In spite of the X-rated movie playing on the TV screen, the only true affection in the room is between us. While we lie in bed, Paula becomes the central focus of my early morning wood. My swollen member is of sufficient size to create fear in most women, but not this one. Miss Warren spreads her legs as she prepares to pay full price for unrestrained sexual excess in a tangled bed. The early morning dalliance with this vivacious woman will jump-start my mind-boggling journey into yet another business day. Her first comment is always the same - as though I need confidence before mounting her.
"Oh God, it's so big, it'll never fit."
All the while, she is applying warming gel before guiding my cock inside her, while making diva-like noises. While she guides the pork-up, I inhale every distinctive sound of her insatiable sexual appetite. She punches all of my lurid buttons any time we are together. The woman is my beautiful live-in Paula Warren, who is precious to me. Her voice invigorates the rueful rock-hard part of me that will slide deeply into her. Primal impulses move her hips while impatience fills her mind. Paula's central pre-occupation with sexual satisfaction conquers her body about the same time I do. Her face is a mask of pleasure when she lets go.
When Paula comes, she turns frantic, vocal, and sluttish. She screams naughty words. Her orgasmic spasm arrives as my swollen member bottoms in her. "God, oh God," lovely Paula wails in cadence with slow intercourse. "Put it to me… Yes, yes, oh God, yes… Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh… Harder, faster… Oh damn, give it to me… Oh fuck, fuck, fuck… Oh God, here it comes… Oh, John, I'm coming… Ahh, ahh, ahhhhh… Don't stop, don't stop… Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, don't stop."
There is a sustained pause as her spasms consume her. When she is again sane, she whimpers hoarsely, "Now it's my turn."
Within seconds, she moves from thrilling bone-deep intercourse into the spice of fellatio. My truncheon lies heavily on her wide-spread tongue as she enters into a sensual rhythm that will create sexual anxiety for me. Watching her perform stirs the adrenaline-fueled rush to glory I crave. Pretty Paula moans during her remorseless assault on my cock. While she plays the pink oboe, every hormone in my body takes wing. Her method of operation becomes a full-fledged contact sport in only a matter of seconds. I thrust into her pretty mouth as she generates a climax in me of startling proportions. The percussive cumshot that follows nearly injures both of us.
After she turns me into a sexual indigent, she rolls away to lie watching while I ready myself for work. Later, there is a final kiss before I head out for my twelve hours of office drudgery. At the door, I pause to look back for one last vision of my lovely companion. Paula lies propped up on an elbow, resting on her right side. Following the honest violence of sex, I receive a blown farewell kiss as the door closes.
That morning I purchase a three-carat diamond ring with the idea of asking Paula Warren to marry me. Before I can ask her, my beautiful redhead packs her bags and disappears. The contents of an envelope on my nightstand tells the tale. The letter launches into a wholesale denigration of all things male about me. I read with morbid fascination that I am too masculine, my cock is too big, and I'm too muscular. Furthermore, I should be registered by the National Mineral Institute of America as a testosterone mining site. She claims that I use her so often it makes her feel like a seminal repository. Having detailed those factors in spades, she has removed herself from our arrangement with plans to become a wife. She provides no forwarding address. The letter has a ring of finality I find disheartening.
After two weeks of longing, I decide that she is gone for good. Charles Wycoff, my retired cop limo driver/bodyguard, asks if I want him to find her. After a moment's consideration, I decline. The term wife indicates that there is another man involved, so I cross her off my list of future projects.
I am unable to lose the memory of my lost lover, so a week later I take her best friend to lunch. Flo Shannon is a fully functioning model who lives with two other women in the loft of a reconditioned warehouse near the waterfront. Like most models, Flo has the anorexic build of a drop-forged Maypole with less than modest breasts. Our hour-long conversation leads me to believe that Flo is available for anything I might want to do to or with her. The doing also includes changing her address to mine. She is the cornerstone of clitoral diversity when she predicts that the experience would be memorable for me. I dismiss the idea in a fashion that does not crush her expectations, but will keep her hoping for a phone call.
Flo finally indicates that Paula had been seeing another man in our apartment building for about a year. Her lover on the fourth floor was a small-scale Texas oil tycoon. Apparently she grew tired of waiting for me to make the offer she wouldn't refuse, and so she decided to move on. Thus ends my midsummer dream of marrying her. I pay the tab and thank Flo for the information and her offer to assume Paula's now vacant position. Following a toast to us, I also move on.
For more than a year I do not pursue women at all. I distrust the entire female social system, so I become completely celibate. I do this because I fear that if I don't alter my pattern of indiscriminate sexual encounters, I will father a child I don't want, with a woman I don't love. Instead of chasing women in my accustomed manner, I use the services of Cassandra Thornwood, the greeter from my downtown office.
Three nights a week, Charley transports her from her apartment to mine. While she is with me, she provides a therapeutic sexual massage that satisfies my carnal appetites. I conclude that this will continue until I find a replacement for Paula. A few weeks into our arrangement, Cassandra also indicates a desire to become Paula's successor. When I gently reject her offer, she performs my fondest guilty pleasure. The conclusion of the massage involves a Scandinavian oral delight. The blowjob is an obvious attempt to sway my decision. Even after her lovely gift, I still am not interested in her as a paramour. The woman is quite lovely to look at and sexually competent, but I have no feelings for her - no feelings other than the purely professional oral addition to our latest working relationship.
My problem is that I have grown so restive that I thoroughly distrust the female gender. The emerald cut size four diamond ring is returned to the jeweler from whence it came. Instead of a refund, I have them hold open an account for future use. At thirty-two, I admit that the thought of marriage and a family has become indelibly etched in my brain. I begin to feel that my procreative abilities are waning. My roving eyes see other lovely women, but I find no joy in looking at them. My incredible sex drive seems to have gone into hibernation.
One day I stop at the magazine stand on the lobby level across from the main elevator station. The stand is run by a blind woman. Her name is Mary Doorman. Mary was a bag lady living in a packing crate up an alley on the South Side when Charley found her. I suspect that as a child, Chuck always found the bird with a broken wing, the stray kitten with neither home nor mother, or the inevitable starving lost dog.
Blind from age ten, Mary had no way to earn a living, so she became a scavenger by necessity. Charley discovered her one day when he nearly ran her over as she crossed a street against traffic. He and his best friend Leo, who runs a private detective agency, eventually discovered where she lived. After that, Charley took me to her. If Charles is the finder of lost souls, then I am the savior of same.
Mary Doorman was distrustful of other people, especially men. The middle-aged woman had developed a survival instinct after concluding that men were the arch-villains of creation. She was like me when I was a kid, suspicious and living in fear of everyone. Slowly she allowed the two of us to earn her trust. Once trust had been established, we were able to set her up with the newsstand and a place to live in the building. Charley supervised the conversion of a storage area on the ground floor of the Stratford Tower into a one-bedroom efficiency apartment.
Every time I see her tending her stand, the sight gives my heart a lift. When I want to feel good about life, I go to the ground floor for a while to watch Mary sell her wares. Her face glows like a Madonna, because she is now a person able to support herself.
"How are you today, Mary?" our conversations always begin.
"I'm well, Mr. Stratford. It's so good to hear your voice again."
I marvel that she never misses identifying the sound of my voice.
"Is every one treating you the way they should?"
"Always, Mr. Stratford. Everybody looks after me, thanks to you."
Mary has no family, so Charley and I have become her family. We see to her on her birthday, at Christmas and anytime she needs our help. The stand immediately became successful, so we opened savings and checking accounts for her in a nearby bank. Charley enrolled her in a nighttime school for the blind, where she learned Braille and other tricks that allowed her to function more independently. After she became our lifetime project, others were drawn into the cause. One supervisor in SIS undertakes to inventory her stand daily so that stock is maintained at suitable levels. He makes bank deposits for her and pays any accumulated bills from her checking account. When he's not doing that, he runs my gigantic accounting department.
One day as I'm returning to my office after visiting Mary, a young woman comes to the stand. I have only a fleeting glimpse of her as the elevator doors close. I have maybe a five-second view over somebody's shoulder. Before I can stop the elevator, we are sealed in and on the way up. At the first stop, four floors up, I quickly run down the stairwell to the mezzanine level, where I scan the lobby. Unfortunately, the woman is gone. I note the time, and every day for several weeks, I return to the area to watch for her. I never give up hoping she will return, so I can meet her. The woman is a breathtaking beauty with long black hair in a pony tail hanging to her shoulder blades. She sports hypnotic deep blue eyes. Every detail of her is etched in my feverish brain from the single nanosecond-long glance. What I remember most about my brief trace of sight is that it made my heart skip a beat. If an artist saw her, he'd want to carve a statue for his living quarters. There would be no sharing of his creation with anyone else.
Just one glimpse has left me completely smitten. I'm plagued with an intense desire to see her again. Every morning I arrive early to view the employees as they hustle through the lobby. I'm there again in the afternoon to watch them charge onto the sidewalk on their way home. All my efforts are in vain. When I decide that I'll never see her again, I reluctantly abandon the search. After that I tend purely to business. She probably has the personality of a screech owl anyway, so who cares? That is how I placate myself, but secretly I'd give a lot just to see her again.
When I stop looking, Charley takes up the vigil. He watches for a winged angel with blue eyes and long black hair. Armed only with my verbal description, he watches for black-haired women passing through the lobby. He remains ever hopeful of finding the woman his boss can't live without. He makes folders every day. They hold the photographs of every woman with black hair and blue eyes he comes across. Every morning he presents his latest digital recovery for me to view. None is the woman I seek. Depression sets in. What follows for me is a period of purely work, dining in, weight lifting and sleeping ten hours a night.
I have grown fond of listening to instrumental music while in bed. My treasure of a maid has a live-in girlfriend who owns a music store. The two are into an alternative life style that does not include men for either social, recreational, or impassioned purposes. At Heidi Sorenson's request, her friend records a six-inch reel-to-reel tape for me that holds three hours of soothing instrumental music. Mostly the recordings are of things by Gleason, Aldrich, Mantovani, and other well known orchestras.
The songs are heavy on strings and are exactly what I need to lull me to sleep. I quickly become accustomed to turning on the big Akai tape deck when I go to bed. With the lovely music filling the room, sleep arrives almost immediately. The single exception to instrumental music is Celine Dion singing Memories. That particular song appears three times as a selection on the tape. Once at the beginning, again at the middle, and as the last rendering on the recording. Of course Heidi knows that Memories is my all time favorite song and Celine Dion my favorite vocalist.
About a week into listening to the tape, I have the first of many dreams. Normally, my dreams are not memorable, but sometimes there is a trace of a dream-memory in the morning for me to ponder. Those occurrences are rare. On the occasion of the first dream, the perceived vision is as vivid when I awake in the morning as it was when it happened. Always before, my dreams have been in black and white. Now I dream in living color. The dream is of the beautiful dark-haired young woman at the newsstand. The initial view is a side profile. In a later dream she turns to face me with her lovely lips slightly parted. Her face bears a seductive expression. That's when I see her incredible blue eyes again. At the end of the dream, I am given a glimpse of her full form wearing a dark blue knit dress.
She is as I remember her, breathtakingly beautiful. Her face remains with me until the next dream cycle. Seven days later, while I sleep to music, she returns to me. This time she is naked. I awaken that night in the throes of a nocturnal emission - something that hasn't happened since I was about thirteen. When I awaken, Memories is playing on the tape. Both the vision and the melody are embedded in my brain. On the following day, I go around humming the song like an advertisement jingle I can't stop remembering.
The night of the first dream I had to strip the bed and shower before returning to sleep. In another week, the earth angel returns. The dream ends with the same results. In the dream, I am strapped in the shape of a cross atop a cloudlike mattress. My cock is as rigid as a drill bit while it awaits her pleasure. This time she is again naked. She stands astride me on the bed. I can plainly see that she is without a vaginal opening. While I watch, she thrusts a knife into herself and creates her own aperture. Strangely, there is no blood. The dream progresses as she lowers herself onto my cock. When we are completely coupled I suffer another massive ejaculation.
Never in my life have I had a dream that reoccurs. I ask Charley if he has ever had a dream end and then occur later. Of course he has not, nor has he ever heard of anyone else dreaming the same dream over and over again. Charles has heard that sometimes, combat soldiers have recurring nightmares that require psychiatric attention. Because I don't want this dream to go away, I totally reject the thought of seeing a shrink. By now, I'm not about to share my lady of the night with anyone - especially a psychiatrist. Perhaps I have created my own sexual post-traumatic stress disorder. I find that thought amusing enough that I break into spontaneous laughter on the way to work. I resume frequenting the newsstand, but my efforts are to no avail.
While Paula was memorable in bed, she was definitely not cause for a sexual post-traumatic stress disorder. I mention the dreams to nobody. The only thing I do differently is that I no longer have Cassandra come by to pleasure me in her wonderful manner. Instead, all my sexual energies are devoted to my dream woman. She returns almost nightly to visit me. Every time she returns, the vision leaves me spent. In the interest of sparing the bed linens further abuse, I begin sleeping with a silk sock enshrouding my cock.