Around the World in Eighteen Lays Ch. 03

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John’s prowess comes under scrutiny in Minneapolis. Melissa makes out with Antonia at a book launch and gets inside her at a pub.

The plane skipped away across the Great Lakes to Minnesota. Looking down at the expansive waters, John could hardly believe that he wasn’t crossing the ocean. It was a refreshing sight as he looked back on his nights in Newfoundland and New Hampshire. He felt he had acquitted himself well, so far, and had a lot of enjoyment to boot. He settled his supple buttocks into the seat and fell asleep with images of Anna and Barbara revolving in his mind. Are they thinking of me, he wondered? He wished he could take a stealthy look at their photos.

He was speeding further and further away from Melissa, who was already considering her options for the evening. Should she join Antonia at the book launch at Foyles, or should she spend the evening listening to some relaxing music, indulging her nostalgia with the Travelling Wilburys or — there’s an idea! Blind Faith, and waiting for the right moment to browse John’s report from New England? Float away on the Sea of Joy? The book launch presented more of a challenge, the music an easier path to the necessary climax. Both offered a slow, delicious build-up.

In the end she chose Antonia’s pussy over her own and dressed for Foyles. You needed to look sophisticated but not glamorous, bookish but not dowdy, intelligent and well-read but not — good God, no — intellectual. She wondered if she would meet anyone she knew, and whether this would cramp her style with Antonia. It would be satisfying, and arousing, to show off her new girlfriend, but it might postpone the moment when her hand crept into Antonia’s bush or slid discreetly under her top.

Delay was good, though, as long as you knew you were going to get laid. As she buttoned her blouse over her bare breasts (in case Antonia wanted a good feel) she was already alive with anticipation. There might be little of her attention left over for the new novel and the speeches, but she could pretend to be listening while Antonia leaned back against her, wine glass in hand. She texted her, walked outside and flagged down a taxi.

Sure enough, Antonia was there, and so were some of the women she knew from the publishing world. Some even went back to her days at King’s College. London, that is, not Cambridge, which was John’s scene. Some of them she had fucked. There was Candice, and Jessica, and Brenda, Rosamond, Laura and one or two others. A few blokes dotted around too, whom she knew vaguely. The book was not exactly chick-lit but almanbahis yeni giri┼č it was getting close. Strongly feminist, but there were so many shades: queer, trans, bi, hetero, other, you name it. She knew she would have to watch what she said, in case someone called her a TERF or a SWERF, but she had been around the block and it wasn’t really difficult. For the present, she was more interested in Antonia’s firm body under her clothes. The rest was background.

When the author spoke (and she spoke confidently and fluently), Melissa was glad she had left her bra at home. It was delicious to be able to caress Antonia’s back with her breasts. To look as if she was paying attention, she listened out for a word beginning with “a”, then one with “b”, and matched each of them to something she preferred to be thinking of: ass, boob, cunt, dildo . . . With every alphabetical success she let her hand, resting on Antonia’s waist, edge a little further across towards the place where words would fail and her lips would be required for a different function. She could sense Antonia urging her groin into her hand.

John, meanwhile, had arrived in Minneapolis and was admiring the downtown precinct with its smart stores and dinky restaurants. On an impulse he slipped into Victoria’s Secret. It would be arousing, and he could get his bearings, size up the local women.

On second thoughts, as he made his way past the big screens flickering with models way beyond his dreams but wearing the kind of thing he had only to ask for to be able to purchase, he wondered whether it was a good idea to be so immersed in a sexually stimulating environment. Shouldn’t he rather be sitting at a table somewhere improving his caffeine levels and reading Garrison Keillor? Gosh, how they had chuckled over Lake Wobegon Days in the old days at Magdalene!

But just as he was making for the door, one of the sales assistants cornered him. “Is there anything I can help you with, sir?” Well, actually there was. She could be a quick answer to his night’s challenge and a slow satisfaction of his re-kindled desires.

“You’re too kind,” he said, hoping his English accent would be a turn-on rather than induce a yawn. Perhaps it would give him some exotic appeal. “Damn it,” he thought, “stop trying to be James Bond. That’s so out of date. She’s just going to roll her eyes and dismiss me as a wanker.”

Fortunately, she didn’t. His being English didn’t make any kind of impression, but he had an air about him that she liked. Two supremely satisfying nights above, below, beside, beneath trans-Atlantic womanhood had almanbahis giri┼č done his confidence a lot of good.

She took him by the arm.

“Who are you buying for?” she asked in a friendly manner. She found it a turn-on to discuss the advantages of bustiers, bras, corsets, camisoles, boy-legs, g-strings for the woman the man was hoping to fuck tonight. “Do you know her size? Have you got a picture, maybe?”

“So you think I make a point of it to know the bra size of every woman I meet?” he asked, with an air of innocence.

“Not everyone you meet, dummy. You don’t know mine, for instance? Do you?”

This was flirtation. Barbara the flight attendant had been game for more than flirtation. Surely he couldn’t be lucky twice. Better play it safe.

“That’s for you to know and for me to find out,” he was about to say, and then stopped himself. He should know better than that. So he changed mid-sentence, “That’s outside my area of expertise, Melanie” — her name badge was perched on her left breast, probably a 34B if he was any judge of these things — “but you could help me with these camisole tops over here, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she smiled. ‘Now this one, for instance, how do you like the detail on the straps? And the way the front has been embroidered? If she’s buxom, the effect can be spectacular. (Confidentially:) Don’t you just love a plump bosom blowing up a blouse? (Mischievously:) And if she’s more modestly endowed, like me — “. She held it up against her sleek form.

Maybe American women just talk like this, he thought. No holds barred, but they’re only being friendly. Still, he could play along.

“More like you,” he ventured. “I like a petit figure.” He was lying, but the night’s experience might make him change his tastes. “A woman doesn’t have to be carrying a big load in front of her.”

“How right you are. We smaller girls can make up in quality what we lack in quantity.”

That settled it. He needed to find out just how good she looked and felt. Easy, now.

They were cuddling in a booth at a pub in the Strand. It was quite crowded, and they weren’t alone. Jessica and Rosamond were there, too, and it was clear that they were fast becoming an item. Jessica, with her long dark hair, wearing a trench coat, and frizzy-haired Rosamond with her ribbed jumper and impressive bust line. The two of them went into a clinch.

“Touch me,” whispered Antonia, squeezing up a little closer.

“OK, but later I’m going down on you.”

“Deal. God, I love the feel of your tits against me.”

For Melissa almanbahis g├╝venilirmi had her arm around Antonia’s spare frame and her hand was deep inside her pants. For a moment she seemed to blank out, so intense was the sensation when she touched the moist clit.

“So how do you like working at Victoria’s Secret?” John asked, once he had tried out Melanie’s bed and enjoyed her body to the full. Foolishly, he had imagined that her apartment would be furnished like a boudoir but it had clean uncluttered lines in impeccable modern taste. The secret of Victoria’s Secret is contrast, she explained, and indeed her own selection looked stunning in that bare environment. If every 34B figure was like hers, he was ready to sign up for life. The firmness, the sculptured form, the contained but explosive sexuality. And below, she was perfection itself, the sweetness of her pussy welcoming his probing tongue and stirring in response. Nothing had prepared him for sheer superlative American beauty.

“It’s full of surprises,” she said. “You’d hardly believe what kinds of people you will find there and what they will buy. Some are just curious. Some are shy. The guys try to brave it out and I’m sure they get a thrill from handling the goodies. There are the clutches of girls who are getting ready for pamper parties and are being all jolly about it. There are older women looking wistful.”

“When I was younger I used to fantasize about the fitting rooms in underwear shops.”

“I guess all guys go through that phase. And no, we don’t sell seats with peep-holes. But lots of women bring their hubbies to watch. The wife gets to have her best undies paid for and the husband has the biggest hard-on he’s had all week.”

“You can tell, can you?”

“Oh yes, because I usually escort them into those special booths we provide.”

“And does it turn you on?”

“I don’t need that to turn me on, John, my angel.” She reached out to his always ready member. They were going to try position 4, the corkscrew. She had chosen it in honour of the bottle of Napa Valley merlot they had shared together.

“You’re going where?” she asked the next morning. “I know you have to continue your quest, and thank you for last night and all that, and maybe we’ll meet at a Victoria’s Secret somewhere, somehow, some day, but really, Salt Lake City?”

“They say the lake is drying up,” he said, “and I don’t want to miss it. And all those dinosaur fossils, where else am I going to find them?”

“John Donne, you don’t need any fossils or any latter-day saints. You need a good fuck. Come over here.”

No special techniques this time, just a good old-fashioned deep-thrusting, mind-blowing mid-western poke as they would call it in Lonesome Dove. He was still going to Salt Lake City but first he went all the way with Melanie, and beyond.

Next time: Spicing things up in Salt Lake City.

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