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“Exquis,” I thought, as my eyes wandered the small but smartly attired apartment. Seeing how another lives is always illuminating. At first blush, it was clear Paige lived an orderly life. “I can only wish,” I thought, reflecting on the relative disarray of my own.
“You like to cook,” I observed, anxiously glancing about at the kitchen’s legion of culinary gadgets.
“Mmm, I like to eat even more,” Paige answered, sprinkling devilish laughter into the mix as she glanced down at herself. Her hands wafted over wide hips and came to rest with a slap on her firm buttocks. Turning to face me, she asked, “Does it show?”
Having taken the liberty of scrutinizing her lithesome body earlier that evening, I knew otherwise. “Um…no. It doesn’t show. You’re so trim,” I answered jealously.
Hinting skepticism, she smiled. “You’re just trying to be nice,” she added, backing me up against the countertop. “Anyway, I still like your answer.”
“Do you like to eat?” she murmured. “Or perhaps you prefer to be eaten?”
She planted a firm but sultry kiss on my lips and slipped her tongue into my mouth. The heat of her sex flirted with my pelvis. She tasted good, a combination of champagne and affection.
Finding no resistance, she probed deeper. I was taken by her assertiveness and breathing heavily, I held onto her shoulders even after our mouths disengaged in self-defense.
“Come with me. I want to show you something,” she implored. Taking my hand, she led me to the next room where I caught sight of the bed whose spread was turned down as if in anticipation.
“So wonderful, I love them,” I ventured softly.
“What do you love?” she asked.
“Satin sheets,” I said.
Seating herself and crossing her long slender legs, she asked, “What do you find wonderful about them?”
Leaning, I ran my hand over the glossy spread and smiled at her. “They’re slippery, like cum—only fabric.”
“I’m already in love with your sense of humor, Jordan; ‘cum—only fabric!’ “
Her smile was total, not one of those repugnant smirks, but a real smile that lighted a CoverGirl face. “Come, sit next to me,” she invited, patting the spread with her hand. I sat.
Moving close to me and gently curling my hair behind my ear, she riveted me with her dazzling blue eyes and impish air. Then, as if revealing some secret insight, she softly confided, “After tonight, when I slip between my sheets, I’ll conjure wicked images—ill-fated girls in bukkake videos, swimming helplessly in a sea of yucky man batter.” In unison, we screwed up our noses, but our eyes stayed fastened.
Suddenly, she got to her feet and stacked layers of downy pillows against the headboard. “I have to change. Stay here. I will just be a minute,” she instructed.
I reclined back, my gaze following her shapely butt as she retreated to a walk-in closet.
Closing my eyes and only half-listening, I took little notice of popping snaps and the occasional hanger bouncing along the closet’s metal rod as I reflected back to that annoying exchange at the party.
Paige, plainly skilled at interjecting hidden meaning into otherwise harmless conversation, had latched onto a thinly-veiled revelation from earlier in the evening, swiping what amounted to little more than a trifle from a parting exchange between me and my former lover like a cobra might snatch up an unsuspecting bunny happening by. I worried she might be too much for me. Anyway, I was here now, so it hardly mattered.
“You comfy out there?” she called.
“Yes, Paige, I’m good. Why don’t you dress out here? I want to watch.”
Conveniently disregarding my question, she called back to me, “I’ll just be another minute, all right?”
Her voice seemed distant, muffled by the closeted enclosure, her way of politely excluding an unwelcome request. Then suddenly, her voice rang clear. “Because I wanted to surprise you, that’s why.” Her declaration was as posed as the feminine form now posturing in the very doorway through which she had vanished minutes earlier. “So, is this what you had in mind?” she asked suggestively.
Upon reappearing, my thoughts, which had a tendency to diffuse when left to their own devices, quickly reordered themselves, my deficient reply—an inane grin.
Standing in the doorway, her ghostly form radiated white light that seemed to spring from deep inside her, pouring through the filter of my senses as if fluorescent thought. I reacted with a stumbling gasp. “Whites! So, so beautiful.”
Browsing her curvaceous figure, my eyes wandered her body’s splendor as I struggled to answer her question. “Yes, Paige, that’s it, exactly as I pictured,” which, in an erotically frightening sort of way, meant she had read me almost too perfectly, leaving me uneasy in a relationship still raw.
She was delectable and in minutes had transformed herself, discarding the starkly contrasting black bow mini-dress of the party animal I had just met into the crisp majesty of an accomplished RN.
Though originally rokettube regarding myself as merely the evening’s convenient stranger, I now wanted to believe that donning her uniform was a gift of welcome, something only for me.
To my cluttered mind, the nurse in whites, the image of purity—appeared as Mary Immaculate, wrapped as she was in a freshly-laundered uniform, something my senses took a moment to absorb, as my eyes roamed its tight fit, emphasizing firm breasts whose nipples surged in a vain attempt to escape their disagreeable confinement; its short skirt ending provocatively at mid-thigh, revealing long, white-stockinged legs.
Her nurse’s cap and polished white pumps punctuated the confident professional. With stethoscope draped about her neck, she appeared half-nurse and half-waitress as her latex-sheathed hands balanced a menacing surgical tray whose contents lay loosely hidden, covered by a fluffy white towel.
“Ready for your examination, Jordan?” she inquired ominously.
Ready or not, the sight of her made me wet.
***
It all had to begin somewhere, and where was at the party earlier that same evening. There, employing my most resourcefully executed sneaky glances, I had systematically assembled pieces of her body’s enigma. She intrigued me and had only caught me staring once, snaring with her own, my careless glance.
There were women everywhere; some, I even knew, but she was not one. Our eyes met; mine flitted away but returned to hers, which, to my delight, remained fixed.
Sauntering over to Wenda, and looking floorward, I registered the standard inquiry. “Don’t stare,” I murmured firmly. “She’s already caught me once, so give it a second and then tell me her name. Are you listening?”
“Which?” Wenda asked a little too naively to be convincing.
“Don’t fuck with me, Wenda. The girl standing near the piano, the one with the black hair—who is she?”
Wenda smiled in that savagely tender way of hers and took a sip from her glass before casually searching the crowded room for my would-be trophy. “Ah…that’s Paige, Paige de Villeneuve,” she observed. “Do you want her?”
“You’ve already had her haven’t you,” I said blankly.
“Maybe,” Wenda added, her rapid blinking confirming the unmistakable. Before she dissolved back into her role as hostess, I put her on notice. “I need to meet her. Make it happen.”
***
Everyone is drinking pink champagne from fluted glasses, the ten-inch ones that snap in half if someone sneezes. Balancing elegant silver trays on raised fingertips, three nude waiters, the only men present, lubricate the evening with booze, all the while dodging grabs from increasingly intoxicated women.
“Nude” was not exactly accurate as the boys wore tasteful red bow ties, an engaging addition, I thought, to the party’s ambiance. Most interestingly, each sported a respectable dick, not exactly “apparel,” but somehow worn, nonetheless. Needless to say, the floppy appendages swayed all about, drawing attention from the females.
I am especially taken by Hernan’s dick, as he is cute and uncircumcised. I have never known quite why, some Freudian thing I suspect, but uncut attracts me, something which dated back to Justin and that first blowjob in the shower. There was not much about men that spoke to virtue, but a malleable foreskin offers something to play with, something to draw back—to search under.
Anyway, it surprised Sheree Winton that never once did any of the waiters display even the semblance of an erection, and it is not as though we are not all hoping to see one—we are.
“Can you believe these boys?” she asked. Reaching, she taps the butt of Jorell as he darts by.
I do not envy them. Just college kids, they wade through a gaggle of lesbians to scoff up a few extra bucks on the weekend. Amusingly, from time to time, an entire tray crashes to the floor, as one of the girls grabs hold of an innocent scrotum. Even I did it once, to Mr. Steel-buns. Everybody laughed. He did not care and readily accepted the fifty bucks I tipped him.
It was not until shortly after ten or so that it finally happened. Simultaneously and possibly quite by accident—although I will not swear to it—both Paige and I both reached for the single remaining flute on a passing tray.
Our fingers fumbled at the stem, our eyes met and the room transformed itself into that scene from “West Side Story,” where Maria and Bernardo found themselves alone in a crowd. Frozen in a time-current in which no one else exists and where everyone stops moving, the couple melds into one person residing in separate but henceforth immaterial bodies.
Like their attraction, ours is immediate. A momentary lapse of reason, it harbors an intensity every romantic covets. Whatever it is, we merge, and I somehow manage to breathe in the rest of her form, noting deep blue eyes set wide apart, long legs, the riddle of whose confluence I instantly wish to unravel, the blackness of her hair and an elfin waist, which asyalı porno I—mistakenly assume to be cinched by some modern-day variant of a Victorian corset.
She smiled. I smiled. “Here, you take the champagne,” we blundered in chorus. “No, you,” we both insisted, laughing gleefully.
An hors d’oeuvre tray happens by, and I lift a caviar-smothered wafer from its selection. In an audition of sorts, I nibble it before handing it to her, wondering if she will bite; but especially wondering whether she might snack at the previously injured corner. In the worst way, it is what I want.
Briefly holding the brittle crucible with delicate fingers, she fixed on me and consciously rotating it raised the cracker to parted lips. She watched me tellingly, then snapped the cracker in half with perfect teeth. “So good,” she commented. “Eve’s apple,” I added. We had taken the second step on our communion path.
“Wenda told me you work at the clinic. You’re Paige, right?”
“Mmm…you know my name, a promising sign. I like it if somebody I like knows my name. Am I going to like you?” she asked, swaying her hips in sensuous undulations as she nipped the cracker a second time. “Anyway, yes, I’m a nurse at Eastside Medical.”
“Gynecology, right?”
“Oooo…correct again! That’s twice. So you’re familiar with…my work, interesting.”
“Sure,” I stumblingly answered. “I mean, I admit to asking about you after our eyes met earlier. I think nurses are hot. But tell me something…”
“…you do? What makes you think we’re hot?” The twinkle in her eye betrayed her, and I knew she already knew the answer.
“I don’t know…maybe it’s putting myself in somebody’s hands. Whenever I’m examined, I get goosebumps. Then there’s the uniform. Things are so casual now, but traditional nurse uniforms are, you know…do you ever wear them?”
“Rarely,” she said before pausing for thought. “Maybe, though, for you, I might put one on. But you didn’t answer me before. Do I like you, Jordan?”
“I think you…”
“…anyway, if it’s whites you want, we need to split from here.”
The commanding chemistry tugged at us. I had not hooked up with anyone in months, but a hook-up was not what this felt like. There was more to it, or at least that is what I chose to believe. However, we were well mannered and for appearance’s sake remained another half hour—the best we could manage after the champagne scuffle.
With spontaneity’s freshness distilling its own excitement, we surreptitiously plotted our escape, and after finally getting up the nerve, we sheepishly drew closer to our hostess. “We really have to run,” I shouted over the noise and music, then overwhelming most conversation anyway.
Wenda recognized what was happening and, as usual, interfered. “Leaving already? But you haven’t had dessert! And how sweet is this?” she observed, happily, blinking her eyes in friendly mockery while deliberately drawing unwanted attention to what was meant to be a discreet departure.
She obviously did not mind the early departure but used it as an opportunity to heighten the volume of her customarily restrained voice. The entire room stopped itself in place to gawk at us. ‘Bitch,’ I thought, smiling.
“And Jordan, I know how much you like your dessert,” she added sardonically, alluding to the world’s worst-kept secret, dating back to the Christmas party.
In that instant, our shared memory popped to the surface like a buoy. In an exchange of glances, we each recalled how we had slipped away together, leaving the busy club’s first floor for the privacy of a banquet-room upstairs, where Wenda played cool-whip topping in the role of dessert.
A burn started in my chest, its heat rising to my neck and face as Paige in a flash, gleaning the secretive meaning transferred as if by code during the infuriating exchange. Wanting to break from the meddling Wenda, I needed one thing—to evaporate from this place with the catch of the day.
But by then, she had already shifted gears and was addressing Paige, whose concentration had perked as her search engine silently ransacked Wenda’s thinly-veiled but obviously calculated exposé.
Looking back at me, Wenda continued, “And Paige, you must understand that Jordan will do anything—anything—for a sweet, creamy dessert—won’t you, Jordan?” I glanced pleadingly at Paige, whose lazy eyes betrayed that she had previously heard the story.
Opting for straightforward escape and jolting Paige by the hand, I uneasily declared, “Let’s go, Wenda!” Seconds later, we were descending the steps of the brownstone. “I hate that slut,” I cried. Paige smiled coyly.
The night was warm, and a light rain was falling, leaving the street slick and adding a hiss to the city’s natural background noise as cars darted by. “Your place or mine?” I asked.
Already hailing a cab, Paige called from over her shoulder: “Mine. I need to show you something.”
***
Tugging at the belt of my tight-fitting denims, azeri porno she whispered, “Take these off for me. I need to examine you.”
More robotically than I would have thought possible an hour before, I fought with the zipper as she stepped back, apparently to amplify my image. Oddly, with that rearward step, her demeanor changed to near impassivity as sandals, pants, then panties were slid off and kicked away.
“The blouse and bra, too,” she instructed. Hesitantly complying, a moment later, I stood there, naked.
“Such a nice body, Jordan.”
“Thank you,” I said gratefully.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” she replied briskly. “Just a professional opinion. Now sit and open your legs.”
The polished sheet registered cool against my naked bottom as I sat, lifting, then parting my legs. “What’s next, nurse?” I asked with faux-naïveté.
Paige strode forward, carefully placing the mysterious tray on the nightstand before pulling a glass thermometer from under the towel. “Turn over onto your tummy,” she said, lubricating the glass tip with KY.
The goosebumps began again, as I obediently rolled over and, almost unnoticed due to the thermometer’s slenderness, she inserted it into my rectum. Then, taking my wrist, and scrutinizing her watch, she acknowledged my healthy heart-rate with a nod before withdrawing the measuring instrument. “99.6, you’re perfect! Let’s check your breasts. I assume you do a self-exam monthly, Jordan?”
I shook my head guiltily. Paige tutted.
I rolled a second time, intuitively covering my nipples with my palms as a look of sympathetic admonishment crossed her face. “Shyness, Jordan? A little late for that, don’t you think?” Embarrassed, I let my hands fall away.
“That’s my good girl,” she said, before systematically moving the tips of her three middle fingers over my breasts in small overlapping circles. My nipples hardened, and I reached for her face, but she pulled away. Looking down at me, she said, “You’re a naughty patient, Jordan. Be still, and let me finish.”
Compliantly I slid to the middle of the bed, allowing my examiner enough space to continue her evaluation. She pressed firmly against the spongy tissue, pressuring my ribs as she varied the insistency of her finger pads, compressing here, poking there.
My eyes roamed to the partially concealed tray as her stethoscope traveled about, and I wondered what surprises lay hidden beneath that towel. She naturally anticipated my question, paused, then reached over and drew the downy cover aside. I panicked.
Looking up, I spoke resolutely. “An internal? A pelvic?” The idea struck me like a bolt of lightning as I locked onto the stainless steel speculum resting innocently just inches away.
“Good God, Paige! Listen…we’ve only just met, you know? I mean, I realize tonight has become a little more than special, but honestly, this?” The momentum of my words betrayed my nervousness.
My newly-found personal healthcare professional stood abruptly and stepped back to the doorway, displaying sobriety in vivid contrast to my prepubescent unease. She crossed her arms over her breasts and spoke authoritatively. “You’re behaving like a spoiled teenager, Jordan. Just let me complete my exam, and I’ll see to that creamy dessert you had with Wenda at the Christmas party. Let’s be honest. Isn’t it what you want?”
“Wenda had no right to tell you about that,” I snapped. Paige deftly disregarded my fumbling admonishment.
“And it’s whipped cream, correct? It’s what you came here for. We both know it. Jordan.”
Her practiced bearing and self-assurance transfixed me, allowing for a coveted moment to reflect before calmly nodding my faltering agreement. With that, Paige returned and planted delicate kisses on my neck and shoulders, turning the agonizingly clinical into softness before whispering, “Just relax now, Jordan darling. You’re tense, I can feel it. And let’s get those legs back up where they belong.”
“She’s so lovely,” Paige murmured as her gloved fingers parted my shimmering vaginal lips, lightly tugging at the folds of soft skin. Pressing down on my mons, she commented, “This may cramp a little, you understand.” With each of my arguments beaten back, I nodded guardedly.
Paige fondled the speculum, rubbing it with olive oil, poured from a glass beaker. Spilling several drops of liquid along the inner lips of my sex, she inserted the fearsome steel bills into the marginally cooperative channel.
Were it not for her business-like calm, demonstrating she knew her way around the intimidating utensil, I might have jumped from the bed and run naked and screaming into the street. Instead, I lay there, trusting in the unknown as she efficiently locked it in place with a couple of clicks and a swift spin. In seconds, I was open.
“Your pussy, so perfect,” she commented, scrutinizing my sex as if it were somehow unattached to the rest of me. “Don’t be afraid,” she added, and with the use of a slim penlight, she caringly peered into the cavernous portal between my legs.
Then, as if searching for something, she pressed down on my stomach with her fingertips before exclaiming, “At last. There she is! That’s better!” She smiled as though she had just passed her clinical exam.
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