An Afternoon With Fitch

Lilacs were always her favourite flower. It was just one of those information fragments he kept in his wallet next to the picture of his family home, his tailor’s business card and random pieces of cash that were always vacating the leather premises.

It had been months since the last time Fitch had come into the small Vermont town where Liam practiced veterinary medicine, and was far too serious about cooking. She was the type of woman who loved to flirt with words that held so many meanings that your conversation would quickly dissolve into either a “Really, Liam I expected better of you” or “I cannot simply imagine what you think I am implying…I am a lady after all.” Fitch’s charm was undeniable.

They had met in one of those American tourist cafes along the Beaubourg while he was traveling with his second wife, the wine enthusiast. Fortunately, number two fell asleep under the iron table, and Liam was able to talk to the local ex-pats. Fitch was the one who stuck. Perhaps it was her bottle-blonde hair that was in a constant state of flitting. With a few glasses of Armagnac, she came and went, without another thought until their paths crossed two years ago. He had moved to Montpelier, Vermont to get away from the bustle of New York and all of the trappings it entailed.  It seemed unlikely, but there she was, standing in front of her carefully-restored, baby blue MG convertible. It was a moment of confusion, recognition and enthusiasm. She was heading to South Carolina on some business a mere hour after her own divorce, but promised to return; a year later she did.

This time Liam had a plan to ensure that he procured more than her opinions and conversation. With a case of Veuve Clicquot in the boot, an hour of meticulous grooming and a new aftershave from Morocco, he was hoping to close in on this woman before she decided never to return to sleepy Vermont. The train station where she was arriving was always empty except for the stationmaster and the local outgoing mail. By the time he had arrived, it looked empty; it was. No sign of Fitch. His heart sunk, though he knew she might have meant tomorrow, tonight, or next year. At least there was the champagne to provide solace tonight. As he walked out to the car he raised his head to see a now red-haired Fitch in the passenger seat, with her toes peeking out from the dashboard. She was wearing a well-worn denim jacket and a flimsy cotton dress.

“Really, darling, you can’t expect me to sit here all afternoon in heat. It is so hot in Vermont, I mean. Take me to your hovel and feed me champagne and oysters by the chilled bucket,” she purred like a cat rubbing its body along your leg.

A quick hop into the driver’s seat covered in a soft brown saddle leather, and Liam was already playing a bad hand of being surprised. With some quick talk about the train ride and how hateful the conductor had been, they arrived at his Victorian house that the boys had been renovating.  “Your bags, my dear?”

“Oh I won’t be needing anything like clothes while I am here, will I?” she giggled with a laugh that quickly turned to resolve. “Oh, do not be a schoolboy, Liam, they are coming later.”

Indeed, it was a hot afternoon, and he could not help but hope that he had turned on the air-conditioning before he left. No such luck.

“It is awfully sticky in here, Old Boy. Mind if I go wash up? Where should I meet you?”

“The drawing room round the corner; it has the only cross breeze.”

He now sat, sweating and wrestling with cushions to obscure his now obvious erection. This would be a long afternoon, but the lemonade with crushed mint and ice would ease his needs better than a cold shower. Then he felt a soft, moist hand on his left shoulder.

“I love what you have done with the place. It is starting to look respectable. I hope that our afternoon won’t ruin any of those delusions for you.” She whispered in his left ear:  “I hope you don’t mind that I just came here for a bordello afternoon? I tried to calm down upstairs, but my naughty fingers just did the opposite of what I wanted. You know how it is.  After all, that pillow is not doing much for your erection now is it?”

With a slow, but complete movement, Fitch slid down from behind Liam onto his lap and tossed the useless cushion aside. With a few futile protestations, he found his trousers being opened. His face pressed against her neck. The saltiness of her sweat and the heavy scent she must have put on while upstairs made him lose his balance. Her hot, little palms on his flesh, her nose and mouth teasing his with push and pull movements of a dance that never resolves in touch. Most insistent was the definite mixture of humidity and arousal slipping from her thighs onto his seersucker pants. It became difficult to tell in the fuzzy warmness whether it was her or the pre-ejaculate moistening the tip of his rigid, throbbing member. He achingly moved his left hand to push up the hem of her light dress. The wetness was definitely hers and the scent of this obvious desire forced a whelp from his desperate lips which ended in satisfaction at reaching the complex textures of Fitch’s panties.

“I hope you like my lingerie choices; it is so hard to find nice underthings in Atlanta,” she rasped. “The lace is meant to mimic tattoos across my hips and pubis, but they might as well not be there. Oh my, you are making me so dreadfully wet. Let’s feel how you are holding up, shall we?”

With a succinct twisting of her body, she unbuttoned his trousers and reached through the folds in his underwear to pull out his heaving member. He felt the room spin as she slowly slid her moistened hand across the length of his shaft and back again, becoming more wet in the passing. He found himself making deep, guttural sounds with each stroke. Fitch encouraged him like a pleased mother feeding her baby:  “Yes, that’s it. Doesn’t that feel good? You like that. Yes, I know.”

She continued, “Mmmmm, nice…now where might we put this for the moment? How about along that place I just couldn’t satisfy with my naughty fingers? Ahhh yes.” And with that Liam felt his engorged penis being moved beneath the lace gusset of her panties, and into the folds of Fitch’s sex until it reached her clitoris; she expertly moved her hips to please herself. It was with one further move that she tossed her head back with a euphoric moan and forced him into her. It now became a series of intense squeezing motions with moans of desperate appreciation blindly sprouting from each other’s lips until they locked together with tongues pushing into opposing mouths, faces pressing into bosoms, until the swell overcame Liam finally, and the pitch of Fitch’s movements slowly softened like a ride nearing its end at the carnival. As she dismounted, her thighs trembled with the orgasm still shaking her body, ebbing slowly and then quickly, she deliberately smeared the remains of their creamy fluid against the contours, the folds of her body, beneath the expensive lingerie. With that definite motion, she tottered towards the bedroom and spoke without turning.

“So now what can you do for me, Liam? Baby’s gotta get back what she gives, after all.”