Samurai Swords and Hot-tubs

"I'm having a party Saturday evening at my place, Riley. I'd like you to come if you're free!" That was Jolene: short, attractive, mid-fortyish, blond Jolene. Bred and raised in the south, able to put on a little-girl voice and babydoll act coated in the thickest syrupy drawl imaginable whenever she felt the need. She'd been a biology professor of mostly botany at the local U for several years: Riley was brand new on campus, only about three months. They didn't even share a department. They met here several weeks ago: Riley had been alone at a little table in the crowd, spotted her looking for a seat, waved her over and introduced himself. Coffee and conversation together soon became a regular item: there was a very clear, but unspoken, mutual physical attraction as well. Now, they sat at one of the little round tables in the university espresso shop, looking at one another across their cups.

Riley smiled at her and tilted his head a little quizzically. "Damn! You sure are the party animal, Jolene! This is the second party in three weeks. No complaints, you understand. The last one was a hoot."

She sipped, said "Too hot!" Then "I told you I have strong ties to my old college sorority, didn't I? Well, my two favorite old college girlfriends from the Delts are coming in to spend the weekend with me, and we're going to have a bash." She giggled, reminiscing: "God, but we certainly did raise hell together. All sorts of things a respectable professor couldn't own up to later in life." She looked at him, grinning. "We shared some of the goddamnest escapades. We were sort of the leaders, cheer-leaders in fact, for the house. Literally, you know: we actually had matching uniforms, the whole nine yards. We were SO close!" She held up three fingers, wrapped them in her other hand, squeezed. "We swore to get together annually, but it's been ten years now. Even so, we still stay in close contact by phone and e-mail. I'd like you to meet them, they're my best friends and good people. Besides, you appreciate good-looking women, and I think they qualify. Plus they're really intelligent. So... will you come?" A light dose of southern syrup floated atop the final question.

Riley nodded, said "Sure! Honored."

Then Jolene changed the topic, an abrupt conversational left-turn, something they were used to in one another. "You know, I've mentioned to several people what you said about doing cutting demonstrations with your samurai swords. They are all fascinated: so am I. None of us have ever seen a sword up close, much less seen one in use. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to bring it and show off a little for the crowd? Pretty please?"

The syrup came out liberally now as she did her "butter won't melt" routine. He laughed, she kicked him gently under the table and muttered "Don't y'all appreciate my southern up-bringin'? Ah'm tryin' to be NICE to you, Mister, and here you are just funnin' back at me!"

He agreed to come and perform.

That Saturday afternoon he checked his equipment, sharpened the least expensive of his swords, the one he used for demos of how fearsomely the things would cut. Most modern people are unaware of the realities of swords, and always wound up scared silly about them after a demo. He stuffed everything into the car: sword, rolled tatami mats for cutting, wooden practice sword for warm-ups, his special rough cotton loose-fitting kendo clothes, the stand for holding the targets. Riley had to admit to himself that it was fun giving little lectures and demonstrations: great for the ego, and an enormously good ice-breaker. Jolene's last party had been fun: he had met several attractive women, unfortunately all taken, but there was always at least a possibility. And greatly to be desired, too: he was new enough on campus so that he hadn't yet started even a casual-fucking relationship, much less found anything like a soulmate. He'd be happy with a taste of either, but his hornies were approaching near-terminal intensity. The party offered a glimmer of hope.

He arrived about seven: there remained several hours of early-summer daylight, and there was plenty of room in the back yard for the show. The place was busy: Jolene had invited a swarm and most had arrived before him. She saw him drive up and trotted out to meet him, said a quick "Hi!" and then dragged him inside to meet her friends.

Riley was startled when he saw the trio together: they were dressed identically in white cotton short-sleeved boat-neck pullover blouses, pleated mid-thigh red "cheerleader" skirts, white bobby-sox and red pumps. Obviously their old uniforms: surprising, though... all three women still fit quite nicely into the twenty-year-old clothing.

Amidst the introductions, Jolene said "We decided to see if we could all still get into out old outfits. It worked, too!" They were personable, vivacious and obviously seriously intelligent, well-educated women. He was impressed, and said so. That made for a very good start. He paid close attention, without being overly obnoxious about it. Three sets of very nice legs, none showing middle-aged wear and tear. The ladies were in good shape, self confident, and proud of it.

The variety they presented was interesting. Physically they spanned a wide spectrum: short-medium-tall, wiry-mesomorph-large, redhead-blond-jet. Amazing. And any one of them would certainly do, physically, quite nicely. Damn but he was horny!

Cindy was a small, short, wiry-looking close-cropped redhead, absolutely natural: it was easy to tell from her skin and eyebrows. Not to mention freckles. Cute face, slightly asymmetrical, little eye-corner lines just beginning to show. She probably measured five feet even, and perhaps ninety-five pounds. Pretty enough, very nearly no bust at all, but no bra either: he could see a hint of nipple through the blouse. Jeanne was just the opposite: taller than Riley, significantly busty verging on zaftig, and with long, flowing wavy black hair. Together, they weren't exactly a Ziegfeld chorus-line. Who cared?

They chatted for a few moments over the ladies' wine, with Riley refusing to start drinking yet because of the sword demonstration. He looked at Cindy and asked "Long-distance runner?"

She looked a bit startled, nodded, asked "How'd you guess?"

He just grinned and said "Legs will tell, every time. You don't get calf muscles like yours any other way. I've done a couple of marathons myself, but I run like a locomotive, not a gazelle. Bet you're fast: what's your best half marathon?"

Cindy found herself halfway between flattery and embarrassment: "Ninety minutes flat."

Riley grunted, said "Got me by four. Good time!"

Then Cindy nodded towards Jeanne and said "Watch out for the big girl, Doctor. I just found out Jeanne doesn't run, but she's spent half of her life power-lifting. Bet she's stronger than you!"

Riley used the information as an excuse to study Jeanne. She studied him right back, perfectly frankly. Both liked what they saw. Jeanne stepped up to Riley, way inside his personal space, squatted and embraced his shins, said "Tighten your legs!" and then stood up- and lifted him effortlessly off the floor. Her boobs brushed solidly over his crotch and along his chest as she did the maneuver. It didn't help his hornies in the least. She grinned knowingly at him, and put him down.

Jolene took Riley with her for introductions while she continued to circulate and greet. Behind them, Cindy and Jeanne looked at one another and giggled: Jeanne said "He's CUTE! And I'll bet that womb-broom of a moustache of his could do a killer job on a clit! Plus, Cindy, goddamn if he isn't carrying a serious hardon. I think maybe he likes us!"

Cindy nearly sputtered into her glass, blushed, then said "YOU! That weightlifter routine is perfect. You get to rub your tits on him, and body-fondle his crotch, and it's all perfectly innocuous."

Jeanne nearly smirked and replied "Care to bet me about "perfectly innocuous", Dearie?"

Cindy stamped her foot and said "No damned fair! But hells-bells, woman, he's MALE so of course he's on the lookout for pussy! For most men, any old pussy'll do, you know that, so don't go being over complimentary to yourself, or me, or Jolene either. I doubt the poor fellow has any control over that thing of his. Most men don't."

Riley watched the trio from the middle-distance: it was an education for him to see how they seemed to act together, as only slightly separate parts of a single "hostess" entity. Here were Cindy and Jeanne, in a house they'd never seen before, filled with strangers, acting as if they were hostesses themselves, taking much of the load off of Jolene. Riley continued to watch them as he circulated, striking up little conversations and studying bits and pieces of others' interactions. The three floated on the chaos and turbulence of the party like bits of white-and-red foam, moving hither and yon, occasionally stopping to circle for a little while in some conversational eddy, then popping free and moving on. Every once in a while he would encounter the thee of them together, always rather conspiratorial-looking. He wondered if this ability to host, to make people comfortable, were a matter of training or simply socially innate. They really did seem like a well-trained team!

Jolene reappeared shortly, and, of course, just as he was getting into a good conversation with yet another stunningly attractive woman. Jolene excused herself and Riley from the lady's company, and suggested that perhaps Riley would like to get things set up in the back yard. As they talked about it, Jolene patted him on the forearm and whispered "Not a chance with that one, Dearie... she's queer as a three dollar bill, she just enjoys watching men drag their tongues on the ground over her!"

Riley reddened.

Jeanne and Cindy helped him get the gear to the yard and set up, then Riley went into the bathroom and changed into uniform. He was a very Toshiro Mifune-esque round-eye: mid-fifties, solidly built, in good shape from running and other exercise. He made a startling figure as he appeared in the party dressed in white cotton and black scabbard Barefoot, he walked out to the target-stand, loaded it with a tightly-rolled three-mat target. That was the standard approximation of an un-armored man - same resistance to the sword. The thought still made him shiver.

Jolene had collected the guests on the deck overlooking the demo area, and the three friends were raucously leading ancient proprietary cheers, complete with jumps and flashes of white panty, shades of high-school. They kept it up until Riley shushed them, moved the people on his level well back, and gave his little lecture about swordsmanship, sword construction, and history. Then he went through several warmup exercises with the wooden sword, to loosen his muscles and let the audience see, in slow motion, what was about to happen.

He took his stance, raised the sword: it always looked awkward when properly held in the high-en-garde position. There was a long silence: his audience was with him, silent, letting him concentrate. The first cut severed the six-inch-thick bundle from top right to lower left, then an instant reverse sliced the top portion in half again before it had a chance to topple.

Riley was motionless in lower-en-garde before either piece hit the grass. The usual stunned silence held for several seconds, then the collective intake of breath and murmurs of "Holy SHIT!" as he sheathed the sword, turned to the balcony. He grinned up at them, and announced "I do believe it's time for a beer!"

Cindy spoke excitedly for a moment to her friends, then leaned over the balcony: Riley appreciated the way he could look up their short skirts, wished the light were still full, kept his eyes oriented reasonably respectfully as Cindy asked "Would you teach us how to cut? You still have lots of mats down there. Please?"

Riley nodded, bowed, and said "Of course! One cut each, though, is all you get. And on a single mat. That will be about like cutting off a grown man's arm. It'd sure stop a good fight! Come on down!"

One after the other he instructed them, which of course required that he practically wrap himself around each in turn, to get their combination of grip and stance and body motion right. The motion had to be a slice, he explained, not a chop, or it wouldn't work at all.

The women seemed appreciative of the contact, as was Riley, but he wouldn't let them get flippant: too dangerous to allow any loss of concentration.

First went Jolene: she managed to cut a good third of the way through a bundle. Then big Jeanne, who did better, almost half-way. The two pouted a little at their apparent failure.

The surprise was little Cindy: Riley had an inkling from how she moved in his arms, and how she concentrated, that she might be the best. She insisted on having him walk her through the entire process several times: he was more than willing. At one point, she shifted her weight when his arms were around her, and backed her bottom solidly against his crotch for a second. Inside, she grinned at herself: the hardon Jeanne had spoken of was there, all right. Now she just had to get her concentration back.

She wondered if Riley had noticed? She needn't have worried about that - he was a horny male, therefore of COURSE he had, even though it surprised him to find he was still erect right through all his concentration on the exercise.

He stepped free of her, handed her the sword, talked her into high-en-garde. She was the best of the three, as he had guessed. The audience did its collective gasp thing again, and broke into applause, when her bundle separated neatly into two parcels. She stopped her swing perfectly, paused, then as instructed raised the sword carefully into the vertical, rotated it so the edge was towards herself, and held it out to Riley. He bowed slightly, took it from her, sheathed it, and said "Nicely done, all!" He meant it, and they could tell.

Riley stayed in uniform: it was actually a very comfortable suit of clothes, and besides, it let him hide his raging hardon. He was incredibly horny, preoccupied with it in fact. He considered Jolene: she was taken, married to George, the nominal host, who was off in a corner with a couple of women guests, painfully obviously putting the make on them and being gently rejected. Same behavior he'd exhibited at the previous party. Nothing suave or genteel about his approach. And nothing very successful, either, Riley thought. He and Riley got along: to him, Riley was simply another butterfly in the university-swarm that flitted around Jolene.

It was soon full dark, and the party in maximum roar. Riley was circulating, hadn't seen the hostess for many minutes, and then, somehow, she was right beside him, flashlight in hand, looking pretty, flushed, and slightly frazzled. Riley looked at the flashlight, and his expression asked the "What's up?" question. Jolene put her arm through his, handed him the flash, and said "You told me you like working on houses, building things. I think we have a structural problem in the deck that holds up the hot-tub. Before I let anyone get into it tonight, I'd like you to do an inspection. Pretty-please? It'll give you a chance to be Mister Macho again, in a different way. Good old George, over there, is preoccupied, like he always is, putting the make on my guests. He's useless for things like this. And maybe other things as well. Anyhow, he doesn't know a beam from a spike!"

They exited the back door, down the steps, through the gate in the fence around the tub: tall rhododendrons fully shielded it from view from the house, and blocked almost all the party noise. She shut the gate behind them, then led Riley to the side of the tub on the raised deck. They stood silently and looked out over the lake, where the full moon was rising. The heavy cover was still down on the tub. She turned and leaned her bottom against the edge, and looked out over the lake at the moonpath.

Riley sniffed: the air was heavy with jasmine, underlain by a trace of something else, more delicate, perhaps from all the rhododendrons. "Night-blooming jasmine!" he said: "I love it."

Jolene looked up at him: he could see her smile softly, apparently reminiscing. "I'm glad you like it. So do I: it's a very special thing for me. I lost my virginity in an old station wagon parked beside a big patch. I guess that's why I planted it here. It can really turn me on." She sighed, then giggled slightly. "You know, I can remember the event, and the scent, and I could probably drive right to the location even today, but I simply CANNOT remember the boy's name after all these years. The face, yes. And other body parts also. But not the name. Isn't that odd?"

Riley stood there beside her for a long moment, considering his answer. "Not really, Jolene. I'm missing a few names, too, but still recall the encounters. Not odd at all. We're both old enough to have had plenty of chances to try things we'd rather forget parts of, aren't we?" Riley then flicked the flashlight on and off a few times, and asked "So, where's the problem, Lady?"

Jolene turned to face him full-on, looked hard into his eyes, and took a long, deep breath. "Well, Doctor Riley, you aren't going to find the problem with THAT particular flashlight." She paused, as if to confirm a decision, and continued on in her best honey-soaked little-girl voice. "You seem like a true gentleman, Sir, and I do believe a true gentleman would never leave a lady in distress without attempting to help, now would he?"

Riley shook his head "no", and waited.

"Well, Doctor, you have before you a damsel in the most severe distress imaginable. She is in gravest need of aid and succor. Would you be willing, as a gentleman of course, to help the poor little thing?"

Riley nodded, and rose to the bait: "Of course, madam. State the nature of the problem!"

She leaned back against the tub again, blushed so furiously that Riley could see it even in the moonlight, and said in a loudish whisper "I am purely and simply suffering from the terminal hornies. Fuck me. Here. Now. Preferably hard. If you wouldn't mind, that is..."

Riley's cock was already at full stand inside his baggy trousers: it made its presence known even more stridently. Riley took a second to reply, and then, as his hand cupped Jolene's chin, it was "No foreplay, little girl? And what if we're discovered?"

Jolene caught his hand with hers, looked up at him again. "We won't be discovered, because I locked the gate behind us. And the guests haven't been invited to the tub yet." She held his jaw gently with both hands and made deep, solid eye-contact. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, exquisitely lightly, just the briefest of contact. There should have been a blue flash, but there wasn't.

"Now then, my good Doctor Riley, if you haven't yet realized that we've been engaged in full-tilt long-distance, no-contact foreplay every second we have been together since we met, then you aren't a quarter the man I believe you are. And since I really DO believe you are that sort of proper gentleman, and since every time I either think of you or see you or see you look at me I go dripping wet, just like I am right now...why... I think I'll just take off my panties and pout, right here in the moonlight. You may do with me, and my little problem and my request, just exactly whatever in the whole wide world it pleases you to do!" She paused, then said in her best little-girl voice, "Anything at all!"

She put a hand on his waist for balance, reached under her skirt, and pulled down her lacy white panties, stepping delicately out of them one leg at a time. Riley watched in total fascination, unbelieving. It seemed as if he could hear the whisper of nylon across red patent shoe-leather. She hung them on his ear.