by David Cain

I spent half my life, waiting for this moment. Wondering if all my dreams could come true. Allison smiled as she sat down across from me.

I had known this woman well, a dozen years ago, a blossom in the springtime of my life. If I think back on those days, my thoughts swim around Allison’s kind face, her pretty blue eyes, her soft golden hair, creamy smooth shoulders, slender, sigh, arms. And after all these years, Allison looked nearly the same; a little harder, perhaps, faint wrinkles tickling the corners of her eyes, a little less glimmer and bounce in her hair, a few pounds filling out her womanly curves. Lovelier, in a way, than the day we first met.

When I first met Allison, I spent almost a year completely obsessed by her. I thought about her constantly. Just fourteen, I was very much a boy and my heart raced pubescently. I blush to recall wandering in shy, slow circles around our neighborhood, desperately hoping fate would let me catch a glimpse of this pretty girl as she made her way home from school. There were days when I would stake out her path, lying hours in wait, just because I thought I might earn a single sweet “Hello.” Even at fourteen, I cut a sorry figure.

As it does all things, time eventually cured me of my unrequited infatuation for Allison and I soon aimed my heartache toward other girls wandering the streets of our small town. But through them all, I always kept a fond eye on Allison. I don’t think she ever knew I was watching her. Allison had a busy life and hardly looked my way.

High school swept us along and I never had the chance to forget Allison. We both enjoyed a modest talent for singing and so we spent at least one hour of class together every school day during those four years. She was in my Spanish class, too. Anyway, we always sang together, but we really couldn’t have been more different. I became a shy bookish baritone and Allison rose to the rank of marvelously popular alto. Teenage politics being what they were, I kept a respectful distance, although I did venture to spend a few lusty daydreams ogling her during dull moments of our choir’s practice.

Making our way to the state college, where I studied physics but kept singing for the sheer pleasure, a lucky turn of events made us friends. During the first week of the spring semester of our sophomore year, I grabbed a cup a coffee and somehow found a seat in the crowded student union cafeteria. Two minutes later, Allison was wandering the same dining room, looking for someplace to sit and eat. Catching sight of a familiar face, she asked if she could join me. I almost choked on my coffee, trying to agree. Allison laughed and sat down.

Allison’s schedule that semester included an hour break between her music theory classes and our choir’s daily rehearsal. I had no academic reason to be on campus just then, but sentimental affection drew me into her path, and led me to grab a table for us before the wave of students could steal them all. Our little conversation soon turned into a daily ritual. Before a month went by, I had grown overly enchanted by Allison’s smile, once again.

The brief hour we shared became the high point of my day. We took a break from the rigors of study with laughter and gossip, especially poking fun at the pompous tenors and gaudy sopranos who raged during practice as if nothing else mattered, a pastime frequently shared by altos and baritones world round.

After a few months, Allison seemed to really warm up to me, filling me in on the juicy details of her social adventures, her complex web of friends and foes, and eventually let me into her private thoughts. I soothed her constant worries about her perpetually wayward brother, and wisely counseled her through struggles with her tightly laced parents. I even dared to listen when she complained about her oafish boyfriends, gnashing my teeth jealously while smiling sympathetically.

Our relationship managed to grow beyond our habitual cup of coffee, and from time to time I would go shopping with Allison at the mall. She said she liked my taste in clothes. Once, I even loaned her twenty dollars when a cute blouse went on sale. Allison never paid me back and I loved her for that.

But through it all, I remained a friend. Allison had blossomed into a truly ravishing coed at twenty and dated only strong, handsome, witless young men who always drove fast, expensive cars and wore Italian shoes. One day, with a little edge on my attitude, I asked her what they talked about, she and her fashionable brutes.

“We don’t,” she confessed. “That’s why I have you.”

I gnashed my teeth, jealously, and smiled. By this time, I loved Allison dearly and refused to let pride make me relinquish the crumbs she offered. I needed my time with her at any price.

Then there was a dance, something truly special, some Kingdom by the Sea cotillion, and I accompanied Allison to the mall to help her pick out her gown. Rod, who drove a Stingray, I think, had asked her to the ball and Allison nearly swooned every time she said his name.

I fought waves of nausea, as we walked the aisles of the department store looking at the racks of satin and chiffon. I knew I was being asked to wrap my love in finery that some other man would open, sacrifice my tender feelings so that she could squander them on a brute. But I was also powerless to deny Allison anything she asked.

She picked up two dresses and tossing them over her shoulder, Allison motioned for me to follow.

“Stay right there,” she ordered as she closed the latticed door of a small dressing room. My stomach ached as I listened to the rustle of fabric. “Here,” she said, opening the door. Her blue eyes shining, beauty struck me hard. I wanted to fall to my knees and swear my love. “Zip me,” she said smiling, turning around.

I could hardly move a finger. The breach parted down the full length of her back and as I pulled the zipper toward me, I could see the swell of her bottom hugged by a pair of cotton yellow panties. I stared at that intimate vision for only a second, but burned it so deeply into my mind that I can still recall the soft curve with technicolor brilliance.

“What do you think?” she asked, turning a quick circle. I tried to breathe and swallow.

“Stunning,” I said, finally.

“I think so, too,” she said with an eye on her image in the trifold mirror.

“Wow,” I said, a sincere ejaculation.

“All right,” Allison said. “Let me try on the other one.”

Again she slipped into the dressing room and I stood where I had been told to stay, obedient puppy that I was. The door swung close but then drifted slowly open, a few inches at most. Allison had her back to me as she stepped out of the gown. I felt flush with a lusty fever as I drank the illicit vision of her full-pantied bottom, the supple bend at the small of her back, the long stretch of her legs. Allison turned to retrieve the second gown. She wore no bra and a supple breast hung heavy below her outstretched arm, as a faint nipple tightened slightly. Allison stepped into the gown and finally looked through the gap between the door and frame. She blushed and I blushed. Stepping toward me, she turned her back.

“Zip?” I raised the zipper. “Well, what do you think?” she asked calmly.


The night of the dance, I sat at home in the dark with some angry rock roaring from the stereo while I started on a bottle of Scotch I had borrowed from home. I remembered the half-dressed vision of Allison I had managed to steal. I tried to forget. I remembered the long talks we had. I tried to forget. I remembered wandering the streets of our home town, ready to give up everything, only to hear her greet me. I took a long drink and tried desperately to forget.

The phone rang. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but after the third ring I picked up the receiver.

“Steven?” Allison said.

“Allison?” I replied. She burst into tears. I tried to calm her down, tried to get some reason out of her, but she cried harder. I listened to her sobs for a long time, patiently, repeatedly saying, “It’s all right,” like a mother rocking a crying baby. Finally she calmed down a little.

“Can I come over?” Allison asked, sounding more like a little girl than the bold confident woman I had come to know.

“Sure,” I said. She hung up the phone. Ten minutes later, she knocked at my door. Allison was a sight, her make-up smeared by the damp tissue in her hand, the gown exchanged for a grey sweatshirt and jeans, her golden mane still floating angelically in a well-arranged coiffure.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Can I have a hug?” she replied.

I wrapped my long arms around her. In the six years I had known her, I had never seen Allison look so fragile. She held me tight, resting her cheek on my chest. I patted her back and told her it was all right.

The story was old and the details depressing and after I poured her a drink, Allison walked me through the whole ordeal – the argument, the rude phone call, the gossip, the other woman, the jilt, the wait, the final cruel realization that Rod wasn’t coming. Allison spit nails, sobbed relentlessly, laughed with a demonic fire in her eyes and shrank into fear, pain and loneliness. By two in the morning we had extinguished half the Scotch and she was nestled in my arms. A pregnant pause caught us looking into each other’s eyes and the magnet’s pull of an overdue kiss suddenly drew us together.

I’m not exactly proud of what happened next, for it seems clear in retrospect that I took advantage of Allison. I never planned anything, or even considered what I was doing. I held a beautiful woman in my arms, one I had loved for many years. The scene that followed remains one of the best moments of my life, one I have treasured for twelve lonely years, poring over each perfectly memorized detail with an archeologist’s particularity. Sometimes I wondered if she remembered any of it. At any rate, I did.

We kissed for hours, like adolescents who think they have invented the sport, and eventually my hand found the bare flesh of her waist under her loose grey sweatshirt. My fingers curled around the warmth as I drew her closer still. Allison’s eyes were closed and she exhaled heavily, sad and surrendered as I started to fondle the soft swelling of her breast. She laughed when I tickled her nipple.

Actually, I remember several versions of our motion from the floor of my living room into my bed. Sometimes I think I picked her up and carried her. Other times, I led the way and she followed. I think my favorite pseudo-memory is of following her into my room, smiling hungrily as she stripped off the sweatshirt and pounced into bed. Dawn was just beginning to color my bedroom window.

“Come here,” she said, excited and happy, kneeling on the mattress and unbuttoning her faded blue jeans. I crawled onto my bed, grinning madly. Allison fell back and stuck her legs toward me. I started pulling on the frayed cuffs, drawing the denim from her uplifted limbs. Allison laughed as the jeans slid past her feet, twisting with the last release to lay down on her stomach, her bare ass forming a plump little hill. I kissed the back of her thighs, ascending slowly. Allison moaned and then rolled again to let me kiss the tops of her thighs. I stole a peek at her soft brown muff.

“You know what I really like?” she asked with a shy giggle.

“No,” I said, still kissing, “but I can probably guess.” Allison spread her lean legs and I quickly worked my way to the junction, to kiss the soft pinkness of her blossoming flower.

Licking Allison’s pussy sorely affected me. A thousand night’s fantasy suddenly erupted in the unfolding of her pretty sex. I nearly came in my shorts, taking that first long lick between her swollen lips, drinking the dew that tasted of pure Allison, feeling the shudder of excitement as I teased her stiff clitoris, her ass cupped in my hands, her laughter and moans mingling in my head. I pushed my tongue deep into Allison’s cunt, wild with devotion and lust, stroked steadily while a river of her desire, desire Allison felt at my touch, poured over my chin to drench my hands, my sheets, my soul.

“Oh, God, Steven, Yes,” she groaned, pulling my hair to force my lips against hers while my tongue tormented her clit. Allison squealed and shook and ground me down hard against her shudders before she finally yanked me away to let the orgasm fade.

“Roar,” she said, rubbing her spread pussy between aftershocks. I pushed down my shorts and pulled methodically on my throbbing hard prick, staring at the naked goddess before me, illuminated by the glowing fires of dawn. Allison moved herself around to kiss the crown of my cock. At the first touch of her lips, I baptized Allison with six years of wanting, thick streams pouring over her cheeks, over her lips, down her bare breasts, into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” I said, horrified. I still don’t know why the sudden release mortified me. Allison laughed hysterically as she wiped her face with my t-shirt and nestled herself in my arms.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” she sang, resting against my chest. I tried to find the harmony, but grew confused. I quickly drifted into sleep. When I awoke, Allison had gone.

I called her, but she didn’t answer. I waited at the Union, but she never showed. I saw her at choir practice but she kept away, never looking at me, always keeping people between us. I cornered her once and she shook her head, her face flush with shame and dashed away at the first opportune moment. I gave up, knowing what had happened. A moment’s ecstasy cost me more than I could bear to pay.

Once the semester ended, I didn’t see Allison. I stopped singing. I focused on my other studies and graduated at the top of my class. I took a job doing research, published some papers, patented some inventions, started a company and in a decade built a small empire.

A late night at the lab left me hungry. I stopped at an all night restaurant and ordered a steak. Two minutes later, Allison walked in. I recognized her at once. She sat down across from me.

“How have you been?” I asked. The touch of sadness in her azure gaze spoke more than the simple, “All right.”

“You?” she asked, the single word touching a forgotten chord in my heart strings.

“I’ve been getting by,” I said.

“Did you ever . . . ?” Allison asked, her voice trailing off before she finished the thought. I knew what she wanted to know by the coy smile that followed.

“No,” I said. “I haven’t had time. I haven’t let myself get close enough for that.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Surely you’ve been married,” I said, noticing her naked ring finger.

“Twice,” she replied. “Catastrophes.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. She smirked, a rude smile of hers I had almost forgotten.

“You haven’t changed,” she said. “Well, you look older and smarter.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

“So what have you been up to?” she asked. I traced the long trail I had traveled, holding back a few of the details. I didn’t want to make Allison feel bad.

“That’s great,” she said when I reached the end. “I always knew you’d make something of yourself.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “I never did.”

“No, you didn’t think much of yourself back when I knew you.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I always thought you were a genius. You want to know how I knew that? You intimidated me. No one else could. Not a soul,” Allison said, seriously. I laughed with a snort.

“Me? I was a buffoon.”

“No, don’t even say that. I thought you were incredible.”

“But,” I started and stopped. Allison looked at me quizzically.

“What?” she asked.

“But then why did you leave me?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t stand . . . I just had to. I was afraid. You would have left me.”

“Never,” I confessed.

“No, you would have. You had these ideas, that I was some kind of princess.”

“You were.”

“No, I wasn’t. Don’t you get it? That wasn’t me. That whole thing you had was just you, thinking about me. You kept looking at me, but you never saw me, not for me. Once we, well, you know, I knew you were bright enough to figure out that I was just a pretty girl and that you deserved more than I would give you.”

“I don’t buy it, but maybe,” I said, “you could have stuck around to find out.”

“I know. Don’t you think I know that. I’ve thought about that night with you for years, regretting the fact that I acted like such a stupid bitch. Everything was just a mess for me that semester. Nothing was working out and then this thing with you and I couldn’t bear to get dumped again.”

I paid the check and we left together. Neither of us said anything about it, we just did. She smiled as I opened the passenger door of my car, a fast sports car, just her type. Now that I think about it, my shoes are Italian, too.

I took her back to my place and poured us a drink. Allison wandered through the apartment, ten times the size of the last one we had been in together. She walked back to my bedroom and I followed. She sat on the bed.

“Come here,” she said, laughing. I crawled up beside her and we kissed. Memories competed with passion as I tasted her sweet lips. Pausing, Allison pulled my shirt over my head and fiddled the button of my trousers.

“I didn’t get very far last time,” she said, pushing down my briefs. “Think you can hold back for ten seconds?”

“I don’t know,” I said with a smile. “You still excite me.”

“Mmm,” said Allison as she slipped my prick into her mouth. So much had happened, so much had been lost and her tongue teased the length of my staff while I knelt on my bed and wondered if this would just be another night for us both to regret. I caressed her golden hair as she suckled my senses, remembering the pain, thinking about what she’d said, that I would have left her, that she was just a pretty girl, that I deserved something better.

Allison lifted her skirt and I saw the thin yellow cotton panties that covered her firm bottom. The orgasm welled deep within and I said her name over and over as I poured my soul into my Allison.

“How’s your brother?” I asked as I laid back to catch my breath.

“He’s in jail,” she said. I laughed and then apologized. Allison kissed me gently and laid her cheek to my chest.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” I sang softly. Allison picked up the song, in perfect harmony. “Daddy’s going to buy you a mocking bird.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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