that I could feel it throbbing a little. I'm one of those men built so that my erection points straight up my body, and I watched as she looked at it and then slowly bent forward to kiss it.

But it wasn't a blow job.

She worked the pants all the way down and then pulled them free as I did that awkward two-step getting clear. She folded the pants, laid them across the chair where my shirt lay, and turned.

I didn't do anything stupid like try to cover myself with my hands or anything. I just stood there, my erection announcing my interest in the only way a man can demonstrate how much his woman is getting to him. She took her time, deliberately looking me up and down, before she held her arm out, forefinger pointing at the floor, and twirled it in the universal "turn around" gesture.

So I turned, slowly, and when I was facing her again, I laced my fingers behind my head and started moving my hips in what I hoped was a passable bump and grind as I turned through another circle.

She was smiling when I faced her again.

She came to me, kissed me quickly, and then turned down the bed.

"Watch, David," she said as she moved to the foot of the bed.

She made it a slow striptease. I wondered what music was playing in her head as her hips moved in that boneless way no man can ever replicate. She did the hands-through-the-hair thing that all men find sexy, and slowly undid the buttons of her shirt, a match to mine, actually, before shrugging it off and tossing it onto the growing pile on the chair. Her bra, I couldn't help but notice, was a heavy-duty, white cotton garment, just what I expected from this no-nonsense woman.

She unbuttoned and unzipped the pencil skirt she wore and let it drop, leaving her in that industrial strength bra, pale tan pantyhose covering what looked to be panties that would match the bra, and moderately high heeled pumps.

She did a couple of slow turns, doing that hip-moving thing, before almost falling as she kicked the shoes off.

Now, unless you're a professional with those specially constructed stripper clothes, there's no way to gracefully get out of panty hose, so the mood was broken a little when she sat on the edge of the chair to get them off, but then she was back up and doing that dance, looking more naked than she would have if she was nude in that bra and panties set.

She kept her back to me as she pushed the panties down, revealing a very good, if sixty-something, ass. She had just a hint of cellulite dimpling in a lovely, round ass showing that classic inverted heart shape.

And then the mood changed.

I watched, not understanding at first, as she reached up, tugged in a few places, and pulled the wig off her head.

"Damn thing's too hot to leave on," she said, tossing it onto the pile of clothes.

I watched as her hands moved behind her in that weird, double-jointed movement girls seem to learn with that first "training bra," and she unhooked it.

When she tossed it onto the pile of clothes and wig, it hit with an oddly heavy thud.

So far, she had carefully kept her back to me, but it was pretty clear what was coming.

She took a deep breath, let it out in a long whistling hiss like a swimmer getting ready to dive in, and turned to face me.

On her head, the hair looked about like mine had after I got out of basic training. I didn't know if she had gone ahead and shaved it or if it had fallen out naturally from the treatments she had received, and it didn't really matter.

Where her breasts had been, two pink scars ran from her armpits almost to her sternum.

She stood for a few seconds, standing still, almost defiant in her posture, and then took the few steps to stand beside me at the bed.

"If you aren't interested in a part-woman, I'll understand, David," she said.

I smiled, took her hand, and laid it on my erection, still hard and throbbing.

"Do I seem uninterested?" I asked.

She smiled then and crawled into bed with me, not mounting me as I'd almost expected, but stretching out beside me.

She met my eyes and said, "There was a lump, and then we found the BRCA genes and, well, I figured what the hell? I'm almost to a Medicare card, not gonna have kids, so why not take care of the problem? Robert said he was okay with it, but when he saw, well, he just couldn't handle it."

She wound down then, gentle tears leaking, and this time I did touch them with my tongue, tasting tearsalt and enjoying it. I kissed the lines her tears had made, then I kissed her eyelids and her cheeks and her forehead and the fuzz on her head before I kissed her lips.

"David," she said, when I leaned back far enough to just look at her, "I said I'd do the work tonight."

I kissed her again.

"And I believe that a woman, tits or no tits," I was being deliberately crude to try to lighten the mood, "deserves to have her man take care of her, so lay back, Beautiful, and let me take care of you."

"Am I really?" she asked.

I knew what she wanted, so I lied.

"Yes, Susan," I said, kissing her between each word now, "you are a beautiful woman who survived a terrible problem and came through as beautiful and, yes," I kissed each scar where her breasts had been, "as sexy," I kissed her belly and the light down of her pubic mound, wondering if she had shaved or the hair loss there had been part of the treatment too, "as ever."

"God, you are sweet," she said.

What we did then was not just fucking. I made love to her. I covered her face with kisses as I moved to cover her, my knees between hers, my erection automatically lined up, and slipped into her, where she was hot and slick. When I was balls deep, I whispered, "Squeeze now."

I was supporting myself on my elbows then, and I said, "Look at me."

Our eyes met, and I held them, wanting her to see how much I was enjoying her.

"Squeeze," I said, and felt as she worked those vaginal muscles.

"Harder," I said, kissing her eyelids and cheeks.

She took a deep breath, and I felt the tension in her body as she bore down, squeezing me tight, almost like a hand now.

"Harder," I said, and watched her face, holding her eyes, as her face scrunched up, and she grunted in her effort.

"Hold it," I said, watching her breathing in harsh little pants as she held that pressure.

Her face was turning red with the effort of what she was doing when I said, "Relax."

As soon as she relaxed, I pulled out, squirmed down, and buried my face between her legs before she had her breathing back to normal.

She was loose, relaxed after the effort she had put into squeezing, and when I used my fingertips to part her labia, those delicate pink inner lips almost fell out, swollen and shiny with her natural lubricants. I took them into my mouth and sucked, feeling the tension in her body as I felt the tissue swell in my mouth.

I used my fingertips to lift her clitoral hood, flicked her clitoris a few times with my tongue before settling into slow pressure with my tongue, rolling that hard little button of her pleasure until I felt her body arch against me and a sudden sticky wetness soak my goatee.

I brought her to orgasm three times quickly with my fingertips and tongue before moving forward, slipping inside her again, and kissing her with lips slick with her nectar.

"You," I said, bending down to nip at her ear, "are," my tongue tracing the spiral shell of her ear, "beautiful."

I held still for a long ten count, buried deep into her.

"You," I said, arching my back and neck to kiss the scar where her right breast had been, "are," kissing across the scar to the matching scar where her left breast had been, "sexy," making her squeal when I licked her left armpit, a long, wet lick.

"I apologize," I said, doing a clock kiss to her face, forehead, twelve o'clock, left cheek, three o'clock, chin, six o'clock, right cheek, nine o'clock, and tip of her nose, pivot for the clock hands, "on behalf of off of the stupid men," kissing her lips, "who think all that matters," kissing her lips, "on a woman," kissing her lips, "are her tits."

I cried out as her nails raked my back, and I felt the sudden gush of hot, sticky, wet as she came.

My control held, barely, and when she relaxed, I was still inside of her.

"Now, hold still,' I said, my lips brushing her ear, each syllable a warm little puff, "relax, and listen to my words."

She flashed that one-eyebrow raised thing I'm not genetically enabled to do, but then I felt the tension leave her body.

I flashed back to Kimiko, the Japanese bar girl with whom I had shared a house for almost three years while I was doing my trick for my country, and the things she had taught me.

"Feel me inside of you," I said, very softly, hypnotically if you will, because that is what, when it came down to it, that's what this particular technique is, "feel the gentle pressure as I fill you."

I kissed her gently.

"Feel only where our bodies touch," I said, "you don't need to feel your hands or feet," another kiss, "your limbs are going away. All there is is where we touch, where we're joined."

I kissed her gently.

"Feel deep in your belly as glands work," I said, kissing her, "how hot and wet it is where you flow around me."

I could feel it working, the way her love honey was even hotter, thinner.

"Feel your nipples," I said and kissed her when her eyes got big, "trust me," I said, "feel how sensitive they are," I brushed my lips across the scars.

"Squeeze now," I said, kissing her, "pull me deeper."

When she started to move, I said, "Stop, don't move, just pull me deeper."

She moaned but relaxed, only her vaginal muscles working.

"Tell me you love me," I said, lifting myself enough to look into her eyes.