* * * * *

String gloves.

Auntie Antonia made these string gloves just for Kimmy to wear to her first face-to-face meeting with a man she had fallen in love with over the Internet. Auntie Antonia was the only one in Kimmy's family who had any idea the beautiful young blonde had been corresponding with a much older man for a year, had become enamored of him simply through private chats and long letters, and hoped that today she would truly meet the love of her life.

Privately, Auntie Antonia thought Kimmy was in for a big upset and worried for her favorite niece, but she was happy to make the string gloves for the petite woman's ensemble. Might as well let her have a chance.

String gloves.

They had been crocheted using the remnants of an old Irish lace fancy-dress collar handed down from Great-Granma Judith. Times, moths, and too many washings finally destroyed the collar, but Auntie tore it apart deftly for the usable leftovers. The material had long ago turned a deep ivory color. Auntie Antonia made them in zip time, sitting at Kimmy's kitchen table and telling scandalous stories of her younger days. Kimmy felt a special bond with her auntie, who was the only adult in her large family who accepted the younger woman's calling as an exuberant, unrestrained, delighted stripper.

String gloves.

Kimmy twists the knots and looped connections of the short, tight, openwork gloves in a nervous response to the frequent sharp pains she feels in her stomach. The Diplomatic Club is not one of her usual destinations. In fact, she has only been here by way of the newspaper photos of beautiful, famous, rich or important people at some event or another. This place is intimidating.

Kimmy is in a private parlor somewhere down a long hall and several side passages further from the huge doorway she used to enter the place. A butler greeted her when she came into the front lobby. He appeared out of a nearly-invisible alcove, silently, spotless in his tuxedo, his polished fingernails and slicked-down hair making Kimmy even more nervous than she had been. At some other place Kimmy might have put the fellow on her level with a mental question about his sexual preferences, but here he stood for authority and a social class Kimmy feared.

Deep yellow-gold walls, accented by lustrous white woodwork and areas of paneling made of a silk fabric perfect accent Kimmy's Summer outfit. She was like a butterfly among the flowers, following the silent butler to the meeting room reserved by her long distance lover, Lance. Her light yellow crepe sundress rustled and waved softly when she walked through the broad, high halls. Kimmy's matching tall-heeled sandals tapped out a drumbeat for their procession. The flowered yellow and white broad-brimmed straw hat with ribbon streamers fluttered a memory of her passing by.

Punctuality is one of Kimmy's many virtues. For this meeting she came nearly a half-hour early, thinking she could have a chance to get used to the daunting ambiance, make the meeting room her place, perhaps move a table of chair just so and frame the way her lover would meet her. Instead she surrendered to an awful case of nerves. A narrow buffet table holds a little display of coffee, tea, soft drinks, a small bottle of champagne, some fruit and cheese and the best canapés she had ever tasted gave her a distraction too soon ended.

Lance was flying in from the West Coast. He picked this place because he enjoyed guest privileges thanks to a membership in a club where he lived, and it would give them both a private location to meet where no one would know or recognize them. Although their online relationship involved not only warm, intimate friendship but also lots of sex talk and play, to the point where both Lance and Kimmy suffered extreme physical desire for each other, the pair agreed it would be best to start off by simply seeing, hearing, and experiencing the other's actual presence.

Their meeting time was nominally 11 in the morning, although Kimmy knew that flight schedules change, traffic can be unpredictable, and sometimes navigating the baggage claim, car rental desk, and other obstacles of arrival affect timing. She was prepared to wait if necessary, but it is hardly easy. She has to do something.

She explores the modest room. It is larger than her small apartment by the beach, a little, furnished so it feels comfortable but not cramped with the buffet table by one wall under a huge oil painting of some people from a long-ago time, a grouping of delicate padded chairs by a high, round table, and opposite them on the other side of the thick Persian carpet a formal couch, upholstered armchair and coffee table. Everything looks old, well-made and very expensive.

Kimmy's exploring takes her to one corner of the room where a door stands slightly ajar. She hadn't noticed it before she began walking around, since a very bushy indoor tree partly hid it. It swings open into another room, much like hers. Her shoes surprise her by making noise - she has stepped off the carpet onto parquet flooring. The adjoining room, she now notices, is not carpeted at all, but shines with the bright late morning sun pouring through a bank of tall windows onto the brilliantly-waxed wooden floor. This part of the building has a Southern exposure, her mind observes, and she is comforted a little by regaining a sense of orientation.

In different circumstances Kimmy would explore that room, too. Now she is unsure that is acceptable, and besides she wants to be in the best situation when her long-awaited lovers arrives. She goes back to her room, leaving the door as it was, nibbles another canapé, fills a glass with a cola soft drink and sits down in the armchair.

As placed, the chair faces the heavy curtains covering the wall, the passage door well to her right. If her honey entered right now he would see only her hat above the high back of the chair. Well, fancy club or not, this is Kimmy's room right now and she is going to fix things the way she wants them. She goes to the hallway door and peeks out - no one in sight and not a sound in the long echo chamber of the marble-tiled hall. She scoots the spindly-legged coffee table aside, tosses her purse and hat on the couch, and drags the heavy armchair to the other side of the couch. The chair's feet drag on the thick carpet, leaving a trail, and resisting her attempts to angle it exactly right, but Kimmy manages to set the position the way she thinks is best. A few shuffles and scuffs with the sides of her sandals erase the trail in the rug.

Muted light through the curtains now crafts a glowing backdrop to Kimmy in the armchair. It is angled so when Lance enters from the Hall he will look at her in slight profile. She can see the buffet table and is easily visible from the passage door to the other room. Satisfied, Kimmy straightens her dress, pulls a little mirror from her purse to check her hair, puts her hat back on, and arranges herself in her armchair. She pictures what the man she has dreamed of for so long will see when he opens the door:

Relaxed in a deep cream chair, Kimmy presents a vision of delight. Her hat (which of course should really be on the coffee table with her purse) sets a frame for a froth of long, light blonde hair tumbling onto and behind her bare shoulders. Within that gleaming cloud he will see her wide face, with a broad brow, straight chin line, slender straight nose, well-set brown eyes above high cheekbones, a sensuous mouth neither thin nor over-full, all accented artfully with minimum makeup. Her long slender neck descends to pale shoulders broken only by the thin straps holding up the low-cut sundress. Between her lithe arms, Kimmy full round bosom bulges slightly above the dress's neckline, appealing but not extreme. She is aroused, and her nipples show prominently through the light fabric, suggesting Kimmy wears no bra, or at least not one which covers her breasts.

Her slender legs are crossed demurely at the ankles, the skirt of her dress smoothed to her knees. The light gold material of her thigh-high stockings winks a reflection when she shifts position. Above the elastic bands of the stockings, well out of sight under her dress, Kimmy is nude.

Ordinarily Kimmy wears very sexy, "fuck me" high-heeled shoes but for today's meeting, on advice of Auntie Antonia, she is shod in expensive designer stiletto-heeled sandals that show off her shapely feet and compliment her presentation as a beautiful, sensuous, elegant young woman. The look is finished with the formal-casual touch of the crocheted string gloves.

String gloves.

Kimmy's trembling, be-gloved hands fetch a small book from her purse. At any moment her lover should come in. She held her armchair pose for at least ten minutes, until she just had to move around. She anticipated a wait, expected even a phone call warning of a plane's delay or other problem, and thus brought a little reading. It is a sequel to the famed underground domination and bondage novel, "The Story of O."

Kimmy is not much of a reader, but found these books compelling. She enjoys being submissive in sex, enjoys being tied up and helpless, sometimes even a little pain, and although some of the extreme acts in these books repel her, they make her imagination work overtime and get Kimmy quite excited. She wondered if having such a story would be a good idea before this meeting, but if she needed a book to read, this was the only one she wanted to peruse.

While Kimmy diverts herself from the strain of anticipation, the room grows warm. A whisper in the air, stirring her dress and hair, calls Kimmy back to the room from her book. Startled, she looks around, but no one is there. A glance at her watch shows Lance is several minutes late, not really a surprise or cause for worry. She is quite warm, and her crotch tingles from bodily responses to the story in her hand.

String gloves.

Kimmy strips the glove from her right hand and slips the hand under her dress, looking about quickly to see if anyone is looking through the passage door. She is alone. Even so she is bothered by a feeling she is being watched. But only the air conditioning stirs in the room. She has to do something about the itching craving of her belly - between the long buildup to today's meeting and the incendiary passages in her book, Kimmy oozes lust. She can feel it now on the fingers she quickly slides into herself, the tight muscular ring of her vagina clenching about them.

Kimmy's palm presses and scrapes on her engorged and sensitive clitoris. The fingers curl and claw within her. She begins to flood with moisture, a musky scent of sex now mingling with the aroma of the Summer perfume splashed light on her smooth body.

Quickly Kimmy forces all of her fingers and thumb inside her grasping cunt. The heel of her palm slapping against the tender, response flesh of her labia and clit, she rapidly massages the inner walls of her shaft, feeling the pleasure grow. Her breathing becomes quick, shallow, panting. Her nipples press even more urgently against the rough crepe. She is about to completely lose herself.

Her need challenges Kimmy's thinking mind. With a struggle, she clamps her hand on herself and relaxes. The dress has ridden up high on her thighs, if the butler or Lance should suddenly enter the room she would be embarrassed beyond words.

She considers this for a moment. It would be awful if the butler caught her, yes - but she doesn't know him and could care less what he thinks of her. He would probably make so much noise walking in the hall and opening the door she could rearrange herself in time. If Lance walked in, well, after all the extreme things written in their long cybersex sessions, the ways he had helped her plan strip routines or encouraged her to go pick up some badly-needed cock on the boardwalk, she could maybe enjoy his reaction. Besides, she adds after checking her watch, he is so late now he deserves a little shock.

Of course Kimmy is rationalizing. Her thinking mind knows perfectly well the Diplomatic Club is not a place to be caught masturbating, or to tear off an impromptu fuck when her honey arrives. Her animal mind is already yelling at her for interrupting a very pleasing plugging of her puckered pussy. Kimmy again looks around for signs of other people, still disturbed by a sense of being watched, then strips off the other string glove. She lays it with its mate on the rolled arm of the couch.

Just then she thinks there is a sound from the adjoining room. A light, fading echo tickles her ear and she looks over at the slightly-open door in alarm. No shadow crosses the reflected light from within, no movement catches her eye. The noise was a phantom in a guilty mind.

Swiftly Kimmy returns to her self-satisfaction. Using both hands, she strokes her crotch, her thighs, the slope of her mound, the little cheeks of her bottom between her thighs, her rosebud anus. The dress is in the way, so she slides her skirt up to her hips. What a view anyone entering now will get!

Kimmy remains alert, in some distant part of her brain, to arrival of intruders or her darling. Even as she arranges full exposure of her delicious hips and smooth-shaved genitals she starts at another imagined footstep, a new rustling of the bushy plant near the passage door. Her immediate inspection still shows now one.

Fingers soon probe the inner ribbing, the secret landscape of Kimmy's cunny and her asshole. She feels the second sphincter in her anus close about her finger at the first knuckle, then the press of tissues against the ball of the finger as she crooks it slightly to caress herself and pinch her bowel against the side of another finger making her happy hole happier.

About the time Kimmy's thumb starts rubbing quickly back and forth across the top of her erect clit, she notes another noise. She ignores it, her breathing speeding, sweat beading her brow, her mouth pursed with panting puffs. When the foreign sounds have stopped and been gone a while, she dismisses them as another guilty worry.

Now she lays back into the chair's upholstered embrace. She raises her legs, slides them over the soft high arms of the chair to improve her reach into her demanding body. Her hand plunges, four fingers wide and deep all the way into her cum shaft. Her thumb ravages her clit and slit. She has poked another finger in beside the one in her rear, and is trying to spread them in a "v" inside. She wants to come, urgently.

A definite noise from the other room brings Kimmy instantly out of her deepening sexual daze. The hand in her pussy flies out, splattering some aromatic body fluids down her leg and leaving a few drops on the formerly spotless coffee table. She sits up with difficulty, pulls her dress, drops her legs back onto the set cushion, and glances rapidly from side to side. Two fingers are still in her ass, they feel wonderful but also irritating at this moment of interrupted pleasure. She slides them out, then picks up her purse and withdraws a packaged towelette. In a moment both her hands are washed and the droplets of sex slick blotted from the table top.

When she stands, shakily, the touching of her thighs reminds Kimmy she still desperately wishes to come. Her first several steps across the room are more a stagger than a walk. Kimmy reaches the open door, leans on its handle and sticks her head into the room. Not a soul is there. She knows absolutely someone made a very loud noise, but the entire area is empty. She swings the door back close to the jamb, leans against the doorframe, breathes heavily until her pulse calms.

Struggling with her composure, Kimmy steps over to the buffet table. Her lover is now quite late and she feels the start of worry. The Diplomatic Club seems alien and oppressive in this state of mind. She nibbles other canapé, looks around for her glass of soda - it's on the coffee table atop a fancy coaster - then stares at the bowl of fruit and cheese. Piled at one side are two lovely, long, fat, unblemished bananas.

Without another thought she picks them up and walks back to the armchair. Dropping onto the cushion so rapidly it disarranges her hair, Kimmy slings one sculpted leg over the arm, twisting her body diagonally in the chair so her newly-exposed crotch points across the room toward the buffet table. Anyone entering from either door had a clear view of her body.

With but a cursory glance for intruders, Kimmy lifts her skirt higher over her hips. She turns one banana so its curving shape is like a half moon resting against the divide of her labial lips. She rocks the crescent slowly the length of her slit, caressing her clitoris and the tender, eager gape of her vagina. Her wetness soon shows on the sliding smooth yellow peel.

Chocolate cookie eyes roam the room, inspecting the passage door, the bushy plant rusting in the ventilation's breeze, the front door, while Kimmy slides the banana full depth in her wanting place. when the end inside scrapes against her cervix, she lets out a low moan and shudders. Warmed thoroughly, craving satisfaction, she will come soon.

The other banana Kimmy sucks like a thick cock. She coats it well with her saliva, intermittently gasping and making squeaking noises because her belly feels so very good. With another deft action Kimmy inserts the other banana far into her ass. She begins fucking herself with both the pieces of fruit.

Her hips buck in response. Vainly Kimmy grasps at a shred of clear thought, hoping to restrain herself at least some little part and maintain her awareness of her surrounding. She is too far gone into desire and ecstasy to care. One hand pulls out a banana, the other pushes one in. Another definite noise from the direction of the passage door hardly registers in her mind, nor does some greater rustling of the bushy plant's branches.

Moaning, whimpering, wanting release so much, Kimmy speeds the pace of her fruit fucking. She tucks the banana in her tight clenching rosebud far up her bowel, then applies both hands to speedily inserting and withdrawing the other in her flowing cunt. The end she holds begins to mush under the growing pressure of her double grip.

She sustains the front flailing with one hand, using the other to open the buttons of her sundress. Both her large firm breasts shine with a coating of perspiration after she folds the top of her dress aside. She strokes the round globes, fluttering fingers from nipple to nipple, pinching the small pointed pink peaks repeatedly, sliding her palm over the skin.

Below, Kimmy's hand changes the grasp to clutch the ends of both of the bananas at once. She fucks front and back, solidly, quickly clenching her muscles in cunny and ass to feel the friction of the objects penetrating her, shoving her body ever closer to the edge of climax.

Dimly Kimmy recognizes more noises. She is now certain someone is in the room, watching her. She no longer cares. All her focus is on getting off. Kimmy is compelled to drive herself to completion, to come, and come, and come.

Each breast rises under her hand to her mouth. She sucks, bites, licks first one nipple, then the other. her free hand reaches down, beneath the folds of wrinkling crepe over her tummy, to rub her small flat belly and then address her clitoris. She pinches it between thumb and forefinger, twirls it back and forth, pulls it out, snaps it, flickers it back and forth until she is overwhelmed by huge contractions.

In a mind-destroying rush, Kimmy climaxes. She cannot surrender her consciousness to the orgasm, because it is taken by assault. Her belly ripples, her ass and cunny close about the bananas so hard one of them squirts its mushed meat from a split seam, the rippling suction draws the banana in her pussy up against her cervix and triggers a renewed spasm, and Kimmy shudders from head to toe - over, and over, and over again. Her cum runs out around the mashed banana and dribbles over the white globes of her ass cheeks. A small dark stain begins to form on her dress and the cushion below.

Foot twitching in midair beyond the armchair, Kimmy is unaware of the tall man who steps up to her side. She barely returns from her daze to see, above her, a smiling, bearded face, the same one she has looked at so many times on her computer monitor. Her lover, Lance, has come. He has watched her reach fulfillment, alone, waiting for him, wanting him. He bends over her and plants a kiss from soft lips against her cheek. While he does, he also slides the battered bananas from her ass and cunt, then gently strokes her puffy, tender mound.

A strong hand gently takes her smaller one, a long arm snakes behind her back to help lift Kimmy to her feet. Both arms wrap around her, crushing her to the buttons and cloth of her lover's suit while their mouths meet in a deep, deep kiss. He lifts her from the floor in his arms and maintains their first, long, hot embrace.

Then her feet brush against the couch. Hardly breaking the lip lock for breath, he lays her back onto the stiff, firm bed of the couch, his legs landing between hers as he sets his weight on top her body. She feels his tongue against, under, around and over hers, his mouth sucking her tongue into his, the salty taste of him filling her throat and her nostrils. He raises his lower body up, briefly, she feels him loosening his clothing. When he lowers himself again on her, she wraps her wet and trembling vaginal channel around the fiery, hard rod of his manhood in her belly. Kimmy knows her long online dream has come true, he is hers. This is the first of many of their lifelong joinings.

Unnoticed, something drops to the carpet when her flailing feet brush the arm of the couch.

String gloves.

- END -

(c)Copyright, 2000 by Wil E. Harden, Bryn Mawr, CA 92318 • All Rights Reserved • Published by permission of the author on Literotica for non-commercial, individual private entertainment - not to be reproduced or copied in any fashion without written permission of the author

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