Chocolate Malts-Weapons of Mass Seduction
A story by XXscribbler
It was a malted milk that triggered the adventure with Jenessa.
Chocolate, of course.
With double malt.
I was one of the senior academics on the international exchange excursion -- the visitors were all European graduate students and faculty. On that particular evening, as an exercise in exploring an unfamiliar urban environment, each person was to find dinner independently -- and we were in a town of about 450, Middle-of-Nowhere, USA, the entire suite of dining options being a drive-in burger joint and a god-awful (I'd been there!) Mexi/Chinese combo restaurant.
Jenessa was an advanced graduate student, about a year short of her doctorate. She was an extremely pretty woman, blond and blue-eyed in the best Nordic tradition, perhaps 112 pounds and about 5'2", a nicely-shaped solid butt tautly encased in snug-fitting lightweight khaki jeans that showed the bottom-creases of her buttocks as well as the seams of her undies. Fun to walk up the hills behind her -- a good view.
She spoke English well, was superficially shy -- but not too shy to have gotten my eye with one or two glances over the table earlier in the trip. Or to have made a point of talking with me extensively at social-hours.
When the "find it yourself" dinner plans were announced, Jenessa asked me for advice -- Chinese and Mexican she understood, but the "burger drive-in" was utterly foreign -- the 'eat-in-car' culture had never developed in Europe. She liked the idea of hamburgers, but was so obviously perplexed at the idea of figuring out an American drive-in that I volunteered to teach.
Such a gentleman I was!
We hopped out of the car at the burger palace -- an old-fashioned drive-up from the middle 1950s, outwards-tilted glass walls, gravel parking lot, handmade food, huge menu of mostly minor variations on the basic theme. I explained things, recommended a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt -- the concept of a malted was hard to get across but she acquiesced.
As always, since I was a kid, I ordered my malt with double malt, double chocolate. To simplify things, she copied the order.
We took a back-corner booth to be out of the way of traffic, a booth with tall old-fashioned seat-backs giving some small semblance -- fraudulent, really -- of privacy.
When the food arrived minutes later, the waitress was apologetic -- they'd had only enough ice cream to make one malt, which she had brought to the table. I declared the confection to be community property, got two spoons.
Janessa's eyes lit up instantly on the first taste -- it took no words to see that she was hooked before finishing the first spoonful. The effect was nothing short of magical. By half-way through the malt she was genuinely flirting with me, very subtly, just the corners of eyes, tilts of head. She didn't object at all when I returned fire.
Closely tête-à-tête over the paper malt-cup we excavated our way down to the very bottom. Shared food, especially in semi-privacy, works wonders. As we worked the last inch of malted, our heads tilted closer together over the cup.
I was absolutely giddy by that time, far out of character, deeply lost in heat and a teenage-intensity crush.
I spooned up one last dollop, offered it to her with my spoon. She looked surprised, then pleased. She flushed and accepted it -- as I held the handle, I could feel her tongue washing the ice cream off the steel, and it raised goose bumps on my chest. She held eye-contact through the exercise. Eventually she released the spoon, looked into the cup, and returned the favor.
When I finally finished and relinquished her spoon, I leaned forward slightly, brought my face closer, as if to kiss her, which I truly did intend to do. She didn't recoil -- one can always tell when a woman is genuinely ready for such an advance... but, overcome by a moment's rationality, I stopped just short, then backed off.
She looked surprised, then gently laid her hand atop mine, pressed it, said in a whisper "I think I understand. Perhaps later!"
Enroute back to the little private apartments we were staying in, I asked if she might like to go for an evening walk in some of the nearby old-growth woods. She lit up nicely with her exquisite smile, told me "Yes, of course, that would be a very nice thing. But first, I should go to the bathroom. Just for a minute!"
The parking lot was empty - nobody else had yet returned -- they had all headed for the little Chi/Mexi joint, where such a big crowd was undoubtedly getting slow service. I waited outside while she trotted into her apartment, then reappeared in under three minutes. She'd completely changed her outfit -- now it was shorts, traction-soled sandals and a sleeveless front-button blouse. The new shorts were significantly tighter than what they'd replaced. There was no trace of panty lines - and no bra.
We started down the trail: the early evening light was much dimmer amongst the trees, the woods were thick and the trail convoluted. Jenessa stayed body-warmth-distance from me for a few steps, then suddenly her hand was in mine. She looked at my startled face, smiled: "So -- is it okay that perhaps we should hold hands as we walk in here? I would like that if you would not mind it."
I didn't mind.
By a hundred meters into the forest we'd made several turns and were out of sight and hearing of anyone behind us. And there was no one there, anyhow.
