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Chapter 22 Edward's Games, Panic and Upscale World
Chapter 22 Edward's Games, Panic and Upscale World

Chapter 22 Edward's Games, Panic and Upscale World

CobraElizabeth Lin Johnson

Chapter 31, Edward’s Games, Panic And Upscale World

After Edward morphed me from a girl to a woman, our sexual encounters began to become domestic routines, start to finish under fifteen minutes, if dress up and clean up were excluded.

Edward appeared more enamored with my adornments than me. I’d display the newest attire, jewelry or cosmetic he’d purchase for his sexual arousal. It was like hubby’s excitement by my nighties and belly dancing costume. My sexual relationship role was to animate their inanimate fetishes.

I began to complain.

“Sweetie, are you only interested in what you adorn me with?”

“Where are we going with this?”

“You know, the things you get for me to display, am I just your mannequin?”

“No, no. I get them because you look so beautiful.”

Maybe not honest but an accepted lie.

At least he doesn’t have me parade around wearing stuff on T nooners.

The next Friday date, with no new adornment for me to display and after a bottle of wine, he announced.

"Elizabeth, we’re going to play a game."

"I don’t like cards or board games."

"No, no, It’s neither of those'. It’s a sex game.”

“Are you bored with me?”

“No, no, it’s a mutual pleasure game. Stand up, let me undress you."

I knew his undress, dress me game. I stood ready to animate his newest arousal thing, his new game the same old game.

He went to the linen closet, got two sheets, and draped them on two opposing, upholstered chairs. After he undressed me, he too undressed. He sat me in one chair, slid an ottoman under my feet and left to the bathroom. He returned with Sir Lancelot fully erect and two little bottles of baby oil. My curiosity perked up. He handed me one bottle, sat in the facing chair, lifted his feet on the ottoman and entwined our ankles.

"Okay Sweetie Pie, this is the mirror game. We’re going to mirror each other. Watch me closely. I’m rubbing oil on my chest and Lance. Look as I stroke Lance. Look in my eyes.”

I darted my eyes to his oiled member.

“Good, now rub oil on your breasts. Good. Now oil Miss Puki and rub her while you watch me stroke Lance. We’re gonna play together but you can't finish until Lance and Miss Puki do it together, you understand?”

“This is crazy.”

“No, this is gonna be good. Just bear with me. You mirror what I do, but you must stay sitting with our ankles locked together, you understand?"

Oiled, I started as if in a soapy shower, stuck out my tongue, pursed it with lips and looked at him as he stroked. I attempted to mirror him but was difficult to get aroused exposed to his stare. He stuck out his tongue, pursed it with his lips to mirror me and continued to coax me.

"Rub your breasts. Good. Rub harder. Rub Miss Puki. No, no, look at me too. Keep rubbing. Twirl your magic button with your finger. Come on, keep rubbing, now. Smile, I’m smiling, I want you to smile too. Think of how Lance’s gonna shoot. He’s loaded, he’s hunting for Miss Puki."

It was unnerving but I kept rubbing and smiled, amused at his playing with himself. Slowly I became aroused but when I closed my eyes he’d scold.

“No, no, open your eyes. Yes, look at me, yes that’s better. Keep rubbing. Keep watching. Good”.

I slowly got into the mood by concentrating on his stroking Sir Lancelot and my rubbing Cobra while only pretending to look in his eyes. Soon I reported.

“It’s starting to feel good. It’s starting to feel real, good. How much longer?”

“Careful, we’re doing this together. Wait until we go off together. Don’t pop yet. Good, good, keep rubbing. Good, good, smile. Back off. Wait until I say go.”

Suppressing a climax aroused me more than watching Sir Lancelot. Eventually, I was on the edge and interrupted his coaching.

“I’m ready, I’m ready, hurry, say go, hurry. I’m really, ready. Oh, please, hurry, hurry.”

I was nodding my head faster and faster, tongue out and curled, legs spread, our ankles entwined, left hand fingers twirling clitoris and right-hand cupping breasts back and forth with baby oil everywhere.

Edward exclaimed.

“Okay, okay, yea, oh, you can go, go, go, oh go. I’m coming. Watch Lance shoot, oh God, oh God, oh it feels good!”

As I watched he went into a flurry of stroking, rose half up in his chair, our entwined feet separated, his eyes closed in a stroking frenzy, cheating on his own rules as Sir Lancelot spewed forth.

I watched his ejaculation streak out, pulse, pulse again, bubble then dribble down on the sheets while he held Sir Lancelot tight. At last, I shouted.

“Oh no, oh no, Cobra you devil, oh Cobra, no, you little devil, oh, I love you, ahhh! Ahhh! Oh Cobra! Cobra!”

I squeezed my self-induced pleasure to the last shudder. As the flash of my orgasm peaked and drifted downward into the afterglow cloud, my mind raced for a Cobra exclamation excuse.

Edward immediately questioned my organism exclamation.

“Wow, you were a bit late. Lance went first. Miss Puki was too slow! Who’s Cobra?”

“A nun.”

“A nun? doesn’t sound like the name for a nun? Who’s Cobra? Honestly, tell me, really.”

“It’s a little complicated. It’s a nun, a nun who always talked about the devil. She used to scare us, talking about hell. We called her Cobra, for devil nun.”

“Sounds complicated all right, sounds suspicious. Who’s Cobra?”

I reverted to my diversion method to hubby’s suspicion acquisitions.

“Why did you close your eyes and break our feet apart? Why didn’t Lance wait for Miss Puki? Who is this God, you’re shouting about? You think of her instead of me when Lance spews?”

Diverted he dropped his Cobra inquiry. Again, I had slipped up and comingled things I’d vowed to keep separate.

Watching his ejaculation was mesmerizing, the game an intense bonding.

Another game he played was stimulating me with vibrator while I had to lay motionless, spread on his waterbed. I could moan, plead, even scream but not move. He started with breast nipples, creep over to thighs, flirted to vagina, darted to, and retreated from my clitoris. Eventually, as I pleaded, I could no longer control myself, he allowed me to rub Cobra uninhibited and climax as he clapped.

I played this game on him by having him lay naked on the bed with his legs spread and draped over the edge. I gave him a slow hand job and verbal encouragements, but he had to keep his hands spread above him on the bed and not arch his pelvis to my ministrations. Of course, he’d cheat. I scolded him and pinched Lance with fingernails.

Once satisfied with my power of control, I’d let him ejaculate in a frenzy to his hand stroking. I enjoyed watching Lance spew but learned to drape a damp towel around his base beforehand.

What I learned, I tried on hubby. On his birthday, I had him lay motionless on the bed. He was not to move to my hand and kiss stimulations of Squirt. Brought to ejaculation’s cusp, I’d back off until I tired and let him stroke until he spewed. Thereafter, he’d pester me to repeat treatment, but I reserved it for his birthdays and special occasions. I tried the mirror game with him, but he’d get excited, jump up and take me soon after the game started like he responded to my belly dancing.

He was suspicious of the games.

“How come you know so much? Who is teaching you these things?

“The girls at work talk about sex all the time. Like I keep telling you, they’re wild. They’re always coming up with new stuff. You like it?”

At work, I told the girls about Edward’s games. They listened in disbelief at what they called my Asian inscrutable techniques and tried what I told them with their husband, boyfriend and for some both. Their only explanation for my knowing "Oriental" methods was their reasoning the shy, quiet ones are the really wild ones. In appreciation, they made a cake for me shaped like an erect penis with frosting spewing out the end.

I was, no longer, "FDG” or “FT” but was catapulted to, Fucking Over Sexed Asian, or the “FOSA” girl and fully accepted at the lunch table.

Tuesday and Thursday, “T nooners”, were quickies. After four hours of sleep, I got up, showered, drove to Edward’s, parked in his space, hurried to apartment, and opened the door with my secret key just before noon. He’d be waiting for my arrival and greet me with a kiss as the door closed. I’d follow him upstairs and he took me on the waterbed. Finished, downstairs I made lunch, we ate, and caught up on conversation. Before two, I showered, redressed, and left for home.

From home, I met the kids at their school bus stop, prepared dinner, re-dressed for work, Hubby arrived from work, we caught up on conversation, and I left for work. The Ts were rush, rush, and rush.

Friday night dates, in contrast, were romantic leisure liaisons. Typically, after re-dressing at Edwards’, we went out to an upscale restaurant. Edward, a connoisseur, introduced me exotic cocktails, fine wine, gourmet food and upscale repast deportment. I learned to relax at upscale establishments as if I belonged.

In the restaurant’s lounge, before dinner we had cocktails. If Edward confirmed the bartender was professional, I was allowed two Singapore Slings. They had to be made with Beefeater Gin, Benedictine, Cointreau, grenadine syrup, pineapple juice, lime juice and a dash of Angostura all shook in a tumbler and poured in a glass with crushed ice. Then cherry brandy was poured over an upside-down spoon for a top layer and a maraschino cherry and pineapple slice were added as garnish. Sometimes a little umbrella was added.

Edward had his two dry martinis with a single pimento stuffed olive.

If the bartender was just a drink mixer, it was gin and tonics.

Dinner was accompanied by Edward’s examination of the wine menu and my lesson about wine growing regions, vintage years and wines appropriate for entrées. He exposed me to a wide range of entrees I’d never tasted previously but frequently abided by the waiter’s recommendations to expand our epicurean experience. Neither of us liked dessert. After dinner it was a glass of port, sherry, Amaretto or Benedictine B & B depending on our entree. Then he referred to me as primed and hot to go.

We’d walk to his Porsche, my cheeks flush from the Singapore Slings before dinner, the wine during and the liqueur after. In the car, we sped to his apartment for my unwrapping.

On occasion, we dinned in San Francisco. I nixed Fisherman’s Wharf due to my first kiss there.

He went to North Beach, away from tawdry Broadway and its Red Balloon with sidewalk slide and Carol Doda with her swing, for Italian fare.

He’d dressed me in a short red sequin dress. After dinner, flush with drinking, we walked out in the fog, hand in hand. The valet ran to retrieve his Porsche, revved the engine up and down as he returned, parked with a little squeal of tires, jumped out, ran around, and opened the door for me. As I approached, he stood close, brushed against the rear of my dress, then stared at my thighs as I swung myself in. Once in the car, he leered down as I pulled the sequined hem to cover what I could.

Upset, Edward, told him he’d just got his tip. I laughed. We screeched out of the driveway, zoomed up and down hills until stopped at the top of a steep one by a red light. While he played with the brake, clutch, and gas pedals to keep from sliding back down, I bent over, unzipped his pants and pulled out Sir Lancelot. When the light changed, he shifted gears. I shifted Sir Lancelot into high gear as we sped to the freeway on-ramp at the end of Broadway. On the freeway home, I gently stroked and kissed my knight to keep its attention until we parked in his carport stall.

Wet, I jumped out of the car and ran to the apartment. He jumped out, chased me but struggled to get his pants re-zipped without catching Sir Lancelot. Unbuckled, he pulled his pants up with Lance poking out. We raced to the apartment laughing.

Past the door, I jumped on the couch, lifted the dress hem the few inches necessary. He dropped his pants and shorts down. It was a frenzy on the sofa with shoes on and attire asunder. Spent, it was too late. We’d skipped the condom.

Driving home near dawn, re-dressed in work togs, a sober wife, my stupidity stared me in the face.

Edward claimed responsibility and assured me he would take care of it, if necessary. I knew what that meant but was afraid to confirm it. After three days he gave me a pregnancy test and assured me all was okay. It was not all okay with me. I didn’t know what I would do if pregnant. How could I pray to God? It would be God’s retribution.

I knew I couldn’t have an abortion, confess to my husband or marry Edward. Was it a week? No longer, oh God it was two weeks since my last period. I counted the days. No, I counted the hours. Each day I lived in terror and soon lost five pounds. Hubby noticed and became concerned. His empathy compounded my misery and the terror if I had to confess. I told no one, not even the older woman at work who I confided in.

I didn’t visit Edward, only took his calls. As the days added up panic the day of reckoning approached. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen passed. By day eighteen terror had slipped into depression, my life upended. Then the next morning, a cramp pain, more joyous than any physical pleasure experienced came. I wasn’t pregnant!

There was never another condom slip up.

To celebrate, Edward also took me to the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. I’d seen it from the street but had never been inside. He dressed me formally with a black lace pencil dress, pearl necklace and high heels.

At its classic bar, I had my Singapore slings, my terror left behind. He had his martinis. We then had a formal dinner with a bottle of Napa Valley wine in the hotel restaurant. Dinner finished, we stayed there. The trip to bed was a tipsy elevator ride. We had a view of the city before, while and after sex.

Edward knew the in spots in San Francisco, those not generally known by tourists. We went once more to the city and stayed at the Hotel Griffon, a boutique hotel in the Embarcadero.

After quickie room sex we walked down to their intimate ground floor restaurant and lounge bar for Singapore slings and martinis, wine, dinner and then back up with a spectacular, obscure view of the Bay Bridge for our dessert. With the window open, exhausted, I fell asleep to the cool air of the Bay. Awoken by the requested front desk phone call at three AM we left still groggy. I had to get home to get the children and husband up in my work smock.

With time constraints and sleep needs, these were the only San Francisco dates. If Edward I counted the days. No, I counted the hours. Very study time stressed, I cooked dinner and we ate in. Otherwise, it was out to dinner, back for sex, and a nap until time to rush home, from work. Far afield ventures were Jack London Square in Oakland and The Village Pub in Woodside. At the latter, I learned the seating power of one hundred dollars before dinner.

More typical dining experiences explored San Jose, Almaden, Saratoga, and Los Gatos fare, all close enough and far enough distance from Mountain View. My favorite was Pezzella’s, which served original Napoli Italian fare in a less pretensions atmosphere.

I kept places visited with hubby or Edward separate. It avoided experience chat overlap and provide a tad of faithfulness to each. Hubby's only distant restaurants were Chinese in San Francisco’s Chinatown which Edward knew nothing about. Edward loved upscale restaurants and our family budget was limited. Avoiding overlap was relatively easy except for a few restaurants.

Rickey’s Inn and Restaurant in Palo Alto, a vast local landmark. This is where hubby and I went for special occasions which nixed it for Edward despite his suggesting it once.

Edward told me about brunch on Sunday’s atop of the Bank of America building. As Sunday’s were hubby’s I couldn’t go there with Edward. With Mom as a babysitter, we romantically looked down at the City as we enjoyed a sumptuous brunch.

We also went to San Francisco Golden Gate Park for family outings. At its Aquarian, we peered over the railing down to the subterranean crocodile pond. There, basking crocs stared back at us motionless, their smiles reflecting their contemplation of the nice meal our family would make. We held the kids tight as they leaned over the railing and tossed dimes down in attempts to land one on a crocodile snout. That was permitted back then. I calculated the caretaker’s dimes perk, but no longer were there silver ones.

Author Notes: In addition to branding me as his Edward introduces me to a more upscale world, his world.

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About The Author
Elizabeth Lin Johnson
About This Story
24 Jul, 2017
Read Time
14 mins
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