by Rajah Dodger (c) 1994, 2009
It was a sticky afternoon, and Karl was tired of waiting for the bus, tired of looking for work, just plain tired. He tapped his fingers impatiently against his briefcase as he slouched against the building in the July heat. He grumbled to himself from time to time about the short-sightedness of personnel managers who seemed to want fresh young (read: cheap) applicants instead of someone who knew the business and could be productive in only a few hours.
The bus pulled up to the stop with a collection of squeaks and the raw odor of exhaust. Karl wrinkled his nose as he swung himself up the metal steps, tossed a few coins in the box and plopped down in the first available seat. As he did so, his hip collided with a somewhat attractive-looking matron who was sitting by the window. Karl apologized, and she accepted his apology with a brief but winning smile. That smile helped Karl overcome both his natural reticence and the attitude he had been building, and they chatted as the bus rattled and bumped its way out of the downtown traffic.
Her name was Lara, and she lived in one of the older neighborhoods, one that had been fashionable a decade ago. She was coming back from grocery shopping and had also been looking for work, her husband having left for greener pastures "with a younger filly," she explained. They turned out to have several things in common other than their generation -- enjoying miniature golf, going to the theatre, a love of Tony Bennett, and a hearty dislike for so-called "New Age" music. "It's just Muzak without the bad reputation," Lara declared. Several times while they talked, the bus would hit another pothole or swerve to avoid traffic, throwing them against each other. Each time Karl apologized, and each time Lara smiled and accepted the apology.
They chatted on as the bus rolled onto the smoother streets outside the business district, her hip comfortably against his where she had left it from the last road bump. As the bus drew near her neighborhood, she invited Karl in for coffee "and maybe something to eat -- you look famished!" When he asked about the bus schedule in her neighborhood, she explained that she had her own car and could give him a ride home; it was just that she didn't like having to park in the city.
The bus pulled up to the stop, and Karl followed Lara out. Somehow in the process he wound up carrying her grocery bags for her. They walked down the sidewalk until they came to a small Georgian house with crape myrtle and wisteria scenting the air. "Nice landscaping," Karl commented. "It was one of the things that I did while we were married" was her response. She unlocked the door and they went inside. Karl stopped and closed his eyes to savor the cool air, such a contrast to the heat outside. He followed her into the kitchen and handed her packages as she put them away efficiently, her cool hands occasionally brushing against his.
Lara invited him to look around the house while she fixed something in the kitchen. He wandered around the living room and parlor as she puttered around. The house had a slightly musty odor, not unpleasant, and it reminded him vaguely of the way his grandparents' house had smelled years ago. While he was looking over her bookshelves, Lara wandered into the parlor carrying a tray with a couple of plates and glasses, which she put down efficiently on an end table. They were cucumber sandwiches, with a hint of dill in the cream cheese, and very good. He washed his down with a cold iced tea.
Lara slipped out of her heels as they ate, and noted the way his eyes dipped to her feet and back. She got a warm feeling, one she hadn't had in quite some time, and rubbed her feet together as they talked about city life, taxes, and traffic. She could tell he was interested in her, but he seemed to keep holding himself back from doing or saying anything. Finally, she decided she was going to have to make the first move. She crossed her legs, swinging her right foot near him on the sofa. "The only problem with doing so much walking," she said, changing the subject, "is that my feet do ache at the end of the day." She waited to see what his response would be.
Karl looked at her foot, and his eyes drew a line up her calf to the point where her leg disappeared under her skirt. He swallowed another bite of his sandwich quickly, and reached out tentatively, hoping this woman would not take offense. He was pleased to see her close her eyes and sigh when he took her foot in his hand and start massaging it, rubbing deeply into the arch with his thumb. After several minutes he took both hands and drew her foot up on top of his leg. Lara leaned back a little to accommodate him, bringing her other foot onto the sofa and lifting her leg the slightest bit. A flush came over Karl's face as he caught a glimpse of her upper thighs. She was wearing knee-highs, and while the foot in his hand was sheathed in nylon the area beneath her skirt was bare skin. He used his knuckles on her sole, and separated each toe in turn as he rubbed her foot. She sighed again, and stretched her leg out so that her foot was comfortably nestled in his lap. Too comfortably, perhaps, as Karl felt the stirrings of a desire he hadn't felt in some time. He extended his reach to rub her calf as well, reveling in the feel of her musculature under his hands.
Lara sipped her tea as she enjoyed the feel of Karl's hands on her. She wanted more, and hoped he would continue with her legs. She suppressed a moue of disappointment when he put her foot back on the sofa, but it was only to take her other foot and begin the same delightful massage. She rubbed her free foot against the side of his leg as he worked. When he moved his attention to her calf, she rolled her free foot in his lap, feeling her effect on him directly. "Lara," he said, and looked in her eyes. "I know," she replied simply, and opened her arms. Karl leaned toward her and she met him halfway, smooth cotton shirt crushed against muslin blouse, skirt rucked up carelessly past her knees. Their lips met and clung, needily, greedily, for the moment like two sixteen-year-olds. Her hips pressed comfortably against his, and after a bit, she began to stroke his back with her fingers.
Her nipples were on fire. She was on fire. She wanted to feel him against her, around her, within her. She moved against him, trying to get nearer. He reached down and rubbed her breast in a circular motion through her clothes, but it wasn't enough. She pressed against him gently, and as their lips parted she leaned back to start undoing buttons, quickly but without haste. He smiled as he saw her freckled chest appear, then her plain brassiere, her belly. She sat up and turned around to let Karl pull the blouse off and unhook her bra. Karl slid his hands around her chest and under the bra cups, fondling her small globes, jiggling them in his hands, then letting her breasts slither against his palms as he moved his hands away from her body taking the bra with them. Her nipples were crinkled in the cool air.