His name was Francis. A strange name, I thought, neither male nor female. We were the same height, 5-foot-10, and he wasn't particularly built, rather slim. He wore glasses and had a mop of unruly grey hair and grey chest hair. He even had grey pubic hair, though it was sparse. I was 21 and he 62.
He was the perfect tour guide in Munich, a friend of a friend who'd been too busy to show me the town. Ever the gentleman, Francis had mastered the art of being laid-back, always giving you the floor in conversation yet asking the most unusual questions. His questions made me think in new ways and feel smart and sophisticated. Instead of being interesting himself, he was simply interested - in the world, in music, in the arts, in me. He was never once condescending.
During our conversations, I looked at his mouth. He had a nice mouth and a rich deep voice with an English accent. I liked that. He spoke of his compositions, an opera he was working on, with such passion that I found myself swept away. Over lunch, I leaned toward him and kissed him.
He was so surprised, his fork dropped to his plate with a clatter. But instead of leaping on me, he picked up the utensil and carried on with his train of thought and his lunch.
I suspect he drew out my seduction over several days as much for the enjoyment of the game as to make sure I wasn't merely playing with him. When I mentioned I was a singer, he took me to see Viktor Lazlo, a wonderful Belgian chanteuse. For this, he bought me a full-length PVC halter dress with a fishtail hem.
He took me to the symphony in a Katharine Hepburn-style suit, complete with hat. It was a treat to go shopping for the new wardrobe, of course, but even more thrilling when he ran his hands over me to see if the fit was right. He had me raise my skirt in the change room to see if I was brazen enough to go without knickers.
I got a look of admiration and a glimpse of his erection when he saw that I went without. While blushing madly, I even sat down on the armchair in the small room and spread myself wide for him. He was delighted but stayed at the door.
A week later, he invited me to see his etchings. Of course, I posed for him.
His apartment was beautiful. His own paintings hung on the walls, and the furniture was an odd mix of treasures found over the years in the trash in various European cities.
He made lunch and set out a picnic beside the bed. He kissed like a woman, with a soft open mouth. His tongue was never pointy and darting, but didn't lie there inert either, showing the right mix of force and sensuality as it curled around mine.
A fig was eaten, then I was. A mouthful of yogurt and honey, then I sucked his cock for a while. He treated my little belly like a third breast, squeezing and kneading it. Though I'd been self-conscious about it, I began to feel it was sexy. He was turned on by it, as he was by a mole between my pussy and my ass. His cock was a perfect fit, not too big, with just enough girth to be thrilling with each thrust and never painful.
Though I can't say I don't like a good rattling now and then, I was never a fan of being pounded into for hours, with balls slapping me to the point of bruising.
His approach was to thrust into me to the hilt and then swivel his hips slightly so that his cock made a kind of churning motion. He mixed it up with straight thrusting and then back again to this writhing inside of me, sometimes with my legs right over his back and or up in the air, his hands pressing the backs of my knees into the bed. Other times I was on my side, my legs curled up into my chest. His cock turned up slightly, just enough to hit my G-spot with every motion. I'd never been wetter. And there was never any hurry to "get there."
He sketched me while we rested. Several hours and seven courses later, we got there, deeply and quietly.
Later that week, as I saw him off to Paris at the train station, he gave me a sketch of myself in orgasm, with my lips parted and head thrown back, my long hair wild around me. I blushed at the thought of having been so studied at that moment.
I still have that sketch and a few photographs of Francis. I think of him fondly now and then, and wonder if he's still alive. He would be 81 now.