Lynn’s Gift in Chicago

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Everyday when I see Lynn I think of that wonderful quip by Walker Percy in The Moviegoer, “Her bottom is so beautiful that once as she crossed the room to the cooler I felt my eyes smart with gratitude.” Lynn is a co-worker of mine in the university advancement department. What is so amazing about her is that she is 62 years old, but she is proportioned like a 32 year-old. A size four, she could be a double for Shirley Jones. Her tummy is flat. Her slender waist curves out to a luscious behind that is wonderfully framed whenever she wears a pair of tight jeans. Almost perfect proportion. Lynn always dresses modestly but classy. She does have a tight black pair of slacks that mold her eye-catching curves, but she is really unconscious to the effect they have on me.

I’ve known Lynn for eight years. Over that span of time we grew to be good friends. When her husband came down with a rare, strange illness, I would drive them to Baltimore when he felt uncomfortable flying. He was involved in some sort of experimental protocol at John Hopkins Medical School. During the seven-hour drive, we found out that we share a lot of the same passions such as art and literature. Yet we are truly different. I’m a transplanted Yankee and she a Tennessee “hillbilly.” As our relationship grew we shared more of our hearts and our struggles. I found Lynn to be a strong woman who hardly ever complained about her circumstances. There was depth of character as well as outward beauty. Her face is youthful yet it has the lines of wisdom and depth.

There are times when I can’t keep my eyes off her and I have told her so. She calls me incorrigible. I guess I am. I’ve never been so attracted to a woman other than my wife. And there is the rub. We are married. When I am traveling for the university I find myself missing her. A connection between us happened one propitious afternoon. Both of us wanted to see the Andrew Wyeth exhibit of his Helga paintings. We took off work early to visit the museum where the paintings were being displayed. Wyeth created over two hundred and forty individual works of his neighbor Helga Testorf over a fifteen-year period without telling a single person, including his wife. Helga had never modeled before but agreed to become his subject. What started out as an acquaintance evolved into a long-time friendship. Helga became so comfortable with Weyth that often she would lie sleeping while he painted her. He painted her clothed and nude.

Lynn and I together were able to view and delight in Wyeth’s beautiful nude paintings of Helga without embarrassment, shame or awkwardness. She told me that she didn’t think she could appreciate these paintings with anyone else. The afternoon was electric, at least for me. I didn’t want it to end. If people thought we were a couple, I would have been proud to be her partner even though she is twelve years older than me.

Leaving the museum and walking toward our car, I wanted to kiss her. And not just a little peck. I wanted to bestow a long, deep, soulful kiss on her full lips. I mecidiyeköy escort yearned to taste her. Self-control won the day, fortunately. Any advancement toward her would certainly alter the dynamics of our friendship; maybe even destroy what we enjoy. Lynn wasn’t just a friend anymore. I had no clue how she felt about me. I knew I was her “buddy,” that was all. Looking back, that afternoon was a foreshadowing of things to come.

There is a loose paraphrase of a Biblical proverb that goes like this:

A hearty wife invigorates her husband;
A frigid woman is cancer in the bones.

My lovely wife is my best friend in most ways, but I would describe Brenda as the “Dear Abby Wife” who is content only to cuddle and hug. If I were to rank our sensual life on a scale of 1 to 10, it would rank a 1. It is virtually nonexistent, the missing jewel in our marriage. Sex is not important to her. And it shows by our frequency; once maybe twice a year we will make love. There is a big hole in my soul that remains unfulfilled, or as the proverb said, a cancer in my bones. Brenda has not made me feel like a man for a long time. Lynn even at her age appears to me to be sensually alive and vibrant. So perhaps that is part of my attraction to her. I want her to fill a void in my life, a void my wife seems incapable of filling.

Adultery however was never an option for me. And it’s probably not an option for Lynn. Both of us believe in fidelity and commitment. Lynn is devoted to her sick husband and I am devoted to my unresponsive wife. Infidelity is hardly sudden or unexpected. It is more like a slow leak, the result of a thousand little indulgences. Lynn is right. I am incorrigible, incapable of change in this area, incurable in my desire for her. There have been the little indulgences, the complements, the looks, the winks and the hugs and the squeezes. I take pleasure in them, but it is not enough to satisfy. Some days I feel like I am on the edge of an abyss. There is no relief from the deep inner conflict in my soul.

Valentines Day was approaching and I wanted to get Lynn something special yet subtle. I knew what it was. I have one and I love it. They sell them at the Sharper Image store at the mall — The Hug-OO pillows. They are satiny, silky pillows stuffed with these tiny little polystyrene beads. It has this addictively squishy, texture that is very sensual. I wanted her to enjoy what I enjoy so much. The red heart shaped pillow was out of the question. That would have been too tacky and obvious, so I settled for the regular shaped black one. Lynn absolutely loved it! When I hold mine, I sometimes fantasize I am holding Lynn’s exquisite bottom. A poor substitute. Anyway, it gave me great delight in giving her that gift.

My job involves travel. I am on the road or in the air a couple times a month. I mentioned to Lynn that I was going to Chicago. She said she has never been there. I was dumbfounded. It is a great city. Great jazz clubs, a wonderful orchestra, dynamite sports teams, and all the shopping a lady şişli escort could want along the Gold Coast, so I blurted out without even thinking, “Why don’t you go with me?” I expected a negative answer, as it was hard for her to leave home. But she didn’t close the door. She said she would give it some consideration. I told her I’d be staying at a friend’s apartment just outside the loop with a view of the Wrigley Building, an awesome view at night. And it had two bedrooms. Brenda didn’t need to know.

Lynn jumped through hoops to travel with me to the big city. We only had a couple days, but she could walk along North Michigan Avenue and browse at all the stores during my meetings. I purchased tickets to see and hear the Chicago Symphony for the first night. Pierre Boulez was conducting a program of sensuous French music by Ravel and Debussy. When we returned to the apartment, we were tired and retired to our own bedrooms. The second night we ate an early dinner, went up the top of the Hancock Building at dusk, browsed in the various shops and stores in Water Tower Place. Lynn would often put her arm in mine as we walked the streets. I loved being close to her. Sometimes, I would put my arm around the small of her back. When the stores began to close, we headed back to the apartment. That is when the magic began.

We uncorked a bottle of Zinfandel I purchased at a wine shop and relaxed looking out at the lighted skyline of the city. We talked for a while and drank a glass of wine, and then she excused herself and went back to her room. I remained on the sofa in the living area and finished off another glass of wine and checked the ten o’clock news. Soon there was a bump and I looked in the direction of the hallway and there was Lynn, leaning against the wall with her hand on her hip, totally and completely naked. My jaw dropped to the floor. I was stunned. Speechless. Frozen. This was totally out of the blue. The hall light silhouetted her curves. Lynn had a sexy smile on her face and eyes that beckoned me to come to her. I staggered off the couch in disbelief, slowly moved toward her, and embraced her in my arms. I was hard instantly. This was not a dream; I was not imagining things. My hands slowly drifted down her back to her wonderful bottom. At last, her cheeks were cupped my hands. Incredible. I fondled her soft, smooth derrière. No words were spoken, but our souls were connecting. I broke the embrace and she began to unbutton my shirt while I unbuckled my belt and loosened my trousers, letting them fall to the floor. I picked her up and carried her to my room, laid her gently down on the bed, took off my socks and briefs and lay next to her. I held her in my arms and began to caress her body as we kissed. My erection was rock hard as we exchanged long, slow moist kisses for what seemed like hours. My warm hands were leisurely roaming every part of her body I could reach. I could feel her heat as I tenderly caressed her inner thighs and gently pulled the curls of hair around her mons.

Suddenly, she rolled me over onto taksim escort my back and straddled me. Bending toward me, Lynn put her lips to my ears and whispered, “Thank you for taking care of me, for being there for me. Let me do all the work tonight. Don’t move or I will stop.” At that, she raised herself up and captured my erection within the walls of her warm, moist vagina. It was really smooth and silky. With her hands on my chest she began to slowly move up and down my hard pole that was engulfed within her sex. I lay there with my hands on her slender waist as she pleasured me. Her vagina became wetter with each stroke.

What happened next completely blew my mind. I never experienced anything like this. Lynn once again bent towards me and rested her chest upon my mine. My erection buried within her. Once again she whispered in my ear, “don’t move or I will stop.” Sitting astride, with her head on my shoulder while she remained motionless, I felt the walls of her vagina begin to grip me. Slowly, she began to massage my penis within her vagina. The control she exhibited over her sex was utterly amazing. I could feel her muscles grasp my erection up and down. The feeling was exquisite. And the tension was building. I was enflamed with passion so I instinctively began to move my hips. She stopped. Her vagina relaxed. “I’m, I’m sorry,” I breathlessly said.

In a few moments, but what seemed like ages, she commenced her vaginal manipulation, building the tension. I was approaching orgasm, but at an agonizing snail’s pace. Lynn was in control. It was almost torture. Again, I unconsciously moved my hips to quicken the pace. Once again she stopped. I could feel the walls of her moist sex expand. I wasn’t sure I could handle what this 62-year-old work colleague was dishing out. She reassured me to relax, let her do all the work and for me to be still. After I cooled down a bit, I felt her vagina clench my erection again. Her vaginal muscles slowly worked their magic up and down and all around my shaft. She was unhurriedly yet deliberately bringing me to the brink. The tension was almost torturous. The pleasure Lynn was giving me with her sex was relentless.

Once again orgasm was imminent. This time, my eyes closed, laying motionless, I gave way to the most powerful explosion of pleasure I ever experienced. My orgasm tore through my body from the top of my head to the feet. Lynn let out a deep moan as her vagina convulsed and pulsated in her own orgasm, milking my penis of every drop. Then I understood for the first time why the French call it “the little death.” We stayed in that position with her on top of me until I became flaccid. She kissed me deeply as she rolled off of me. We fell asleep, spooning, with my arms around her. What a mind-blowing experience!

I woke up the next morning and Lynn was already out of bed in her satin Pj’s. She had given me herself last night, but I knew our relationship would never be the same. We shared a profound intimacy that compromised our principles and values. We made small talk as we gathered up our things and packed. There was guilt, but yet no regrets and no doubts. We had a plane to catch to take us back to the university, back to normalcy. Returning to what Walker Percy called “Everydayness.”

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