I went back to my workspace and sat at the computer but couldn’t get to work at once. Sex with Larry hadn’t been very good for a long time, and had been virtually non-existent during the past year. It was no wonder that the sexual episode across the courtyard had affected me so. And I had become proficient at masturbation to keep myself somewhat comfortable during the dismal times.
Truthfully, having this charming although battered man in my bed was unreasonably stimulating. I regretted that my dildo was in the bedside table, because I could have used it at that moment, to give myself another orgasm and relax a bit. I went into the bathroom anyway, and masturbated with my fingers while imagining what it must have been like for Rhoda to have that huge, black cock in her pussy, in her mouth, and have those squirts of cum cream in her mouth and all over her face and boobs. It sure was exciting for me to watch and remember, and I enjoyed a huge convulsion when I came, and licked the sweet juice from my pussy off my fingers.
I didn’t feel I could concentrate properly on Mrs. Clarkson’s dictation, so I decided to go to work on another project that I had from a lawyer’s office. It was the usual boring legalese stuff, and I just plodded through it, grateful to at least have something to busy my mind, to keep it off that big cock and the gentle person recovering on my bed. After a couple of hours, I went in to see how James was doing. He was sleeping soundly, so I left him alone because he must have needed rest, because of his dramatic workday and the trauma at home. I spent the night on the sofa in the living room.
In the morning I was wakened by the clank of a pan to the fragrance of coffee brewing. I looked around and there was James in the kitchen, coffee dripping in the machine and a frying pan on the small stove. He was looking over at me.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you yet, but I banged this pan. I’ve been ferreting around your cupboards. I hope you don’t mind, but I must find some way to repay your kindness, so I thought I’d make breakfast for you. I found some bread and the toaster, the pan and some bacon and eggs. Okay?”
No man had ever made a meal for me, even after I’d slept with him, so this was okay plus.
“By all means,” I said. “I feel spoiled.”
“So do I,” he replied, and went to work making breakfast.
We sat opposite each other at the table. The breakfast was elegantly served to me, and I had some very special feelings that I’d never before enjoyed. We talked quietly, easily weaving together a conversation about society, life in general, and a bit about life specifically based on ourselves and finally about life based upon each other. In the end, James said he had some important details to complete during the day, and asked if I would have supper with him, because he had nobody with whom to share his wonderful professional triumph. I readily agreed. I had not been out on a date – sort of – in a very long time.

It turned out to be a really terrific evening. He chose a lovely, quiet little place I’d never before seen. He’d arranged for a table beside a large window that looked out over a groomed park with a small river that flowed past below us. The window was open to the warm autumn evening, and the fragrance of the brilliantly coloured leaves was like perfume on the air. When the waiter came, James asked me if I’d permit him to order for both of us. I was charmed, and happily acquiesced.


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