Dale's Women

She walked up the four steps to the front door and rang the doorbell.

The door opened. She saw a nice-looking young man facing her.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi, there!" he shot back. "Are you Bridget?"

"Yes."

"I'm Dale. Come on in."

She crossed the threshold as if stepping carefully over a minefield. As he ushered her into the living room, she took in the grandeur of the place—far more impressive than her tiny apartment in Stamford. He led her to the sofa, and she sat down gingerly.

Only then did she notice that he was only wearing a robe. Well, maybe that was not so unusual—after all, it was almost 10 p.m. But, with a blush, she suddenly felt like some kind of call girl.

"Can I fix you a drink?" he said amiably.

"No, thanks," she said. "I don't drink."

"Are you sure? You seem a little . . . uptight."

You got that right!

"Well, a little ginger ale, if you have it."

Maybe that'll settle my stomach a bit.

Dale leaped at the chance to do something for this shy, scared young woman. He raced to the refrigerator and poured out a liberal glass of Canada Dry.

Handing it to her, he said, "I hope you don't mind if I fix myself a drink."

"Be my guest," she said without interest.

He prepared his drink and sat down on the sofa, about two feet away, gazing intently at her but saying nothing.

She was disconcerted by his staring. "What's the matter? Something wrong with the way I look?"

He smiled genially. "Not at all. I just wondered why you didn't want to meet me elsewhere."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, at a coffee shop, in the daytime. This is our first meeting—and here you are, it's already dark, and I figure you're staying the night."

She shuddered when he said that.

"Well, aren't you?" he pursued.

"I don't know," she whispered.

He took stock of the situation. "Do you not want to do this?"

"Do what?" she said evasively.

"You know what."

"I—I don't know. If

you

don't want to . . ." She said it as if hoping against hope.

"I never said that. But it just seems that maybe you're not quite ready for this."

That somehow offended her. "You don't think I can take it?" she said heatedly.

He smiled again. "No, no, I didn't mean that. It's just that I'd never want to force you, or any woman, to do anything she didn't want to do."

She had been clinging to the drink as if it could afford some sort of protection—protection from

what,

she wasn't quite sure. But now she put it down.

"I—I think I'm ready," she stammered.

He looked highly dubious, but put his own drink down.

"Well, okay," he said. "Let's see what we can do."

With that, he stood up and held out his hand. She got up unsteadily, as if in a daze. They were now standing in the middle of the room.

With a quick motion he slipped off his robe. He was naked underneath—and hard.

She gaped, first at him, then at his erection. It seemed enormous, almost aberrant.

A man's thing can't really be that big, can it?

She instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. When he gently approached her, she flinched as if in expectation of a blow.

"Just relax," he said, folding her into his arms. She tried to push away from him, her hands pressing against his bare chest, but gave up after a short while. He was not holding her tightly, but he wasn't going to let her go.

Her arms hung down at her sides as he embraced her. For a minute or so he did nothing more—he just let her get comfortable with a sensation of being in a man's arms. He couldn't help pressing his erection against her belly, but aside from that he could have been her brother.

Then he took her face in both his hands and gave her a long, deep kiss.

Her lips were fluttering under his, but she didn't try to pull away, as she easily could have. She realized that his lips were soft and warm, and that his kiss was strangely chaste.

Finally he pulled back and said, "Was that nice?"

She said nothing, but her eyes were shining. She nodded shakily.

He held her again, this time kissing her cheek and neck. When he slid one hand down to her bottom, she tore it away and cried, "Please don't do that!"

He sighed audibly—she could tell he was irritated—but all he said was, "I'm sorry."

Now she felt ashamed.

God, I'm such a baby! I mean, I agreed to come here, and I knew exactly what I was getting into. Why not just go through with it?

Her embarrassment increased when he let her go, looked at her piercingly, and said, "Would you like to go home?"

Turning crimson, she blurted out, "No! Let's get this over with!"

That wasn't the right thing to say. He looked crestfallen and seemed on the verge of putting his robe back on and ordering her from the house.

"I'm sorry! I'm really sorry!" she exclaimed. "I didn't mean it like that! I

do

want to do this. Bethany said you were really nice—and I can see that you are. So—"

"Shall we go upstairs?"

"Okay."

He led her slowly up the stairs. When she saw the huge bed in the master bedroom, another shiver went through her, but she gritted her teeth and went in.

"Would you like to undress?" he said calmly.

Somehow the comment alarmed her more than she could say. Whipping her shoes off, she leaped into bed fully clothed and said, "Um, maybe later."

He gazed at her quizzically. Shrugging, he slipped into bed next to her.

He sensed that she needed a lot of reassurance before she would become comfortable. Lying on his back, he urged her to rest on top of him. She did so awkwardly, trying her best to avoid touching that immense erection.

He kissed her face all over—mouth, cheeks, eyes, ears, nose—and rubbed her back over her clothes as if giving her a massage. After a good many minutes he felt the tension slowly leaving her, and he again placed a hand on her bottom. Whimpering, "No, please!" she again pushed the hand away.

But this time he didn't give up. Instead, he slipped his hand between their bodies, under the hem of her skirt, and between her legs. She tried to wrest it away, but he held firm. He managed to get his fingers around the thin cloth covering her crotch—and when he touched her magic spot, she cried out as if someone had stabbed her.

The spot was not as wet as he had hoped, but a gentle but relentless stroking over several minutes changed that. Her hand was still fixed on his wrist, but now it seemed inadvertently to be keeping the hand in place. As she got wetter, she buried her face in his neck, both to prevent her from looking at her and to muffle the mewing sounds coming from her throat.

Presently she let out a choking gargle and almost bit down on the fleshy part of his shoulder. He continued his stroking for several minutes, squeezing the last vestiges of her climax out of her. When it was finally over, she collapsed bonelessly on him like a deflated balloon.

He gave her a few more minutes to recover before whispering in her ear, "How did that feel?"

She almost chortled at the question before saying, "Nice. Very nice."

He wondered if she was now ready to disrobe, and he started undoing the buttons on the back of her blouse. But she again stopped him.

"What's the matter?" he said gently, like a doctor patiently quizzing a shy child.

"I—I'm scared," she said miserably.

"Do you want to stop?" he said.

She swallowed before saying, "No."

"Then how—?"

She preferred to show him rather than tell him. Flipping over onto her back, she said, "Can't you just do it—this way?"

People do have sex with their clothes on, don't they? It's not unheard of.

He gazed at her as if she'd told him quite seriously that the earth was flat. "I suppose so," he said grudgingly.

Looking down at her supine form, he couldn't help admiring what he saw. She had a lovely, delicate face, and her clothes couldn't hide the shapely curves around her chest and bottom. His prolonged stimulation of her had made him harder than he could ever remember, and he was prepared to agree to even the most bizarre conditions if only it led to some kind of union with her.

So he mounted her—he naked, she clothed. He hitched up her skirt, pulled aside her underwear around her sex, and slipped in, causing her to let out an immense gasp of surprise—and, to his regret, alarm. Somewhat to

his

surprise, he didn't encounter that telltale obstacle he had been expecting. He went in nearly to his full length, even though he had promised to be gentle with her at first. With every inch that bored into her, her mouth seemed to open wider—as did her eyes.

As he began thrusting, he couldn't help grabbing her breasts and her bottom through her clothes. By this time she had given up trying to ward off these caresses, lying back almost like a corpse as he did his business. Gradually she draped her arms around him, but otherwise she lay spread-eagled and motionless.

When he pumped his seed into her, she cried out as if once again taken by surprise. That was followed by more of her curious mewing sounds. He remained in her until she lapsed into silence, then pulled out. He hoped he hadn't stained her clothing very much.

"We could do a little more," Dale said gently. "But only what you want."

She gazed down at him from her position on his chest, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek. "That's so sweet." With a slight hesitation, she gave him a soft kiss.

"Would you care to get—more comfortable?"

She didn't respond at once. After a few moments she nodded her head almost imperceptibly and rolled off of him. She kept her back turned to him and under the sheets while she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped off her skirt. After another slight hesitation she unclasped her bra and slid out of her panties. She was still largely covered by the bedsheet; and when she turned around and landed back on Dale's chest, he caught only a fleeting glimpse of her nakedness. But the first feel of her undraped flesh on his was enough to get his cock into action.

She noticed the development and let out a little whimper.

"Bridget," he said soothingly, "we'll only do whatever you want. If you want to do nothing, that would be fine."

As he resumed stroking the back of her head, she said, "Maybe I should go home."

"Oh, Bridget," he cried out, "I wouldn't want you to do that! It's so late—nearly midnight—and I'm sure you'd be much better off spending the night here."

Then, as if sensing that she might regard even this mild rebuke as one more attempt to force her, he added quickly, "But certainly you can go home if you wish. Or I could sleep in a different room. Maybe—"

"No," she said, "I'm just being silly. I'll stay."

"I'm so glad," he said heartily, and she knew he really meant it.

He began stroking her bottom—his own favorite activity, but he couldn't have known that this was one of her favorites too: she had actually pleasured herself to climax just through kneading her own derrière. Now he sensed the tension and anguish easing out of her, and she responded by wriggling on top of him and murmuring in his ear, her hot breath stimulating his own member to supreme hardness. He didn't enter her as a matter of course; instead, he looked down at her tranquilly and said:

"May I go in?"

She nodded jerkily. But that wasn't enough for him.

"Bridget, you're going to have to say yes."

She let out a sigh, half of impatience and half of nervousness, but said decisively: "Yes."

He kept her on top of him, urging her to put his member into herself. This position, to his way of thinking, not only gave her something of a dominant role in the proceedings, but forced her to be more active in inserting his organ into her body. Dale poignantly regretted the inherent inequality of the sex act: a man can penetrate a woman, but a woman can't penetrate a man. But if she were to be a willing partner in the process, then maybe some of her hangups about sex would dissipate.

He wasn't sure that was going to happen immediately; for although she did indeed go ahead and put his member into herself, she lay there somewhat lifelessly on top of him, unable or unwilling to take any further initiative. He had to thrust his hips upward into her—gently at first, and then with greater vigor. She nestled her head in the crook of his neck, and her soft moans suggested that his actions were not unwelcome. He continued to massage her bottom and kiss her cheeks and ear as he pumped, and in a few minutes they cried out simultaneously as they achieved orgasm together.

She remained on top of him, deflated after her climax subsided. Then she raised her head up, looked him right in the eyes—her own eyes bright and glistening—and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

"Was that nice?" he asked unnecessarily.

"Very nice," she said with a laugh.

He wanted to do more, but suspected that Bridget was pretty tired: she clearly wasn't used to any kind of marathon session of this sort. After a while she got up stiffly from the bed and said:

"I'm a little damp down there. I guess I'd better clean up."

She trotted off to the bathroom. Coming back a minute or so later, she looked down at him. For once he saw her in all her nude glory. She really had a splendid figure, perfectly proportioned and luscious to the look and touch: round, swelling breasts, flat stomach, gently curving hips and bottom, strong thighs and calves, and dainty feet.

"Do you want to go to sleep now?" he said, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Yes, I think so," she said, a touch of regret in her voice. Continuing to gaze down at him, she said: "Um, are you going to sleep naked?"

"Yes," he said frankly. "Does that bother you?"

"No, no, of course not." After a pause: "Do you want me to be naked?"

"It's entirely up to you. I'd like you to be, but it's your choice."

She pondered the situation for a moment, then slid into bed unclothed.

"I guess I like it this way," she said.

Giving him a quick kiss, she snuggled into bed and fell asleep in minutes.