++++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 a domestic routine.
It was kisses, pawing, oral introduction, he on top, and a Missionary finish. As his finale, he lifted his head, stared at my face, dropped down for a kiss and did a spasmodic pelvic thumping while I unlocked our ankles, rose my feet above his torso, accepted his summation kiss and responded to his pelvic thumping as he popped. I tried to time my pop to his but at times missed. Start to finish was under fifteen minutes, if dress up and clean up times were excluded.
Foreplay consisted of him adorning me in attire, cosmetics, jewelry, and perfume he’d purchased. Like hubby with nighties and belly dancing costume, innate things appeared more enticing to Edward me, my role to animate the inanimate fetish.
One night, a bottle of wine finished, Edward broke our domestic routine. He introduced a mutual self-gratification game. Removing the bottle from the table he announced.
"Elizabeth, I want to teach you something."
"You're not gonna make me a doctor. I don't like the sight of blood."
"No, no, I 'm gonna teach you a game.”
“What kind of game? Are you bored with me?”
“No, no, it’s a pleasure game, a sex game.”
"After the candles, there's more?”
"Here, stand up, let me undress you."
I knew his undress me, dress me with new attire game. I stood to let him play his game ready to animate his newest arousal things. As he methodically undressed me it confirmed his “new game” was the “old game”.
Once naked, however, he too undressed. He went to the linen closet and got two sheets, and draped them on two opposing, upholstered chairs. My curiosity was up. He sat me in one chair, slid an ottoman under my feet and left to the bathroom. He returned with two bottles of baby oil. Sir Lancelot was fully erect. 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 at me 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 stroke 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 can rub whatever you like and I’ll follow you but you must stay sitting with your 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 I stroked. It was difficult to get aroused exposed to his stare. In response, he too stuck out his tongue, pursed it with his lips, flicked it back 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 Sir Lancelot and 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 shoot 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, lips curled, legs crossed, twirling my clitoris with a finger and cupping breasts back and forth with the free hand, baby oil everywhere.
“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 on his sheet+.
I watched his ejaculation streak out, pulse, pulse again, bubble then dribble 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.
“Wow, Miss Puki popped right on time. Who’s Cobra?”
“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?”
“Why did you close your eyes and break our feet apart? Who’s this God, you’re thinking about? Who’s this woman-God? You think of her instead of me when Sir Lancelot shoots?”
I reverted to experience from answering my husband’s suspicious questions. Diverted he dropped the Cobra inquiry. Again, I had slipped up and comingled what I vowed to keep separate.
Watching his ejaculation was mesmerizing. His naked image, his clutching Sir Lancelot, Lance spewing, became imprinted in my mind. The images thereafter popped up unexpectedly while aligning at work and other places causing me to smile for no apparent reason. It was an intense bonding game.
Another of his self-play games was my sitting, legs spread, his looking up from between my knees whispering encouragement as I rubbed my clitoris but at the cusp of climax telling me to stop. This took time to start, as seeing him down there was unnerving at first. He let me close my eyes and just open them when ready to climax. Then he would command I calm down and back off. Once backed off he would re-start encouragements until eventually allowing me to finish in a spasm of stoking to his cheering.
His last game was stimulating me with a little buzzing vibrator while I had to lay motionless, spread on his water bed. I could moan, plead, even scream but not move. He would start with breast nipples, creep up my thighs, flirt with my vagina lips, dart to and retreat from my clitoris than back off. Eventually, as I pleaded, I could no longer control myself and he allowed me to lift my legs, rub Miss Puki with both hands and climax in frenzied stroking while he looked on and clapped.
I replayed a game on him by making him lay naked on the bed with his legs draped over the edge and his hands spread out. With him open, I gave him a slow hand job with kisses and verbal encouragement. He was not allowed to arch his pelvis to my ministrations but of course, he cheated and I would scold him and pinch Sir Lancelot hard.
Once I was satisfied with my power of control, I’d let him ejaculate in a frenzy to my hand stroking while his pelvis jumped about with his hands still, as ordered, spread on the bed. I loved watching Sit Lancelot spew and learned to drape a damp towel around his base beforehand so clean up was easy.
What I learned, I taught hubby. I started by teaching him how to kiss and advanced from there. On his next birthday, I had him lay motionless on the bed and with my hands and kissing stimulation of Squirt. I brought him to the cusp then backed off but eventually let him ejaculate. He pestered me thereafter for this treatment but I reserved it for his birthdays and special occasions. I tried to play the facing chairs mirror game but he got too excited, jumped up and took me soon after the game started. It was like belly dancing. He couldn’t wait after the first movement.
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 "inscrutable" techniques and tried what they heard with their husband or boyfriend and for some both. Their only explanation for my knowing "Oriental" methods was my being Asian and 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 over, 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.
In the living room he’d display his latest attire, cosmetic or jewelry +acquisition to brand me as his. Once adorned, Id prance about as his arousal grew, follow him upstairs and he took me in a fury on the waterbed.
Finished, we returned downstairs, I made lunch, we ate, and caught up on conversation. Around two I showered, redressed sans his newest ornament, left with a kiss and assumed my mom and wife Persona. She met the kids at the school bus stop, prepared their and hubby’s dinner, dressed for work and departed with a kiss for hubby.
New acquisition by Edward typically stayed behind. Before long, Edward’s mannequin acquisitions overflowed onto a clothes rack and into a second dresser.
Friday nights were leisure time romances in contrast to noontime trysts. If it was a stay at home date it was first lustily sex, I cooked dinner, we ate then settled down like a domestic couple and watched TV or read. I often napped up to depart time before the sun met the morn.
More often on Friday night, we went out, typically to an upscale restaurant with lounge. His connoisseurship introduced me cocktails, fine wine, gourmet food and upscale repast deportment.
In the lounge, at his direction, I ordered a gin and tonic unless the bartender was professional. Then I was allowed Singapore Slings. It had to be 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.
Arriving at the lounge I’d plead for a Singapore Sling, Edward checked with the bartender and if his criteria were met, he obliged. We sat at the bar so I could watch it made but I was limited to two a restriction needed.
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. I typically ordered a salad versus his soup selection. He exposed me to a wide range of entrees I’d never tasted previously but frequently abided by the waiter’s recommendations to enhance the meal into a new experience. Neither of us liked dessert but he introduced me to Amaretto and Benedictine B & B after-dinner liqueurs or, depending on our epicurean repast, a port or sherry after drink.
After dinner, 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. Once in the car, I’d dart my tongue in his ear as he sped to the apartment for my unwrapping.
On occasion, we went to San Francisco. One time he wanted to go to Fisherman’s Wharf, but I nixed that because of hubby’s first kiss there. His alternate was Italian fare in North Beach, away from tawdry Broadway and its Red Balloon with sidewalk slide and Carol Doda’s swing roost.
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 around to slide 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 chasing me but struggled to get his pants re-zipped without catching Sir Lancelot. Unbuckled, he pulled his pants down then up with Lance poking out. We raced to his apartment laughing.
Past the door, I jumped on the couch, lifted the dress hem the few inches necessary and spread my legs. He yanked his pants down to his ankles. 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, I realized my stupidity.
Edward took 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. It was me who could be pregnant. I didn’t know what I would do if so. 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. Each day I lived in terror and soon lost five pounds. I counted the days. No, I counted the hours. Was it a week, no it was longer, oh God not two weeks since my period? Hubby noticed and became concerned. My excuse, a supervisor at work was harassing me, deflected him but his solicitousness compounded the terror if I had to confess. I told no one the truth, not even the older woman at work who I normally confided in.
While we talked on the phone, I didn’t visit Edward. As the days added up the terror increased as the day of reckoning approached. Days fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen passed. By day eighteen terror was slipping into depression. 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.
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, San Francisco trip dates were rare. Most Friday night dates were, dress up for dinner, undressed sex back at the apartment and a nap until time to rush home, “from work”. The other 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 within reasonable driving distance but far enough away from Mountain View. I‘d learned to relax at upscale establishments as if I belonged but one of my favorites was Pezzella’s, which served original Napoli Italian fare in a less pretensions atmosphere.
Author Notes: In addition to branding me as his Edward introduces me to a more upscale world, his world.