Detroit: Autumn Red (the 3rd novel)

The erotic side of a memoir

All the 'Detroit" books are titled as memoirs. Lawyers tell me I must say that this is all 'made-up'. Decide for yourself, and it may help to read the disclaimer that's to be found at the beginning of the excerpt from 'Detroit: Spring Gold'





...“That’s one more way we’re different than everybody else!”

    It was, therefore, no surprise that our kisses, standing by the window and looking down into the space vacated by Brit’s car, quickly became a grope session with my hands full of her fanny, and her attempting to get my zipper down. I pushed her away just long enough to say “settee” and made it the fifteen-foot distance without tripping on the trousers I was trying to shed.

    She’d managed to get rid of all her outer garments by the time she plopped down on the leather. She knows that I enjoy removing the lacy items myself---it’s one small part of the games we play. And she enjoys the  anticipation as I take my time with each piece because her underlying structure gets a good deal of attention as each component is manipulated during the removal.

    The particular combination she had worn that day was of such a paleness of pink that it might almost have been non-existent. And in addition to the laciness it was well-nigh transparent; that’s a combination that’s guaranteed to rev my motor. As usual, it was worn mostly for decorative effect, rather than for any foundation function. She doesn’t need any support, but she has said, “Good girls don’t go without underwear except on special occasions.” The wanton gleefulness of the smile she directs at me along with that kind of statement is something to see. She seems to do it only when she’s looking for a special reaction; I then get an immediate hard-on.

    Since, depending on her expected day’s activities, she may be dressed in formal-ish wool flannel one day and a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt the next, one never knows quite what to expect. I do know that for some reason, she refuses to wear any other brand of cotton denim except Levi’s. She buys a size so that the custom seamstress she patronizes has just the right amount of best-quality denim material to completely re-do them. The total cost turns out to be about two hundred dollars a pair but then they fit ‘just right’---like a coat of paint. And her tee-shirts are almost always silk. So even on her casual days she’s not what you could call inexpensively dressed. I once asked her why she wears such very expensive underwear when nobody but me ever sees it. She simply said, “I’m worth it, and it makes me feel good about myself. Besides, you seem to like it!” I guess there’s no better answer possible.

    Because I was about to peel her out of her underwear, I decided that I’d have to do something to make her feel good without it. She’s let it be known that ‘feeling good’ very often has something to do with my tongue somewhere in the proceedings so I paused to ask her, “Where would you like me to lick first?”

    “Well, since you ask, why don’t you just start at one end and go clear to the other. I’ll let you know when you get to a spot that’s especially nice.” Said with a substantial purr in her voice. You understand that asking such a question is part of The Game. I already know what she particularly likes. The only question really was if she was in a mood for some specific treatment.

    As is true of most guys, I suppose, the details of ‘getting there’, for me, are of less importance than the fact of it. In my own case, there’s no doubt that my greatest turn-on is to treat her in such a way as to provoke a completely uninhibited reaction. When she’s gone out-of-control, I consider that I’ve done my job. There are times, on the other hand, when we both seem to want low-and-slow. There certainly have been a number of times when we were lost together in some sort of dream-world and our interaction had significant aspects of a mutually-experienced fantasy. Those times are so different as to almost constitute a completely variant sort of experience.

    In any case, this particular time looked to be one of the more rowdy sort. I started with her ears, nose and lips, but within a few seconds, she was pushing my head toward the hard little nubs that I could feel through the lace. Since she has chosen to always wear the sort of bra that fastens in the front, it was no trick to unhook and therefore bare what she really wanted me to pay attention to. When I started to nibble, she held my head and directed it back and forth to give each side the complete treatment. By the time I was done, one could almost have raised a bruise by too-enthusiastic contact with their rigidity.

    I tried to pause to admire my handiwork, but she was too impatient for such casualness. She quickly divested herself of her ‘seat-cover’ and the degree of squirming and feverishness she displayed made it clear that she had no interest in going slow-and-easy.

    She’s singularly easy to tease when she’s in that state, so I deliberately pulled back and asked, disingenuously, if I should “just take my time, since you don’t seem to be much in a hurry.”

    She replied, with a voice strained with the effort, “If you don’t hurry up and stick your tongue right there, I’m probably going to have a heart attack.”

I couldn’t actually respond with words, because I’d immediately done just as she’d asked and had my face as far into the juncture of her legs as was physically possible.

    As is usual, I first covered all the area with a few fast licks before beginning to concentrate on her little bud protruding from its inadequate cover. If I do it just right, its form is such that I can grasp it with my lips and very lightly quiver the end of my tongue over the tip. As it begins to retract with the ultimate heightening of her excitement, I simply change to a broad stroking action with the flat of my tongue. The result is invariably an uncontrollable reaction---just what I’d been aiming for. Her noises are inarticulate to begin with; they ultimately become intelligible with her saying my name over and over. At that point, I’m usually awash in fatuous smugness---look what I can do to her. And I’m so unbearably horny that I can hardly stand it.

    Luckily, her experience most often energizes her in such a way that what I get in return is such as to make me feel that the top of my head is going to blow off. And our post-coital languor is ‘the best of times’.

    It’s common after one of these sessions to drift off to a short nap. But this time, we snuggled together on the couch in our usual position, with her furry spot pressed to my nearest thigh by one of her legs thrown over---she likes the sensation and says it has something to do with her sensitivity. As an alternative, she likes to have me cup the area in my hand. I’m happy to do that too. Since we always seem to end up with her head on my shoulder, it’s easy for me to kiss her ear or eyebrow.

    I’ve found that such kisses serve very well to punctuate our idle conversation in such a situation. Without un-necessary details, I’d brought her up to date on our activities over the last few days. She, in turn, told me in greater detail about the coming publication of the student art book---a significant step forward for a department the size of hers---and then suggested that we drive out to the house-site and see how much had been done. A quick shower, without enough fooling-around to derail the intended program, and we headed for Washtenaw County.