May

She reminded me of Maria de Medeiros who played Parisien diarist Anais Nin in "Henry and June". Big eyes set in a small face, lips perpetually puckered up in a petulant pout. Slim and smallish in build, May seemed to live up to her prissy Chinese name of Pretty Ice, as in cold, frigid, blue nosed even.

But in the darkness of the cinema hall, she reached between the buttons of my business shirt to stroke my bare chest. She was playing with my nipple. Her body leaned into mine, encumbered only by the armrest of our seats. Then suddenly her whole body went into spontaneous spasm, and I could feel her trembling through the length of her exploring arm. She had worked herself into an orgasm.

This was the same girl who had insisted I maintained a safe distance during our first date dancing at the Christmas party of a hotel function. When I sent her home soon after midnight, she told me she felt safe with me, that I was unlike other guys who would paw her like lustry primates.

I remained the gallant gentleman for several more dates, and often met after work to take in the evening movie. But not for long.

The show was about a cabaret, but everything else was a blur. What I recalled was reaching over, and into her neckline, to grasp her bare breast in one swift move. I had a glimpse of her tits when I picked her up at her home, when she bent down to wear her shoes, two forbidden fruit dangling in her loose bra. She caught my glance and looked down her own cleavage, and didn't seem to care less.

The soft cup was pleasurably pliable under my enfolding palm, and the warm of her flesh was emphasised by the cool air-conditioned cinema air. It was a wiseman who said anything more than a handful is a waste anyway. Index finger and thumb found the raised cylindrical knob of a nipple, and kneaded and pulled and tweaked it. The rough manipulative action of the digits did not appear to cause her any pain, perhaps it may have given her pleasure instead. I worked that firm teat like a push button on a control console, as if I could whip her into throes of ecstasy by my effort. After quite a while, the hand that massaged her left breast was reluctantly relocated and repositioned between her legs. The flesh of her smooth, bare thighs was surprisingly warm to the touch, with a hint of hot, moist perspiration. Working discreetly under her dress, I reached for the top elastic band of her panties, preparing to dive into the confines of her passion cove. But she would not allow me further access to her maidenhood, clamping her thighs stubbornly shut. I managed only to feel around the pubic growth of her mons, the apex of the erotic triangle denied by her sudden reserve. So near, yet so far. Her vaginal orifice couldn't have been more than a couple of inches from my finger tips. She consoled me by French kissing me full on the mouth, permitting me to violate her oral cavern with my tongue instead of letting me tunnel between her nether lips. When the show ended, my hair was all mussed up with the frentic activities in the dark. She asked coyly, "Did you enjoy the show?"

Dropping her off, I helped her retrieve her shopping bags from the boot in the rear of the car. As she was bending over, her behind stuck out enticingly at me. I laid both palms flushed on her cheeks, and gave her a start. But she remain frozen in that position, as my hands moved the fabric over her flesh, raising the hemline in the process. One hand glided down the crack of her buttocks and I ventured forth for the elusive slit through her flimsy underwear. Tracing the contours of her private folds, her labial majora felt full and plump to the touch, and I knew the sensitive clitoris would be somewhere within that musky valley. The bright street lights woke me to reality, and I couldn't really penetrate her with my index finger right in her driveway. As I drove away, the doleful eyes that stared at me through her gate made me wonder if she had wished for me to continue the carnal intention to fruition.