Brown Grey Beige

I bought you a turtleneck sweater. You laughed. It still feels like summer, you said. It's far too hot - I'm going to boil wearing this!

You lifted it out of the shopping bag and considered the oddity of my purchase. In response, I tried to be witty and make a joke - Well then, I guess you'll just have to wear it without anything else on...! Except for a pair of high heels, that is.

The turtleneck sweater was, naturally, a size or more too small - meaning it accentuated your curves. In public it would have been completely inappropriate to wear, but that was also the point. I said that maybe you could wear it around the house, every once and a while. It was like a strange piece of lingerie, perhaps.

After glancing at the tag attached to the fabric on the inside, your curiosity won out: you made the leap and tried the item on for a moment. Possibly, just to see how badly I had miscalculated with my purchase. (Regarding - particularly - the critical question of sizing.) I smiled, as you stretched into it.

'I hope you didn't pay too much for this,' your expression said. The turtleneck was also, of course, a completely nondescript color, just to make it unsexy (and in so doing somehow secretly extra-sexy.) Maybe the color was a brown-grey. Or a brown-beige. The sort of color most people would always ignore or pass over while shopping for something much more stylish.

After you finally pulled it down and flattened its various gathered wrinkles against your body, you made a funny fainting gesture, flapping your hands by your face, as if to provide extra air to cool yourself off. In an attempt to get comfortable, you gathered your hair free of the brown-grey-beige material, which was riding up your neck. You pulled at the fabric and oriented it better on your body. It was always going to be just the wrong side of tight.

Perfect, I said.

You smiled. Maybe finally starting to understand what I was thinking, and how I continually saw you: Gorgeous, in anything.

It's nerdy, but you make it hot-nerdy, I said.

I'm NOT wearing this out in public, you said. You smiled.

That's actually for the best, I said. We have our best times at home, alone.

******************

By the time the leaves were falling from the trees I had somewhat forgotten about the turtleneck.

Outside, I could hear the wind occasionally gust, and then the leaves scatter down the sidewalk in response. The air, at such times, suddenly had a chilly feeling, even nestled within a cozy home. In truth, I hadn't thought very much about the Halloween party, which we were attending that night, only giving a cursory effort to my costume. I was going as Colombo... the TV detective from the 70's. I had my rumpled trench coat; brown two-piece suit; un-lit cigar; notepad to write down 'clues'; and my affectation of disorganized and disheveled befuddlement.

You said - huh? - with your eyes when I explained. Laughing and smirking you stated the obvious: You're far too tall for that character... you definitely don't look like him. Besides, with that rumpled trench coat hiding that nice suit, people won't get it. They'll think you're going as a flasher - or some sort of sex maniac. I laughed. Yes, well...hmmm... that is until they hear my expert Colombo impression.

But when I asked what you were going as, you responded mysteriously: You'll see...

******************

All night I was looking at you. You were in and out of my vision as you mingled with others throughout the large house, and the crowd became loaded with more and more people, which sometimes obscured my view of you. I had a feeling that other men at the party were looking at you, the same way I did. You were intentionally un-sexy. And, of course, that somehow made you even more-sexy. More desirable. The horn rimmed glasses. Your blonde hair was mussed up and untamed, like you didn't care about such things (like after sex, I kept on thinking.)

Your 1950's schoolgirl skirt. Your little tweed jacket, which sat on top, was complete with buttons exhorting the virtues of a quiet night spent alone reading, and also endorsed a Library Science degree: Faulkner Rules! I Love Bibliophiles. What's your favorite Dewey Decimal?

But beneath that, I kept on seeing (clear as day) your too tight, horribly wrong, turtleneck sweater.

The tweed jacket hid the most scandalous aspects of your breasts in that too-tight, form-fitting top. But then you would move a certain way... Then you would turn a certain way... My mind kept jumping to you and me together. The brown-grey-beige fabric giving the slightest glimpse of your femininity, as it uncomfortably contrasted with the rest of your costume. The gathered fabric around your neck made your face more pronounced. It drew my eyes.

Who are you? - someone asked, pulling me back into the moment. A flasher?

Falling into character, I took my little notebook in my hands, fished around ineptly for a pen to write with, and then responded with a befuddled voice: There's just one last thing. The night of the murder, you said you were at the office working late, is that right?

They looked at me quizzically. Colombo, I said, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world.

Oh, they said, not really getting it at all.

Maybe I thought, now looking at you through a gathering of people - seeing you as if for the first time - for me 'sex maniac' was actually a better fit...

******************

The party was growing by the minute, it seemed. All around, costumes and people. Some of us were clearly reveling in the opportunity to try on different personality and identities... There were plenty of Star Wars costumes; there were pirates; there were guys dressed as girls; there were sexy cops; there were cowboys; there was someone dressed-up as 1970's tennis icon Björn Borg, complete with long flowing hair pulled behind a bright headband.

You suddenly appeared at my side. Maybe you and the other nineteen-seventies guy should hang out together...?

Yes. That would have been a cool episode, I responded. The great tennis star murders his manager, or something similar. And only I can solve the mystery.

There was a moment of silence between us, as you rolled your eyes in a friendly, smiling way... Behind your horn-rimmed glasses, the look was you, but different. I imagined I could smell a hint of something in your hair; it reminded me of strawberries. The turtleneck climbed up your body, making me wonder at the soft skin beneath it. I grasp your loveliness - and ability to be a purely sexual person - all at once.

Stealthily, I retrieved my phone from the trench coat's pocket. 'Meet me in the upstairs bathroom in five minutes,' I wrote, sending you the message. 'Knock four times,' I wrote. Your phone buzzed with my statement. I didn't even give you a chance to see my expression as I left your side, and disappeared in the crowd.

******************

One-two-three-four, I counted. There was always going to be the possibility it wasn't you, yet I felt sure I could even recognize the sound of your hand against a door. I unlatched the lock, and immediately took up position on the opposite side of the bathroom - perched, perhaps overly extravagantly, on the edge of the bathtub.

You walked in, and shut the door behind you, giving me a curious look. Make sure it's locked, I said; you pushed-in the button on the handle and tried to open the door otherwise, but it remained shut.

Perhaps a thought was entering your mind, but then I revealed why I had beckoned you. I casually allowed my rumpled trench coat to fall open. The zipper to my suit-pants already open.

The sight, might have been pornographic, even knowing the other things we had done together as a couple. My cock, completely engorged, was suddenly revealed. It stuck through the opening, fabric on either side, and then absolutely hard, and in its full length and size.

In the bright lights, there was no moment of uncertainly. This is what you do to me, I said. Every other part of me, in that truthfully, rather attractive suit was covered and presentable. The same suit I once wore when we went to the symphony, to hear Sibelius. The same suit I wore for an alumni dinner.

And you, now standing there, looking at me. Your bookish look and character falling apart.

For just a few moments, I said, I really must have your mouth on me. With only that one aspect of my body on display - my perfectly hard cock - there was nothing else for you to focus on... and that was the point.

******************

Flasher. Sex maniac. Fool. Sometimes I found other ways to think of myself that night. I could still let you go, and see you mingle with other people. Old acquaintances, or new friends. People from work. People you didn't know, and probably didn't want to know. But now, our eyes locked more often. Now I thought of you a different way, as well...

I held a drink in my hand, and sometimes had to set it down on a table, as I again fished out my notepad and pen, and scrunched up my face and rubbed my brow in a display of concentration. It was easier to act befuddled; my mind was on you - on us, together. Quizzically I asked someone - What time that night did the electricity go out, Miss Jenson? Because the coroner's report places the time of death two hours after that. And - you see - that just doesn't add up.

My act, was perhaps getting better, or perhaps as the party wore on people were getting a little more jocular. I found an occasional laugh. I found someone who asked me if I drove to the party in an old Peugeot (Colombo's disreputable but long-serving car.)

What I thought about, was not the way your too-tight turtleneck accented and tortured me with your breasts, but the way the fabric clung to your side and revealed your hips. I thought about the smell of your hair. I thought about the way you pulled your blonde strands free of the collar when you first tried on my silly little purchase for you; the way you indulged my eccentricities. With those few moments in the bathroom, as I perched on the edge of the tub, and you kneeled in front of me, my hands crawled along your flanks. I ran my fingers underneath that tweed coat. I felt the way the turtleneck outlined your sides; the way the fabric ended just as your hips came to the fore - it all combined as I felt the all-consuming lust of your mouth.

******************

The drive home was going to be 40 or more minutes. My hand was on your leg, underneath your skirt. My other hand held the steering wheel.

I can't wait any longer, I said, as I turned the car abruptly in a hotel parking lot.

I couldn't be sure what the hotel clerk thought as we stood there at the front desk. My rumpled trench coat; your tweed jacket. My left hand possessively holding you close, as I hurriedly filled out the guest information with my right. Beneath my coat, and beneath my suit-pants, I again felt my cock ready to burst out for you. You had tempted me (as I wanted). You had given me those few moments of pure pleasure, but left me short of a climax. Now I wondered if my titanic erection was somehow viewable beneath my clothes. I wondered if you could sense my insane desire.

In the room, we kept one lamp turned on in the corner. My trench coat now hanging over a chair. I wanted to see you in the half-light, and I imagined you wanted to see me, too...

On the bed, I sat, and had you stand before me. I fumbled with the clasp for your skirt; I finally undid it, and one element of your costume was suddenly on the floor. Now I could see those luscious hips (outlined even more sexually by your panties), which I had only been able to touch in fitful moments earlier. Now I could kiss the skin and run my tongue along those torturing curves. Now I could slide my fingers under the flimsy remaining fabric, and pull it down.

Had I thought before that your breasts and your hips, and your face and your mouth were what drove me? When I lured you into the bathroom and exposed myself to you, I might have thought so. When I felt the way your lips pulled on my cock; the way your tongue pressed against me, it might have seemed like that moment was everything to me. But now, seeing your pubic hair... seeing the way it framed and suggested the pure sex of the rest of you... I wasn't sure where to focus my passion.

Letting me undress you, I removed your jacket. For the first time now, I saw just exactly how right I was about that supposedly wrong turtleneck. My hands ran between it and your skin. It wasn't scratchy as I feared. It was warm. It was too tight. I unclasp your bra; I moved the cups up and over, and away from your tits. Finally, I caressed and obsessed them, as my mouth again covered the outline of your hips, needing to taste you. Needing to see you and consume you, as I moved to your sweetest place.

On the bed, I had you lay on your back. The too tight brown-beige-grey fabric covering your top half, and tempting me to remove it as well...

Instead, I had you help me as I removed my suit-jacket, and you undid the buttons on my shirt. You unclasp my belt; you undid the button to my pants; you pulled down the zipper. In just seconds I was hovering over you, my costume gone. My body available for you to see and touch. I felt your hands play on my chest. I felt as they traveled down my stomach, then reaching for my cock. Stroking it, as if to re-learn its shape and size. Holding it, in a needful way. As if to suggest that you wanted it in ways I didn't comprehend.

I kissed your lips. We locked in an embrace.

I'm too hot, you laughed, fanning yourself in that same previous gesture with a free hand, and tugging at the turtleneck, as if to breathe. I pushed the fabric up your torso - uncovering your stomach, uncovering your breasts. Humorously, I blew a stream of air on the newly exposed skin. But then I sucked greedily on one nipple, and then the other. I felt your body rise; I felt my cock stiffen even another degree, wanting now to rush into you.

******************

That night, on that bed, we didn't sleep much . Even the first time - even from the first few moments - I knew it wasn't going to be enough.

As you lay on your back, I needed you to spread your legs wide. I simply had to taste you, and have you completely. My lips kissed your inner thighs; my tongue traced its way to your pussy. I know I sighed and shivered as I took a long slow indulgent lap of your folds and your wetness. I know you moaned as I kept at you, building you towards that place. The feel of you; the way you welcomed my overwhelming lust; the erotic thrill of me, licking your pussy, became almost too much.

Almost without thought - just instinct - I had to mount you in a demanding, all-consuming 69. We reoriented ourselves on the bed, and I knew my cock was dangling just over your mouth. I let out a love cry, as you brought your lips to me. It was as if you knew that I had to feel the way your mouth received me, and the way your beautiful pussy melted, as I grew and took you, over and over.

Then, I had to hold you wide open and available, as I finally buried my cock into your juicing loveliness. Sex. Conventional, missionary style sex, supposedly unadventurous. And yet even then, when I thrust deep into you - filling you completely - I knew I would have to do it again... and yet again. I nuzzled up to your neck, still partially obscured by the fabric of the turtleneck. I pulled the material down to plant a kiss on your bare skin.

I felt your orgasm start and move across your body. I sucked hungrily on your tits as it shuttered and overwhelmed you. I thrust and thrust; I kept my lips planted on your nipples - one and then the other. It was too much. I answered your orgasm with my own. I felt my body enter into yours in an entirely new way... I felt the complete surrender to the pleasure and closeness you brought. I held on to you and emptied myself into you, now abandoning your breasts and pressing my face into your neck. Feeling your skin; feeling the warmth.

******************

In the middle of the night, when you returned from the bathroom after getting yourself a drink of water, I felt your hands on me. Your hair was mussed for actual reasons now. Sex. Sleep. And now more sex.

Do you mind? - you teasingly asked me, as you turned me on to my back, and then positioned yourself on top. Guiding my cock into you; pulling the turtleneck up past your breasts, so that when you leaned forward they would fill my vision, even in the darkness of the room. And too, so that I could suck on them - feel them. So that I could have as much of your body available as possible. I felt, more than ever, you sometimes simply wanted sex. That you wanted my cock inside. That you wanted what I could give you. In the darkness, I heard more than I saw. And what I heard was a woman fucking for sheer pleasure. Cumming as she rode a cock that she had to have.

In the early morning, with the sun barely coming through the cracks in the curtain, I felt your legs brush up against mine. It was a mirror image of the middle of the night, as I asked you - teasingly - if you minded. I turned you on your side. Your bare bottom now facing me, and a hint of your cunt, available. The turtleneck still on. And more than ever it was tempting me, because of the way it bordered your hips, and dramatized your feminine curves. And because of the reasons, whatever they were, that you still wore it.

Now with you facing away, I held onto the fabric, as I muscled my cock into your pussy. Taking you. Listening to you, yet not seeing your face. Not quite being able to kiss your skin. Seeing that supposedly unattractive brown-beige-grey fabric that you happily made your own, for at least one night. Thinking of the way you moved as I pushed in; feeling the way - even from this supposedly less intimate position - that you captured my lust.

As our breathing accelerated, I felt your heat. I felt your release. I felt, now throbbing my cum into you for the third time, a perfect sense of honesty.

You look great, in that turtleneck, I finally whispered. Seeing not your face; not your smile; not anything except a beautiful body. Its nerdy... But - just in case you didn't know - you make it hot-nerdy.