Instants Ch. 01

INSTANTS 1

By Norma Jane

1

There have been several times over the years when a sexual encounter has been without the usual preliminaries. I will record some of these, as the memory surfaces, and this is the first. Such instances may begin in unpromising circumstances, and this first one was of that kind, because it began in a library.

2

I'm researching art items, surrounded by large tomes containing reproductions of paintings of nudes. Because at that time I was commissioning artists to adapt such works into erotic versions, sometimes creating diptychs or triptychs. These I could exhibit in my little private gallery, and sell.

At the next table there's a woman making notes on a textbook she's studying. But she keeps looking up from the page and catching my eye, her head movement drawing my attention. She doesn't smile or at once look away. She holds my gaze intently, as if sending me a silent message, and I quickly sense that she's in need of help in some way. Even desperate for it. She also keeps shifting about in her chair and half rising and sitting down again, as if highly uncomfortable.

I'm in my twenties, but already sure it's the duty of every woman to go to the aid of any other woman requiring it, whatever the circumstances. This woman is middle-aged, quite plump, in a high-necked woollen jumper and tweed skirt. Her pepper-and-salt hair is gathered in a pleat behind her head, and she's lightly mad up, so her appearance ls quite ordinary. She could have be a housewife taking a break from the shopping, or a teacher preparing a lesson.

The next time she looks up, I give her a little nod, to indicate I'm attending, and she can continue to signal whatever she wants me to do. She gives a start, as if surprised, but nods in assent, indicating we should leave the room. I nod again and close and pile up my volumes, while she closes her book on her notes.

She picks up her handbag. I pick up the briefcase in which I carry books, papers, and my daily requirements. And when we stand it's clear that she's shorter than me, but quite busty and as she precedes me I note her broad hips. There's nothing faintly provocative about her looks or behaviour, but her impression of acute need of help has increased, perhaps because I've raised here hopes.

In the entrance hall of the building, she stands close, and shyly takes my hand, hiding them between us. She says, 'Thank you for coming out like this. I don't quite know how to... I think it's the change of life... that book says it's all about changing hormones...' This is clearly a prepared speech, and she doesn't know how to continue.              

I don't know much about the menopause, but I say, 'Are you feeling hot or faint?'

'No,' she says, 'Not those... symptoms.'

I decide to be direct. 'Are you bleeding heavily and need some sanitary protection?'

'Not bleeding, no,' she says, 'But I have two tampons, because...' She is embarrassed but knows she must say more to explain the situation.' She trembles, grips my hand, and says, 'There's a storeroom upstairs where they keep old magazines and papers, and I sometimes go there to look things up. There's usually no-one there.'

'Lead on,' I say.

3

It's a dim, dusty repository, with shelves stacked with boxes and binders, and we end up at one end, screened from the door by a sturdy table. She turns and throws her arms round me, pressing her forehead against my chest. She says, 'My husband is very good, but he's away a lot and the feeling keeps coming all the time, the wanting and wanting.'

I think I've grasped the problem. 'You're needing to orgasm all the time.'

'You've understood! Oh, thank you.'

'You can make yourself come, but you need someone else to do it.'

She bursts into tears, with relief that 'someone else' understands and is not disgusted or disapproving. She lets go of me and pulls a hankie from her sleeve and wipes her eyes. She says, 'I can't ask a man, because that would be betraying my husband.'

'A woman would probably be better, anyway, and I'm glad you chose me,' I say, drawing her close again.

'It was because of those pictures you were looking at,' she says.

'They were nude females, so you thought I must be a lesbian?'

'Well, yes, so you'd be used to... touching another woman in the right way.'

'I certainly like touching other women, in as many ways as possible,' I tell her.

'Please, will you touch me?' She is trembling hard and crying again, and I know that whatever happens next is entirely up to me. She has put herself in my hands.

As I strip her she trembles and weeps ever harder. Under the jumper she has an all-enveloping bra, which I remove. Her large breasts sag down her ribcage, the nipples a dark purplish colour have obviously fed several children. Under the skirt her knickers are also all enveloping, pink and made of some woollen mixture. She makes a slight movement to prevent me dragging them off, and they do need dragging, because they are soaking wet and slippery. The tampons are no doubt as full as they can be, and I decide to remove them. They slide out easily and I wrap them in the knickers. Her dark, abundant pubic hair is springing up. Then I take off my own knickers, because I think they may be needed, not because I'm expecting gratification of any kind.

I gather a heap of old newspapers from a nearby shelf and spread them on the table. Then I help her climb onto it and lie down on her back. Her breasts slip sideways towards her armpits, and the stretch marks on her stomach are silvery. I bend and suck and nibble her nipples and she cries out, in, I hope, enjoyment. At the same time, I stroke her belly, moving closer little by little to her open vulva, which is shiny with her lubricant.

My fingers slide along the crease, seeking the clitoris, which is large and hard. As I touch it she lets out a gasp and involuntarily raises her hips to answer the gentle stroking I am applying. Her head rolls side to side and she begins to pant. Within a minute she is on the edge of her orgasm, and cease my caressing. She is disappointed and gives me a reproachful look.               'We'll build it up by stages,' I assure her. 'That's the way to maximise it, and that is what you want and need.'

After a short rest I begin again to rub gently alongside that impressive clitoris, and the tension and excitation quickly increase. I stop again, impose a break, then resume. I will have to judge how long to do this to achieve the most massive climax. I forget just how long I protracted the stimulation, creating maybe six or seven surges before I brought her to the point, and her bottom thrashed the table and she drew a long, long breath as the ecstasy peaked, and she released it in a gusty moan of jo, and lay still, breathing hard and uttering little grunts of what I hoped was satisfaction.

After some minutes I rouse her, help her off the table, and dress her. Having got the bra straps over her shoulders, I have to bend her forward to catch her breasts in the cups. Then I help her into my knickers, her own being unfit for further wear today. They fit pretty well, our bottoms being comparable, though hers is currently bearing newsprint from being damp and pressed onto those papers, which I gather up and replace on the shelves. But not those wet with her oozings. I use those to make a parcel of her knickers and tampons. Then I get her into her jumper and skirt, and conduct her downstairs into the library. I give her her notes and promise to give in the textbook. I put the wrapped knickers and tampons in her handbag. She is dazed, half-asleep.

'Go home now,;' I instruct her, 'Have a snack and a hot bath and get to bed. When your husband gets home tell him how to make you achieve maximum orgasm, as I did to you, and don't tell him about today.'

She nods and I take her through the entrance hall and into the street. She turns and kisses me, saying nothing, and then sets off along the pavement.

I never learned her name or saw her again, though I spent several more days in that library. But when I see a reproduction of Hylas and the Nymphs I sometimes think of that chance encounter. A young woman artist, who often worked for me, produced the second instalment of the painting, in which Hylas has got into the pool and is entering one of the nymphs while the other two hold her in position for him.