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“Herr Profesor Abercrombie!”
The husky female voice didn’t startle Ian Abercrombie. It only yanked his mind off the essays he slogged through. He glanced up. Marianne Witmerhaus’ casual couture blocked his office door.
She hadn’t been a surprise, having alerted him weeks earlier of her visit. Ostensibly she traveled to attend “the tennis.” Engage in some of “the shopping” as well.
Marianne had grown up in Hamburg, West Germany. Although she spoke passable enough American English, she nonetheless leaned hard against the German crutch of placing definite articles before proper nouns.
Abercrombie made Marianne’s acquaintance when her bluffing skills far surpassed any fluency in English. That was 18 years ago.
He rose from his seat and circled his desk. The slight expectancy across Marianne’s face eased into whimsy. Nearly as tall as Abercrombie, especially in heels, it was unnecessary for either to maneuver and compensate for kissing.
Her arms were strong. He’d never known Marianne’s embraces to be lax. Nor simply for show. Abercrombie wondered whether she’d reached that point with her husband. Those hollow examples of public reassurance.
Chance passersby, his students particularly, might’ve been astounded to see him in such an open exchange. Likely none would’ve known what to have thought of the rough goosing that pressed Marianne’s hips harder against his own.
A little joke between them carried over from their first night together. As a literature professor at this small liberal arts college set in the Hudson Valley, Abercrombie was highly regarded. Therefore students couldn’t possibly imagine him getting down, could they? And should the urge merge with opportunity, he couldn’t express it, right? No. It would’ve been easier for his students to envision their parents doing the dirty. That vanilla kind.
Abercrombie released Marianne. He stepped back and appraised her.
She wore an outfit which complimented her womanly figure. Frequent spa attendance, an active lifestyle, tanned, a lifetime nonsmoker, moderate imbibing and sensible eating not only gave her shape, these rigorously maintained habits also made her more attractive than at 19.
Truthfully, there were few women who through marriage, giving birth, after 18 years of knowing, one could state that about.
If anything, the blue eyes dotting Marianne’s foxy features saw matters less attentively. She’d learned to relax. With age and experience she knew when to reserve suspicions. And now with money she found it easier to dismiss the same. At least beside him in America. Perhaps back in Germany that trait first encountered then endured in 1989 fully resurfaced.
He hadn’t visited unified Germany since the earliest 90s. From the mid 90s-on Marianne was a biennial visitor to the States.
Abercrombie considered telling Marianne of her voluptuousness. Even adding the comparison between present and past. He decided against it. Not that Marianne suffered easy embarrassment, but he believed she would’ve found such favorable portrayal effusive.
Or asked, “Was I fat before?”
An honest question for which he lacked a suitable response. Then she wasn’t. That was gauged by yesterday’s standards.
Abercrombie saw that Marianne quite succulent. Of course when he first eyed her she stood tall, straight, sturdy, curvy and matter-of-factly naked. A vulnerability she reversed into intimidation.
On a gentlemen’s club stage, a foot or so above the audience, looming in low heels really, she surveyed all down her long sly nose. Angle and distance, foreshortened as they were, blackened her eyes. Cool cruel lips came the next night, when he knew her better.
Blue and white key lights raised her cheekbones, sharpened her muscle masses. Slick black leaves of hair bound her head and refracted light.
If he had chanced upon the same person sometime in the 90s, maybe she would’ve chosen a breast augmentation. Or two. Fortunately, he thought, that mania was years off before overwhelming good sense and natural-born assets. Marianne always had the right handful of proportionally sized tits. And Abercrombie had big mitts.
Even before proper introduction, the professor saw himself lapping at those pink nubs serving as nipples.
No washboard midriff for Marianne. Rather a rim of tender flesh circled her belly button. A dense pubic wedge stamped her hips from which flared long legs.
After their initial sighting, Abercrombie assumed she’d never have anything to hide. Marianne proved him wrong twice.
Inspection and recollection indulged, the professor offered his visitor a seat. She sauntered into his office. Another admirable attribute, her gait. Marianne even sauntered barefoot.
While making herself comfortable, Abercrombie cleared his desk of papers. He slid sheaves into his briefcase. Concerned, Marianne asked whether she’d interrupted him.
No-no!” Abercrombie said. “You came at just the right time. I was getting discouraged by güvenilir bahis these essays.”
Taking genuine interest in his profession as she always did, Marianne prompted him.
The reading assignment had been “McTeague,” a Gilded Age novel. He’d instructed this particular class to interpret the protagonists’ behavior. “McTeague” had been a craven Barbary Coast tale underlined by ignorant moralistic admonishments.
“Unfortunately,” Abercrombie said, “none of my students grasped the book’s wages of sin aspect. Each has been upset that all the thieving and killing produced nothing but emptiness.”
“So they missed the point of the book,” she said.
Abercrombie nodded. “Theirs is a ‘fulfillment by any means’ generation. They don’t even have a glancing acquaintance with propriety. Like McTeague himself, all they want is gold. Regardless.”
“And, say, at 20, in your own 20s, presented a choice of halo or gold rings, you’d automatically choose virtue over value?”
“At 20,” Abercrombie answered, “I likely would’ve snatched the loot. But I surely ought have wrestled with my conscience beforehand.”
Marianne chuckled. “Talk of noble sentiment is an American quality, isn’t it?” Abercrombie tired of golden dreams ending in greed’s rueful borax desert. After all, reachable treasure sat living and breathing across from him. He asked Marianne where she preferred dining tonight.
As ever when Abercrombie offered to spend money on her behalf, Marianne pulled a face. Somehow she’d gotten into her head that he’d been completely responsible for her current enrichment.
Their friendship had certainly led to one of his closets being full of bespoke suits and handmade shoes. All gifts from her.
If being big and having his countenance mistaken as menacing, yes, he’d done plenty. If his size scared then coerced certain people to react in manners beneficial to Marianne, perhaps those frightened had acted imaginably worse than he could ever know.
Guilt, as he taught, produced powerful magnification.
“Tonight I cook dinner for you, Herr Profesor. Tomorrow maybe we go out and eat.”
Her second statement was to mollify him. In truth when she visited they never dined out. Marianne enjoyed cooking for him. That and rather than lodge in an area four or five star hotel, nights she could’ve considered trinkgeld, Marianne chose crowding his town house’s master bed.
There, she performed as what he supposed the perfect hausfrau. Her efforts shamed his once-a-week housekeeper’s. Neat and orderly as the hired woman kept his home, Frau Witmershaus made it immaculate.
Again while she’d never admit it, Marianne behaved as if she were beholden to him. Based on their initial dealings, he would’ve believed her incapable of such sentimentality.
Yet if events prior to their first encounter hadn’t occurred, Abercrombie’s next steps may’ve led elsewhere. He refrained from telling her of that randomness. But she pieced it together through the years. He supposed all she lacked were the two other women’s names.
No doubt at this late date Marianne could’ve gleaned those, too.
An old college classmate’s invitation brought him across the Atlantic. Years after graduating, Paul Lowery received a stipend towards British university graduate business courses. At the time Abercrombie wrote for a newspaper. The only comparable gift for him would’ve been his being awarded a writing fellowship somewhere.
Unlike their undergraduate days, Lowery truly needed to attend current classes sober and awake. That often meant limiting his London carousing to weekends. Which gave Abercrombie weeklong chances to explore Europe apart from England.
During one of these early summer occasions Abercrombie found himself in Hamburg. Not to visit the Cave and bask in other ur-Beatle touchstones. But to gambol along the Reeperbahn, a West German venue Americans regarded as notorious because of its nonjudgmental attitude towards pleasure.
Libertine as he thought himself, Abercrombie, as most of his generation still, ultimately looked upon desire and fulfillment with ambivalence. Breaking the final binds of American cultural reluctance against sexual license — or a lifetime of eager virgins screaming “no!” but meaning “yes!” — went against everything drummed into him.
Fortunately, newspaper work proved more enlightening and thorough than practicing ideal morality. Through it he learned that venial drives made the world go round.
The States didn’t lack for diversions like the Reeperbahn. However, patronizing tenderloin districts there frequently left one unnecessarily questioning his virtue. An implication fed through constant messages equating carnality with weakness undermined natural human expression.
Abercrombie didn’t arrive wide-eyed at this quarter. His Times Square familiarity augmented by occasional Combat Zone excursions, the Reeperbahn failed overloading his promiscuity. In fact it’s openness eased what any cosseted American might’ve türkçe bahis mistaken as seedy.
No goggle-eyed tsk-tsking for him.
Had he suffered the least amount of anxiety, the brightly lit police precinct leading into the area ought have allayed his heebie-jeebies. It was such a mild summer night foot patrolmen lolled and joshed before the station house. Of course this was mid-week. Had it been Friday or Saturday night, he’d have expected an entirely heightened vibe.
Abercrombie knew well how work weeks compressed energy. After all, hadn’t he spent his entire 20s as a wage-slave volcano?
Alluring as some of the prostitutes were, he skipped the windows where they showcased themselves. These wares weren’t crass, most of them. Rather, he sought more sordid amusement.
Away from the barkers cajoling in German and English, their neon-fringed clubs straining his eyes, Abercrombie stepped into an subdued warren. Off the mainline action was quieter. Men didn’t mob there. They ambled singularly or in pairs.
Snatches of Europop caught his ear. The music drew him through sad doors. Inside, a dingy strip club. His stirring behind them made the few hostesses and customers sitting at the bar turn. They dismissed him as an afterthought. The bartender even cut his glance short. Abercrombie walked in farther and sat wide-legged at one of the many vacant tables.
Before an instant had passed, a blonde sprite joined him. Well, in the direct light provided, feeble candlelight dying through smudged glass, or lit indirectly by lumens otherwise focused on the stage’s nude entertainer, she could’ve been considered a sprite. Less generous, better illuminated, she may’ve been an oma.
Abercrombie was in a generous mood.
She introduced herself. He forgot her name.
Spiky hair, thin from hunger build, huge dark nipples crowning small breasts and no obvious track marks on her limbs gave her his casual okay. Technically her diaphanous baby doll qualified as clothing. An eye patch covered her sex. Silver mules glittered on her feet.
This hostess shared her mercantile smile. Her gesture extended into him buying them a bottle of sekt. Abercrombie swigged his glassfuls while the woman carefully nipped at hers.
Their small talk got microscopic until words between them disappeared altogether. She mentally flipped the how-to-hostess manual to its second page. A game was suggested. Three matchsticks of varying lengths appeared in her tiny hand. If he could say “21” (in German) and select the shortest one, she’d remove her nightie.
Abercrombie could’ve said “21” in Spanish while whichever matchstick he chose immaterial because that gossamer was coming off in any event.
His hostess asked if Abercrombie wanted to play more games. Not surprised she knew other tricks, he agreed.
To delve further into her repertoire the pair left the table. Their departure created zero commotion.
Beyond the seating along the wall were numerous canvas enclosures. Flaps down on maybe one or two indicated these were occupied. The remainder showed the same cramped décor: love seat, low table, faux gas lamps that tossed jaundice upon purple velour walls and worn faded carpet swatches.
She closed the flap behind them. The cloth sufficiently muffled bar noise. Abercrombie, stooped, felt a twinge of claustrophobia. The space quickly warmed.
His hostess slid out of her mules and G-string. The patch had hidden a blonde tuft. He ended his staring at her pubic fluff to get naked himself.
Their snug nest made his disrobing far more difficult than had he been blind drunk. But once bare she apparently approved of his party favor body. Her mercantile smile widened.
That certainly wasn’t culled from her how-to-hostess manual. She praised his body, delighting in touching his muscles. The woman particularly liked he lacked a beer gut. Moments such as these stroked his ego. They also justified all that weight room dedication.
Some of his news room colleagues needed the same discipline. He saw no reason for healthy people to be sloppy at 30. Decrepitude should be delayed as long as possible.
The two arranged themselves comfortably in the love seat. He’d been on the way to erect but her pressing against him, her tiny hands kneading his thighs, knuckles bumping his balls, turned flesh into one thick pillar.
Abercrombie tried showing consideration. That died quick. Smile as she did, her face remained unyielding.
From beneath the table she pulled out a box of rubbers. According to the label this box had contained one gross. He saw far fewer than 144 now.
She needed two hands to sheath him. Since space a premium, she leaned across his lap rather than suck him on her knees between his legs. Abercrombie fingered her from behind. He expected her to be lippy. Either she remained never plumbed tight or his fingers had suddenly become abnormally large.
Her small mouth couldn’t swallow him deeply. Sucking him involved güvenilir bahis siteleri too many teeth for his enjoyment.
The ober’s appearance interrupted her raking. His entrance brought less muddled Europop, relatively fresh air as well as another bottle of sekt. The woman yanked herself off Abercrombie’s cock to receive the new bottle. The ober did a double-take when he saw the sheathed radio mast rearing from Abercrombie’s lap. No doubt the waiter had seen many an engorged member before, inadvertently or otherwise. Abercrombie knew some were bigger and angrier. Nonetheless another man’s open admiration did appeal to his vanity.
Naturally it was all for show. A little something to dizzy the girls’ clients. Some indirect subconscious wallet loosening.
Abercrombie preferred his first estimation.
New bottle retrieved, waiter gone, flap re-shut meaning privacy regained, Abercrombie and his hostess resumed their interlude.
Standing now, her feet mashing seat cushions outside his thighs, she passed him the bottle which he quickly uncorked. A furious cork smacked velour then died upon the carpet. Abercrombie drank from the bottle. In offering it to her he pushed the cylinder into her chest’s hard plain. His cold introduction puckered her nipples into dual peaks.
Ladylike, she nipped sekt.
Using her free hand, she steadied herself on Abercrombie’s shoulder and started crouching. In no time she’d impaled herself on his staff. Effort more than weight allowed her sex and ass to mash against his lap.
Before attending to him fully, she safely placed the bottle on table top.
Both hands free, the woman loosely embraced his neck. She pressed against him. As she cantered up and down on him, her stippled crowns dragged soft ruts into his hairy chest. Abercrombie offered what support he could by palming her bony ass. After no time she chuffed away.
Loud breathing roared in Abercrombie’s ear. Hers. The woman’s faster striding called to mind a winning mare getting the crop during the home stretch. At the end she surprised herself. Frenzy for show rattled into jagged waves that finished as happy languor.
Arms draped around his neck, their heads side by side, she asked why was he still hard.
“Must be the sekt,” Abercrombie said.
“The sekt is shit here,” she said. “It must be you.”
She wearily raised herself off his cock. Her exertions had soaked his short hairs and left his dick glistening.
The woman stumbled between his knees and table towards the enclosure’s flap. There, she opened it, peeked around. His hostess barked someone’s name.
Abercrombie took another mouthful from the sparkling wine bottle. Whatever it contained that extended his erection was fine by him. After his second swallow, an Amazon entered. Her bulk significantly reduced space and light.
Tall, her face mildly stupefied, her bob coal black, this second hostess had apparently recently basted herself on an Ibiza beach. Time on that strand had given her a dark lushness.
She wore nothing but a black leather miniskirt, biker boots and bondage bracelets. Yet breasts were her most distinctive feature.
Plump and ponderous, yes; they swayed when she stood still. A wine stain distinguished her left boob’s underside.
Abercrombie’s first hostess introduced this second one. He also forgot her name, though somehow remembered she was Swabian. This point of interest remained with him for no good reason.
Flap down again, the colossus strode over the table and crowded his right side. Abercrombie’s hostess crumpled on his left.
He reached to grab handfuls of the Swabian’s dairies. Her tits were heavy. His jostling conjured a grin from her slack features.
The Swabian snapped up a fresh rubber out of the condom box. She rolled up and tossed the one he wore. Replacing it only took her one hand.
As had the blonde, the big woman bent into Abercrombie’s lap. Except the Schwabian’s lips fastened lower on his cock. Much lower. With far fewer teeth.
Her lips and tongue played arpeggios the length and width of his dick. She even teased his turtlehead’s shell. Sekt or not, the Swabian’s skillful oral application soon — sooner than Abercrombie liked — had him clenching then spouting.
Abercrombie expended, happy, the Swabian stood. Looming before him, she lifted her skirt. He gazed into an impenetrable black briar.
In guttural English, she asked, “Do you like my pussy?”
Somewhere under her untamed tangle, Abercrombie believed there was a slit to enjoy. On the basis of this simple faith he answered yes.
Satisfied, the Swabian dropped her hem, lumbered out. The viscous rubber off his wilted stalk, Abercrombie wrestled back into his clothes. The blonde re-covered herself after maybe an eye blink.
Presentable again, she threw back the flap for good. Escaping their confinement chilled Abercrombie. Within the canvas he hadn’t realized how much he’d sweated.
They went to the bar where he settled up. His bill inflicted no pain. At the time the Deutschmark was 2-1 against the dollar. Before bidding everlasting farewell to this nameless establishment, the bartender treated him and his sprite to glasses of korn.
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