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Getting old doesn’t happen overnight. It creeps up on you. For me, the memory is the thing. I can look for my glasses forever until I bend over and – plop – there they are, dropping onto the bridge of my nose from the top of my head, where I’d put them. And if I had a penny for every time I’ve walked into the kitchen and wondered just what I’d gone in there for, well, I wouldn’t be rich, but I’d have a chunk of change to take to the bar.
But there are memories and there are memories. And I’ll never forget one day when I was a young man in 1954, two years after J.W. Stiles came to town. You probably don’t know the name now. But in its heyday, Stiles was the department store of department stores. If they didn’t stock it, you didn’t need it. And as well as the merchandise, its stock in trade was opulence. If ever there was a store that deserved to be called an emporium, almost certainly with a capital E, Stiles was it. And — now I think of it and another memory comes bubbling back — there was a girl on one of the perfume counters who stole my heart with her breathtaking looks. Jenny with the flowing red hair… the legs that went all the way up to 11… and a sweet mouth that I was lucky enough to find wrapped around my cock a few times.
But this story isn’t about Jenny. Not that I couldn’t tell you more. There was the time, after all, when I nearly experienced the business end of her father’s shotgun when he came home unexpectedly to find me taking his daughter from behind, bent over the corner of their expensive leather couch. We were making so much noise — or Jenny was, she made the most exquisite sounds when she came — that we didn’t hear him come in… but I’ve never moved so fast in my life.
I digress. I do that, it’s a prerogative of the old.
But this story is more about Stiles itself, when I think about it. It had that feel of a truly magical store, the kind you always find a new area in each time you visit, with tricksy little staircases and corridors that ended in swing doors opening on to new halls of delights.
And in particular, this story is about the elevators at Stiles. Or one of them at least. Elevator No. 3.
Not for Stiles the steel boxes that other stores use to ferry their customers from floor to floor. No, at Stiles the elevators were palatial. Marble flooring, rich wood panelling, polished brass control plates where there was never a blown light bulb hiding behind a button. And chandeliers. Yes, chandeliers. One in each elevator.
?I told you they were opulent.
So, you see, Stiles was the kind of place that every time you went in, you would take a trip to another floor just to experience the elevator. And so I did. And it was on one day in February, 1954 that the events I am writing about transpired.
For once, the store was quiet. Christmas had come and gone, the festive shopping replaced by the day-to-day purchasing of harried consumers, with too much work to do and not enough money to indulge in luxuries. I walked in off the street, turned down my coat collar that had been protecting me against the whistling wind and wandered towards güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri the elevators, intending to go up to the fifth floor, where a wealth of sporting goods awaited.
I pressed the button to call the elevator and — almost instantly — with a ping and a rumbling of mechanics, elevator No. 3 was there. Empty.
I stepped inside and pressed the fifth-floor button, and the doors closed. With a renewed rumble, the cabin started its ascent.
You’ll have to forgive me if things get a little hazy here. The memories are very clear, in fact, but the nature of what happened makes explaining them a little difficult.
Somewhere between the second and third floors — or possibly between the third and fourth floors — I experienced an extraordinary sensation. Time seemed to slow down, taking on an oily flow that slowed to a glacial pace. My vision blurred a little. That movement of the lift that causes you to feel as if your stomach has dropped a couple of inches ceased. And the chandelier above my head slowly dimmed, the glimmer in each glass facet fading to a spark … and dying.
Darkness. Complete and utter darkness. I held my hand in front of my face — nothing. I closed my eyes and opened them again — no difference.
And then I heard a noise. A laugh.
Now I suspect you are thinking that I was freaking out at this point. But that laugh, oh that laugh. It was a woman’s laugh. Musical, throaty, full of joy and yet at the same time, if I am frank, dirty. Very, very dirty indeed.
Words next. “Don’t be afraid.” In a voice that was coated with summer and honey and was laced with come-hither smiles and very nearly had me cumming in my pants.
“I’m not,” I said. And curiously, that was true. Despite having lost all visual points of reference, I was calm. My breathing was normal. But I will admit my mind was racing. And one thing my subconscious now brought to my attention was that the acoustics around our voices — yes, I was already thinking of her as being there, totally, utterly — had changed. We were in some much larger space.
“Good,” she said. “I like that.” I could hear the smile in her voice, the kind that shows a hint of white teeth but which promises more.
“Don’t ask any questions,” she continued. “We don’t have much time. Just know that I know your every desire … and I like all of them.”
“Come here,” I said. My breathing was growing more rapid, my heart pounding. But this was arousal, not fear. My cock had gone from soft to hard in seconds. I wanted her with a lust that came from somewhere deep within.
I felt more than heard her approach me, and suddenly she was in my arms. The perfect height for me, her face at the level where I just have to dip my head slightly towards her upturned, welcoming lips. The height where afterwards, she can lay her head just below my chin as we hold each other.
The darkness was still total. But my senses were telling me all about her. She was full-figured, her breasts pressing against my chest in a wonderful way and my hands now descending to her hips, the curve there güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri almost enough to make me gasp. Her hair smelled of vanilla and sandalwood, a blend I couldn’t place but somehow electrifying and intensifying my desire.
We kissed, our tongues meeting, her lips welcoming and our embrace becoming tighter, hands roaming over each other, discovering the contours of each other’s bodies in the dark. Her breasts were full and heavy, one filling my hand completely.
We kissed again, deeper and harder, small noises coming from the back of the throat as we felt our need build. I say build — it was already at stratospheric levels in my case, but this was something utterly unlike what I’d felt before.
“Take me,” she whispered in my ear. “I need you.”
Clothes suddenly faded away and there she was, warm and vital in my arms, hot and wet between her legs, her hand stroking my cock and guiding it into her. The sense of space around us and the darkness made everything so much more intense than normal. I felt her cunt lips part as I pushed into her, the heat around my cock head quite exquisite, and I thrust eagerly, sliding fully into her.
Somehow we moved together perfectly. There was none of that awkwardness there sometimes is, the sense that one of you isn’t positioned comfortably, that one of you is straining to keep their balance and therefore not quite focused on pleasure. This motion was smooth and assured as if we’d known each other for years, knew just what to do, which buttons to press, when to draw back, when to push that little bit deeper, when to move fast and when slow.
We fucked. We fucked long and hard, slow and gentle, deep and soulful, vicious and animal. We fucked toward extremes of emotion, not knowing if they were tears or laughter. She moved with the same need I did, pulling my cock deep into her cunt and squeezing on it, her arms gripping me tight and her nails in my skin.
And then she was cumming, her breath in short gasps and liquid moans escaping her throat, her nails digging that little bit deeper and her legs clamping around me.
“Don’t stop. Fuck me. Please, fuck me,” she breathed in my ear. And I did, pounding in and out of her cunt as I felt her pleasure ripple around me, somehow filling the space around us in a warm, enveloping wave.
“Cum for me,” she whispered. And even if I’d wanted not to, that voice was irresistible. With one last thrust I felt the throb through me, and I came deep inside her, an orgasm that moved through every part of me and left me feeling lightheaded.
We curled up together — somehow the floor was soft now, not the hard marble that I knew should be underneath us. I felt her hand move between her legs and then move up to my lips and I sucked hungrily on our juices, a little surprised but savouring my cum and hers before she moved to kiss me deeply.
“How…” I started to say.
“I said. I know all your every desire … and I love all of them.”
I wondered. Every desire? Even the ones that go almost unspoken to ourselves, the ones that we think will never güvenilir bahis şirketleri happen?
“Especially those ones,” she said. “And especially *that* one. Reach down now.”
I obeyed, my hand moving down her body. At first I couldn’t understand what I discovered. Strips of fabric criss-crossed her hips, and now sprouting from her silky hair there was … a cock. A hard, large cock made of some synthetic material, with some give to it but…
“Even *that* one,” I said in a voice that trembled with lust.
“Mm-hmm,” she murmured. “Come on my lovely man, on your hands and knees.”
I don’t know when or where this desire had come from, but I know it had kept me entertained many a night alone in bed. To experience being fucked, lovingly, deeply, by a woman with a strap-on. Not to be dominated — just to be fucked. To give myself up to pleasure — mine and hers.
I knelt, eager, like a bitch on heat, wanting nothing more than the fucking of my life. I felt her settle between my legs, felt the tip of her questing cock, now coated with something deliciously warm and wet — “It’s my cunt juice, darling, I get very wet” — and I gave myself to her.
She moved slowly, gently, but with purpose, filling and stretching me and I groaned from somewhere deep inside as she started to move. I felt her hips against mine, and she leaned forward when she was buried in me to kiss my back, her heavy breasts against my spine, and I was in heaven.
Now it was my turn to ask. “Don’t stop. Fuck me. Please, fuck me,” I begged.
And she did. My cock was rock hard again as her hands held my hips, pulling her back onto the dildo and driving into me. I rode her, rode the waves she sent through me as her cock filled me.
She pushed the entire length into me and lent forward, her hand snaking round to grasp my cock.
“I want you to cum,” she said in my ear. And went back to fucking me, but now her hand was moving in time with thrusts, her hand also soaking wet with juice and finding the exact rhythm that sends shudders through me. “Cum for me.”
I held out only moments, but long enough for her to be inside me completely, our bodies together as I shuddered and shot, a wave rolling through me that pulled me under and spun me every which way.
Again we lay together, listening in the dark to our hearts beating, slowly coming down, her head nestled on my chest in exactly the way that feels right.
“I’m sorry. I have to go now,” she said. “But remember me.”
Before I could protest, before I could even draw breath to argue, the world shifted again. Like a radio being tuned in, a thin layer of sound filtered through, the lights started to glow dimly again. I was back in elevator No. 3 — wood panelling, marble floor, brass control panel and chandelier — and fully clothed. And alone. A hammering on the doors and shouts from outside arrived at my ears.
?”Don’t panic, sir. We’re going to get you out of there.”
Like I say, getting old doesn’t happen overnight. I’ve mentioned the memory thing. I find it’s a good thing with memories not to probe too hard, not to seek explanations. But just to remember them, and treasure them.
Another thing is music. I don’t have much time for the stuff young folk listen to today. But I make one exception. There’s a song by Aerosmith that never fails to take me back to that February day in 1954. You may know it.
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