While I was working on my manuscript, my magnum opus of sex, the samples I had mailed around managed to attract the attention of a publisher in New York.
At that moment it was my sole purpose in life to publish my stories and thus I decided to move to New York, so I could be close to my publisher. I had high expectations of my endeavor, after all, I did not only have my own quite remarkable collection of stories, but also the stories that Gerhard Von Bodenstein had handed me in Vienna.
Things were running smoothly, as I soon found a nice apartment in the Village and at the same time I got engaged to Tess, a lovely and effervescent girl from Toronto. I had just turned thirty and felt I was finally beginning to live the life of a normal, responsible adult.
My publisher told me he'd hook me up with a first-rate editor. 'Justine, a French broad... but her English is immaculate. I'll arrange a lunch meeting for the two of you. Have a good time, enjoy the lunch and each other's conversation, but do make sure I get some results,' he told me.
And so I found myself on a rainy spring day in a nice, somewhat chaotic bar, overlooking the East River. I was a bit early because I wanted to see if I could guess who I was meeting. I did.
It wasn't a hard guess: the woman who entered the establishment exuded refinement. She was a quite short, dark-haired woman, with dark, very sharp eyes, who seemed to be in her mid-forties. She was dressed in a light gray business suit, with a skirt that ended just above her knees. I couldn't help noticing that her black silk stockings were really quite sexy. But, then I checked myself quickly, 'I'm not here to be aroused by a woman who is absolutely not in my age category,' I told myself, and then: 'what am I saying?! I just got engaged to Tess!'
I raised up from my seat and cordially shook Justine's hand.
To break the ice I asked her how she got into editing. She told me she had always been obsessed with literature. 'I was never much into French literature though, I much preferred English authors, such as Swift, Shelley, and Byron. The only French writer I do really love is Marquis de Sade. Do you know him?' she asked languidly in her lovely Parisian English.
I laughed, 'of course I do! He's... ehm, a very interesting author,' I said, while I thought: 'what an audacious woman! Is she coming on to me?!'
It soon became apparent that we really enjoyed each others conversation, in fact: we couldn't stop talking to each other. The afternoon whiled away as if hours were minutes. We decided to dine together at an Italian place I had recently discovered. Justine's apartment wasn't far from the restaurant and I decided to walk her home.
While we ascended the stairs that led up to her front door she invited me in for a nightcap.
'This is extremely wrong and I have to leave right now!' I said to myself, yet I heard my voice say: 'sure, why not.'
Several hours later we had downed two bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I felt deeply conflicted. I wanted nothing more than to dive into bed with this mesmerizing woman. Yet I felt it not an option I could even consider. And why would I consider it? Would I normally try to seduce forty-five-year-old women..? Of course not! Then I decided to sabotage the erotic spell that was firmly establishing itself: I told Justine about my engagement to Tess.
I could see that she struggled with disappointment and annoyance in equal measure, yet she managed to feign insouciance. Noticing the effect my words were having on the poor lady, the relief I had hoped to feel after having uttered them did not at all manifest itself. Quite the contrary: I did not feel guilty when I reasoned I ought to have, and now that I was doing what I thought had been the right thing I did feel an ever-increasing sense of guilt. I decided to end all doubts by delivering the coup-de-grâce: I showed Justine some pictures of Tess and even some pictures of Tess and me.
That ought to have done it. We drank our last glass in silence and awkwardly tried to avoid looking at each other. Then Justine became white as a sheet and seemed to lose consciousness as she sank back into her couch. Needless to say, I was quite alarmed.
'Please, get me some water,' she mumbled feebly.
I did what she asked. She then asked me to help her get to bed.
A few minutes later she was sitting upright in bed, sipping her water.
'I don't usually drink that much,' she said.
'It's okay. How do you feel?'
'A bit better. If you want to leave now it's okay. I can take care of myself.'
'No, no, I'm not going to rush out now. I'll stay a bit longer and see how you feel.'
'That's very nice of you,' she said and showed a faint smile.
I took off my shoes and sat on the bed, next to her. It was a very comfortable king-size bed. Soon I began to doze off. I woke up because Justine was undressing.
'Don't mind me, I'm just getting ready to sleep,' she said.
'I'm quite ready to sleep too,' I yawned.
'Well, you are welcome to stay. I guess we've become close enough friends...'
'I guess. May I take one of these pillows to your couch?'
'My couch? You don't have to sleep there, it's far too uncomfortable; just sleep here.'
'Oh! Well, that's really nice of you. I appreciate it.'
I took off my shirt and my trousers and crept under the blankets. I couldn't help looking at her body, that was very clearly visible through her nightgown. She was definitely not a gym freak... her belly looked soft, her breast also, but they were full and round. My sleepiness vanished instantly as I began to feel more than a bit aroused.
'I guess it would be rude do deny you a good-night kiss,' I whispered.
'Indeed, in France, that would not be acceptable,' she said, pronouncing that as 'accep-tahbluh'.
It might not come as a great surprise, that one kiss was followed by another. And soon we were kissing like two-eighteen-year-olds on spring break. We kissed for about twenty minutes. Then she said:
'you are a most mischievous boy.'
'I can only affirm that,' I answered with a smile.
'What about Tess?' she asked.
'Yeah... I know,' I whispered.
'Perhaps you should go now.'
'Do you want me to?'
'Then I'll stay. I think we would both like that.'
'I would,' she said, 'but I will feel really bad about having sex with a man who is engaged to another woman.'
'We've already crossed a line.'
'Not THAT line...'
'Okay,' I said. Then I kissed her again.
I caressed her body with my fingers.
'Is that acceptable?' I whispered.
I let my hand slide between her breasts.
'Is that acceptable?'
My fingers slipped under her gown and I touched her left nipple.
'Is that acceptable?'
'Because you don't want it?'
'No, because it crossed the line.'
'Not your line...'
'No, the line of decency towards Tess.'
'You don't even know Tess...'
'You have just brought her into my life.'
I realized she was taking subtle revenge on me. I was a fool and she was teaching me what that meant. I had crossed the line the moment I had stepped through into her apartment and my confession concerning Tess had just been a clumsy form of self-deception.
Now she knew that my lust was becoming unbearable; of course, she had felt my erection while we were kissing and caressing, our bodies so close to each other that it was not possible not to touch each other from tip to toe.
Slightly later I won the battle for her breasts. She allowed me to touch them, but that was as far as she would go. She did not grant me the relief I was aching for. And thus I lost the war. After a few hours of kissing and frolicking, caressing and dallying, she bade me good-night. Steam was coming from my ears and the underwear around my cock was wet as if I was a girl.
I went to the bathroom. A simple but luxurious bathroom, reminiscent of the Glacier Bay style furniture you always mindlessly stroll past at Praxis or Home Depot. I couldn't stop my heart from racing. When I touched myself, I ejaculated all over her cultured marble vanity top as if my dick was a spring balsam.
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