A Little Side Business Pt. 08

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Babes

A Little Side Business, Book Two

Part One

Good Grief

I should be happy, I thought, arm around Rita as she nuzzled against my chest, working her way down. Here I was, 55 and living with a tawny, horny, latina fox. My broken nose had healed with just enough of a character giving bend. I owned my home, had money in the bank and was as healthy as a man 30 years my junior thanks to all the cycling. I ought to give round-the-clock sex some credit, too.

But somehow melancholia crept in. Perhaps it was the southern gothic vibe of this town, the constant fight against mold and rot and the slow sinking of our foundations into the soft, wet, sand or the way the sun burnt the paint right off my house. Or maybe I was grieving the loss of Charlotte and the brief dream of Chatterley. I really had been warming to the idea of being a porn star. Well, maybe not a star. But, you know, a porn actor anyway. July had been the most intense month of my life.

An hour before, Rita and I had been out walking, strolling the live oak wonderland of our urban forest. We did a lot of talking on our walks, usually. We’d been holding hands, her in a flouncy sun dress, me in shorts and tropical shirt, panama hat jauntily set. But his morning we’d both been quiet. We tried to keep to the shade. Even in late September it can get in the high eighties here and with lower humidity the sun seemed even brighter. Sometimes there was a distance between us when one or the other became broody and we each knew when not to disturb the others’ silences. That made it so easy.

Our bodies had conversations of their own. This morning they had walked each other home and started a debate.

How is it that one body can communicate so much silently? Of course, I could see her beauty just by looking. Her black, thick hair, tied off of her swan neck in a red bandana, the crimson sundress smoothed over her curves, the gentle swell of breast cascading into cleavage. Impossibly, she’d become even more desirable in our short time as lovers. Our cycling together had tightened her calves, her butt, her abs. Now she had stamina to outstrip mine and it nearly wore me out on the road and in the bed.

As we walked silently down our shady street, navigating the rolling brick sidewalk, I closed my eyes and just felt her gravitational pull, how my body leaned into hers, how the static charge of our souls rubbing together raised the hair on my arms. I wanted to hold her forever, exploring the surprising landscape that we’d opened for each other.

At the door, when I slid my key into the brass lock, turned it and the cylinder clicked, I was looking into Rita’s eyes, telegraphing my desire. Yes, I did still have an adolescent predilection for seeing sex everywhere. But I give her credit, she humored me, smiling at my foolishness. I even slid the key in and out a couple of times, feeling the tumblers snick, snick, snick, resisting then yielding to my oiled penetration, waggling my eyebrows suggestively. I knew Rita was eager to get to the bedroom, too.

She bent to slip her sandals off at the bottom of the stair and I stole a peek at her small pendant breasts exposed as the silky sundress hung away from her body. Rita knew I enjoyed a tease, of course, and she enjoyed teasing me. She grabbed my shirt, stretched up and pressed her lips to mine, wriggled against me, then ran up the stairs laughing. Her panties were pink.

I dropped my sandals and pursued. We’d learned early (only two months ago?) to take turns with pursuing and being pursued. This time I caught up with her just as she crossed the threshold into our bedroom. It had so quickly become “our” bedroom. Not just a male warren now the room was color coordinated, pillowed, curtained, shammed, even. I grabbed Rita around the waist and twirled her into my arms, grunting, a little neanderthal finding its way out of me. She mock beat my chest in feigned distress.

“Oohh, you bru-it, Lay-ents,” she cried in her put-on southern accent, not natural to her and ludicrous. Rita only used Lance now when playing particularly coquettish, not as originally conceived to refer to my cock, thank God. Except when she could cast me as acting particularly cocky.

So I played it up and grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it quickly bahis firmaları up over her head, leaving her in the pink panties, arms crossed over her breasts, eyes large and alarmed. I took a moment to look. It was times like that when I could accept that she’d talked me into replacing the period closet doors that face our bed with mirrored ones. I had rebuilt this old painted lady with my own hands over five years (and not done yet!) but yielded to Rita’s logic when she said that the mirrors would give me “more of her”. And there she was, front and back in my view, toffee skin, black hair, pink panties, surprisingly green nails on both fingers and toes, a tight, light nereid, a force of nature and my siren. I rose at the sight of her.

We stood frozen in that moment, our earlier silence and its distance collapsing instantly. Our bodies spoke when our mouths could not. I pulled the tropical shirt over my head and Rita reached for my belt. She ripped it from the loops, popped the snap and slid my zipper down, let my shorts fall to the floor. My briefs were black and bulging. Rita’s wolfish grin as she pushed them down spoke volumes. Her eyes darted from mine to my swollen organ. I just held my hands behind my back and watched, both at her and her reflection. She leaned over, butt out and hand on shaft, and engulfed me. I thrust. Naturally. She pulled away.

I settled and she bent again to take me in her mouth. I thrust and she pulled away. Her brow furrowed. Again she grabbed my shaft, this time pressing hard against my pubis and tongue-first slipped her lips over me. I thrust against her pressure. I couldn’t help it. She pulled away again and shot me an annoyed look.

I watched our reflections and thought, not for the first time, that it was like watching a movie. And I wondered, again not for the first time, what I’d looked like in the brief scenes we’d filmed before Charlotte and Chatterley imploded. Had I appeared like a stud? The women no doubt were vixens. Did the action flow smoothly, naturally? I confess, since putting in the mirrors I’d be performing for myself a bit. I thought I looked pretty good “in the act”.

I watched her full lips descend again toward my flared red cockhead, squeezed tight in her fist. At her touch I flinched, thrust into her mouth. “Ah, God,” I said, “I can’t help it!” I chuckled.

Rita looked disappointed and stood, her pink-pantied hips aslant. “We gotta fix that,” she said, mouth twisted. She reached and one by one threw all those fancy pillows on the floor. Then she pushed me back on the bed, climbed on me and covered my mouth with hers, jamming her tongue deep and hard. I tasted myself.

While she had my head pinned to the pillow I reached down and slipped my fingers into her panties, cupping her butt cheeks, caressing the soft smooth skin, reached to slowly slide a finger along her crack, working down across her pucker to her hot, damp crotch. I felt for her wetness, probed ever so gently where her juices might be dripping, found stickiness and fur. Rita pulled up, and knee-walking, brought her crotch to my mouth. She straddled my shoulders and held my arms with her shins, pulled my head back by the hair with one hand and pulled aside her panties with the other. Rita sat heavily on my face so that I had my nose jammed in her little tuft of pubic hair. She ground against my mouth.

Rita hunched my jaw, going for her own pleasure with determination. I’d never seen her like this, honestly. She’d always been playful and eager, but tended to either submit to my passion or pursue hers with an attention to what pleased me as well. Now she seemed selfish, assaulting my mouth, sliding her wet pubes up and down my face. I gave up trying to lick her since she was ignoring my efforts and I feared biting my tongue.

I could barely touch her ass as she ground it on me and my cock lay across my hip, hard but helpless. I could have thrown her off but I was always willing to do what made her happy and curiously a little turned on by her aggression. I’d never been the helpless one in lovemaking. Rita closed her eyes and humped away, totally absorbed in getting what she needed. With long strokes and targeted gyrations she brought herself to orgasm. I could only watch and submit, letting her move her gash over my mouth as she needed kaçak iddaa to. There were moments when I couldn’t breathe as she pressed the soft, wet flesh of her pubes into my face. She wouldn’t look at me, but had a fierce, almost angry, intent scowl.

Rita clamped my head between her thighs as her climax came, smothering me. She relaxed and let her weight down fully, crushing my lips against my teeth. Then she clenched again and shook with another wave of pleasure and I caught a breath. I struggled to turn my head, she let her weight down again and pulled my hair. I felt a moment of panic, groaned and flailed my arms, getting a handful of panty. She held me there and I started to fight back, grasping at her legs, thrashing. Rita seemed to get pleasure from this, too. Her thighs clutched my head again and she pulled my face hard into her crotch, shaking through another orgasm. In desperation I thought of punching her, trying to bring a leg up to kick at her. This didn’t feel like lovemaking anymore. A flashback to the night at Bateaux when it all went wrong.

Rita rolled off, clamped both hands against her mons and writhed through another peak of pleasure as I pushed myself out of bed, stood and watched her, warily now.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked, wiping her from my face with my shirt. She lay there breathing hard and, eyes still closed, continued working her fingers. She trembled, smiling.

“That was different,” she breathed, finally.

“You’ve been quiet all morning. Now this,” I wasn’t hard anymore. Afraid, though.

She was quiet, lying there in flushed release, rocking with her hands between her legs. My adrenalin high slowly passed. I was confused. Somehow this touched all the sorrow in me.

“I had a fantasy,” she said, “that didn’t involve you. I mean, it could have been any guy.” She still wasn’t looking at me. I was thinking that it had been an amazing two months and a shame if this was the end.

“I have to tell you something. And I have to ask you something, too.” She turned her head to me and looked me in the eye at last. “Come here.”

I sat on the bed but wouldn’t touch her, as much as that was what my hands had been born to do. “What?” I said.

“All my life I’ve been a ‘good girl’. Today I decided to be bad. I didn’t ask your permission. I didn’t play nice.” She rolled up and sat, cross-legged, clasping her hands, not looking at me. I just waited to hear more.

“When you, when you, uh…when you “couldn’t help” ramming your dick in my throat it set me off. That fantasy – it’s one where I fuck like a guy. No boundaries, no regrets, just getting my rocks off.” Her hands made fists.

“I’m not like that, am I? Seriously, I thought I did a good job.” I reached to touch her thigh, but she pushed me away.

“Yeah, but your dick is still the boss, apparently.” She said, wryly. We both sat silent for a long time. I couldn’t deny it and I felt deeply guilty and sad. Funny that when you think you’ve got it all figured out, life opens up a new chasm to fall into.

“I thought you were happy,” I said. “You seemed happy.”

“Well, we all make compromises, Frank. Women can be happy in a man’s world if they compromise.” She still wasn’t looking at me. “But working with Charlotte showed me something. We were making our own thing there, writing our own rules. I was more free.”

“Making porn?” I was confused.

“Making erotica for women,” she shot me a glance. “Not the usual wham-bam. Not penis-centric. You maybe couldn’t see that since you were getting all that pussy.”

“No, no I thought it was a pretty sweet deal, really.” What, we were seeing two different things at Bateaux? “So what’s different now, Rita? You don’t like our lovemaking?”

“The other thing I realized out there is that we women are always performing. Performing sex, performing ‘girlfriend’, performing ‘good girl’.” She spread her hands, looked at me again, “There’s so much more to me.”

“I love all of you,” I said earnestly.

“I know, Frank, but you haven’t seen all of me. Maybe you can’t.”

“Are we breaking up?”

“Hell, no.”

“What? I mean, what?”

“I’m only telling you this because I think you can hear it. kaçak bahis I meant it when I said I want to grow wise with you. And I think you are strong and healthy enough to take this blow to your ego. You didn’t think you’d have to do some growing, too?”

“Aww, hell,” I sighed, “quit jerkin’ me around.” I sure wasn’t on top of the world anymore.

“There’s one more thing you ought to know, Frank. It’s just an example of how I’ve been performing for you, trying to be the kind of woman you would want to keep around.”

“Pffffttt,” I spluttered, “You’re perfect. Why wouldn’t I want to keep you around?”

“That’s just it. I’m going to disillusion you sooner or later. I can’t keep up the act. I need the kind of honesty, the authenticity, that Charlotte showed me.”

“But, Rita, she was mentally ill. She’s in an institution somewhere.” Here my guilt rose up. Was I failing again?

“I lied when I told you I was a virgin.” She looked me in the eye, her face showing apprehension and determination.

I wasn’t sure what to say, started to say, I don’t care…That explains a lot…Why? But just opened and shut my mouth a couple of times. I thought I didn’t care, but the more I struggled with it the more I felt angry, then hurt, then mortified. “I don’t know what to say.”

“We’re either the virgin or the whore, right? I figured being younger than you that playing the virgin would trigger your protective instincts, that you’d like to teach me, train me to be the perfect girlfriend.”

“Well, that explains why you learned so fast.” I rubbed my face. I felt like putting my clothes back on. She was right.

“I want to revive Chatterley,” she said firmly, “I think we owe it to Charlotte.”

“Wait a minute, Rita,” I was getting angry. I counted on my fingers, “First of all she’s gone and it’s none of our business. Second, we don’t have any of our videos. Third, we haven’t spoken to Tamika and Marcus in weeks. Fourth, the whole thing was an expression of Charlotte’s mental illness and fifth, remember what happened last time – fire and assault and the threat of lawsuits.”

“Well, actually…” She was looking devious.

“No.”

“I’ve been noodling around on her Google account…”

“Oh, no. We erased those files.”

“And I checked her voicemail…”

“Rita! That’s cold. The woman’s broken. You can’t just take over her life, her private life.”

“Think of it this way. We broke her. Or at least we contributed to her breakdown by being part of her scheme. Weren’t we all happy to be part of Chatterley. Sure, we tried to help her when we realized she needed help, but weren’t we trying to save Chatterley as much as Charlotte?”

“True enough, but all the more reason to leave it alone.”

“Frank, look. We can turn our backs and let Charlotte continue in the care of her family, which we know doesn’t have her best interests at heart. Or we can build Chatterley for her so that when she gets out she has something that makes her independent of them.”

“This may be crazier than the first time,” I thought I’d grieved the loss of that deluded dream, but I found part of me warming to the idea. The notion that we could restore Charlotte’s independence and maybe redeem ourselves at the same time. Then there was the sex…

“But, Frank, we’ll be going in with full transparency this time. I’ve told you why I need it. I found another backup of our work. And I found emails and voicemails from her old friends asking for the product. Turns out the thing wasn’t entirely a delusion. I thought she was stringing me along and maybe she couldn’t be honest with anyone. But it looks like she was actually trying to make Chatterley the real business, meeting the real need, that she talked about. I’d still like to do that. I should add that Tamika and Marcus would, too.”

Rita sat, still cross legged on the bed, seemingly out of words at last. I sure didn’t have any words to add. There was too much to think about. She’d already talked to Tamika and Marcus?

“I’ve gotta think about it,” I said. I had been trying to forget Charlotte and that disaster, but here is was again. I really didn’t know how to deal with it. I’d thought I had my shit together.

“Come here,” Rita patted the bed beside her, “I’m not finished with you.”

I lay beside her and she kissed me, then reached to squeeze my organ. She nuzzled into my chest and started working her way down. I couldn’t resist.

I should be happy, I thought.

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