Their first time, when Chandler wanted to go down on Sandra, she’d objected, said she was “ugly down there.”
“I know that’s something men do to please women,” she said, her clipped, mysterious accent, “But you don’t have to do that, really.”
And it was part of the game she was playing, or so Chandler assumed.
So he turned out the light, none of her alleged “ugly down there” visible now, and found his way between her thighs in the dark.
After some tentative exploration with the flat of his tongue, Sandra got up without saying anything, went to the bathroom and started showering. When Chandler followed, she was scrubbing between her legs with a bar of soap.”
“Hon, let’s face it it, that’s where I pee.”
Chandler took the soap and proceeded to lather her from head to foot, slow and calm. Then he’d shampooed her hair, rinsed, and finding that the instructions for the conditioner recommended leaving it in for several minutes, folded her in his wet arms and kissed her in the water and steam while the conditioner supposedly did its thing.
Then he turned the shower off and gently dried her with a big, starchy hotel towel; a different towel to wrap her hair in a turban. When he picked her up and carried her to the bed, it was as delicately as any bride over the threshold.
He lay beside her, face to face.
“Let’s get one thing perfectly clear,” he said. “You’re beautiful. I mean top to bottom. Fingers, toes, eyes, legs… The back of your knees… I mean, I don’t know if what you said is part of your act, but if you really, truly think there’s anything ugly about you, you’re mistaken. You’ve goofed. As smart as you are about so many things, this is one place where you’ve plainly got it wrong.”
This wasn’t flattery. He was being honest.
And after he’d kissed his way down her breasts, tummy, pudendum, her cool, soap-scented skin beneath his lips, the springy hair of her pussy tickling his cheeks, she’d let him plow the furrow of her sex with his tongue, shivered slightly when he grazed the hood of her clit.
Chandler continued, gradually drawing his tongue up over the little swelling, and when she responded with her hips moving and low moans and sharp intakes of breath, he took the chance of introducing his finger up inside her, started the steady, easy massage of that spongy, arching space inside, behind her belly.
She cooed like a dove before she came, wailed like a fire truck when she did, and ejaculated all over Chandler and the bed sheets.
Sandra.
Chandler had asked her name in the game and she’d responded with a train wreck of germanic consonants that Chandler would need to write down and practice before getting even close.
“You can just call me Sandra, if you like,” she said, winking, and Chandler got it.
“Sandra and Santa,” he said. “The Claus’s”
And Chandler found that he liked the game–the whole idea of an illicit affair with The Big Guy’s wife, an aura of naughty fun and no little mystery.
“When can I see you again?” he’d asked.
“Again?” she asked, somewhat startled.
“Well sure.” Chandler said. “I mean, if you want to, I’d love it.”
She appeared to ponder, then smiled at him.
“Well, you know, this time next year, of course.”
“What? Next Year?”
“Christmas Eve,” she said, and seeing Chandler’s confusion, took his cheeks between her fingertips, kissed his mouth and looked him in the eye to make sure he understood.
“That’s the way it is, Darling. This is the one night on your calendar where he and I are of this world, the one night we can be here sampling what it’s like to be… (She looked to one side as if searching, waived her arms in a slight juggling motion.) “Human.”
After a while, Chandler finally got the nerve to say, “Sandra, that’s crazy.”
She laughed. “I guess I’m crazy then. But only one night out of the year. The rest of the time I’m what you’d call ‘Fay.’ And she laughed again, told him she would be here at the Embassy Hotel, the following year. She’d love to see him again, if he was up for it. (Pun intended.)
“By the way,” she said, dressing, collecting her purse, slipping into her (certainly real) fur coat, “I’ve always wanted to try smoking. I mean so many people still do it, regardless of how bad it is for them. I’ve always wondered what the appeal might be.”
Later that week, or perhaps the week following, Chandler looked it up. “Fay” is one of those delightful words that has been around long enough to morph several accepted spellings and just as many meanings, and one incarnation of the word was indeed synonymous with insanity.
Another one had to do with fairies and elves.
Chandler sat at his computer and laughed. In the adjoining office, his admin, Doris, overheard and asked, “What’s so funny?”
“She either wants me to think she’s nuts or a pixie.”
Doris, who had no idea what Chandler was talking about, cleared her throat loudly and went back to work.
The second time, and Chandler’s Anadolu Yakası Escort financial affairs had flourished that year, earned him the right to consider his time valuable, but there he was on Christmas Eve with an unopened pack of Marlburoughs and a gold plated lighter on the table, ready to wait in the bar of The Embassy Hotel, ready to sit there looking foolish all night, ready to be pathetic should she never show.
Chandler waiting, wondering, the minutes passing…
Then heads turned, conversations lulled. The bartender stood up straighter and broadened his shoulders. There she was walking through the room in her Gaultier blouse, Gucci leathers, her Gabriel Hounds jeans, seemingly (but not) oblivious to the tidal effect she had on the room’s attention.
“Hey Handsome,” she said, sliding into the opposite side of the the booth, the booth that will be “theirs” as long as they do this.
“You made it,” Chandler said, no attempt to hide his relief.
“And you did too,” she said smiling. “I want you to know I really appreciate that. I know time is different for you.”
Chandler squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, and Sandra saw his confusion.
“Well,” Sandra went on, “time’s kind of like a tyrant for you, isn’t it? Greedy despot that needs to be obeyed? For my kind, however, it’s more an elected official that can be bribed. I mean think about it. How else would my husband get all over the world in one night?”
Ah, Chandler thought. Wake up Watson, the game’s afoot. She wants to pick up where we left off last year. “Sandra Claus” it is, then.
Was that the year she asserted she could close her eyes, concentrate, and actually envision where her mythical husband was? “See” what he was doing at any given moment?
“Do it,” Chandler said, and there in their booth, she sighed, shrugged and closed her eyes. A moment or two later she flinched slightly, the way you do on a subway train that suddenly lurches. Then she shook her head, looked exasperated.
“What?” Chandler asked.
“This house in Germany,” she said. “He’s just got there. There’s this chubby hausfrau and her daughter on their backs, laying on the kitchen table… They’re both nude, giggling. Legs up in the air.”
She opened her eyes, saw Chandler’s look and said, “What? You thought it was milk and cookies all night?”
Chandler still just stared.
“Oh please, Hon. He’s been doing these rounds for thousands of years. This isn’t the first time he’s stumbled into some mother-daughter action, believe me.
Chandler laughed. “You actually had me going there.”
Sandra smiled. “What? Going? You find it arousing, do you?”
Chandler let that pass. Just to have something to say he said “God, I sure hope the husband doesn’t show up with a shotgun or something. Imagine what a catastrophe that would be for Christmas.”
“Oh no,” Sandra rejoined. “The husband was there. And it wasn’t a shotgun, it was a bottle of schnapps. He was sitting there naked, big grin, stroking his knobby hard on and urging them on.”
Chandler laughed again, but then thought of something errantly funny and stopped short.
“Oh my god, Sandra!” he urged, his tone theatric. “Please don’t tell me Santa Claus goes both ways! PLEASE DON’T!”
“Sweetie, believe me, if there was a third way, he’d be all over that too. Horny bastard.”
Later that evening, in their room, she wanted to fuck outside, on the balcony. They did it despite the chill of Bay Area December (that Sandra seemed not to notice anyway), despite their balcony overlooking the area around the swimming pool.
Below them, in fact, several people walked through the courtyard, people who could look up at any moment and see Sandra bent over the railing, her breasts dancing back and forth to the rhythm of Chandler’s thrusting into her from behind.
Indeed, how is it that none of these bystanders heard the repeated, bouncy “plop, plop” of Chandler’s groin playing a drumbeat on Sandra’s ass? Chandler himself heard it echoing around the courtyard.
Then Chandler was grateful to be in bed, warm under a blanket, Sandra backed into his arms, and she lay on her side and admitted Chandler from behind. They spooned.
And for a while Sandra twisted her head to kiss Chandler on the lips, and it was delightfully awkward, but then she gave this up, sunk into the trance of it, the pleasure of Chandler’s cock massaging her insides, the bonus of him reaching around to fondle her breasts, strum the wet explosive of her clit .
Chandler, without stopping, saw Sandra in the mirror on the wall over the dresser, opposite the bed, and noticed something familiar about her expression. He played his hunch.
“Where is he now?” he whispered into her ear, his breath haggard as he plumbed Sandra’s cunt without missing a beat.
She didn’t respond.
“Where?” He insisted.
“New Zealand,” she said, clipped and breathless. “Hospital. Night shift nurse. She’s…
“Yes?” Chandler insisted.
He’s got something up her ass… She’s wanted… wanted it that way for… for… but… afraid to ask her boyfriend and… and my husband knows… knows everything and… Oh… Oh, Chandler, I’m going to…”
And when Chandler felt her shudder, felt the the spasms of her vagina tight, warm and wet around his rod, that’s when he let himself go.
Another time she’d said, “Chandler, show me porn,” and he’d shrugged his shoulders, arrowed through the bewildering menu of smut titles on the hotel TV and defaulted on something about vacationing couples switching partners south of the border.
Sandra sat on the lower edge of the bed, watching intently, and then came to Chandler to imitate how an actress on TV performed felatio.
“Yes?” she asked, letting Chandler’s erection plop out of her mouth momentarily.
“Yes,” Chandler said.
And she watched how the actress sucked, used her hand the way the actress did, looked up to make eye contact the way the actress did, and Chandler found it just so awkwardly endearing that when the actor on TV grabbed the actress roughly by the hair and just fucked her mouth with wild abandon, Chandler did the same, quickly shooting his load all over and in Sandra’s mouth, and Sandra was jubilant, giggling, just so happy to be owner of Chandler’s pleasure.
That same evening, she’d gotten out of bed, turned her back on the large mirror over the dresser, parted the cheeks of her bottom with both hands and examining first the action on TV, then the brown coin of her sphincter, asked “Do you want me like that?”
“It hurts at first,” Chandler cautioned.
“She doesn’t seem to mind.”
“She’s being paid not to mind, Darling. And she’s probably used to it.”
Sandra took a moment or two and then smiled at Chandler lasciviously.
“Alright,” Chandler said. “Come over here, you naughty girl. You’ve got an adventurous spirit, don’t you?”
“You bring it out.”
“Lucky me.”
With some hotel conditioner as lubricant, he introduced himself into her gently as she lay flat on her stomach. Too gently perhaps, for after a while he sensed (incorrectly) that she was bored.
“Tell me how it feels,” he asked.
“Full,” she said, her voice husky and low.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes.”
“Like this?”
“No, harder. Deeper. Yes. Oh God like that, yes.
Yessssss.”
And after a while Chandler said “Get up on your knees now,” and she loved it, her velvety rump up in the air, the taboo offering of her asshole ripe to be conquered. Chandler told her to squeeze her rectum tight around his cock, and when she came she made noises Chandler had never heard from any woman before, and so fucking loud Chandler worried about the neighbors.
That year, Chandler had the opportunity to go to a Superbowl. He sat in a private box with a well-known actor and his daughter. The actor was publishing his memoirs and mentioned a publishing exec who was having issues with a trust fund she’d inherited.
“Kaitlyn DeBallardier,” the actor said, relishing the woman’s last name in melodic tones. “Marvelous girl. Makes me wish I was younger.”
It wasn’t a good moment for business–Chandler’s team had gained their narrow lead by dumb luck and seemed bent on squandering it in useless penalties–but to be polite, Chandler gave the actor his card.
“Tell her I’d be more than happy to talk about it.”
DeBallardier, Chandler thought, and imagined her with wealthy French ancestors; a congressman in the family; her bank account probably sweating enough interest to support her comfortably but she kept this publishing job just to fill the void.
“Kate,” she said, a week later, over the phone. “When I was little, I used to plead with Mom and Dad to shorten our last name to Ballard. None of my friends could pronounce it without going into a kind of seizure.”
And it was remarkable, the way you could “hear” her smiling over the phone.
“No,” Chandler said. “It’s beautiful. Very distinctive.”
“Sure. Say it five times as fast as you can without getting tongue tied. I dare you.”
Her trust fund, inherited from an aunt, didn’t mature for two years. Meanwhile, she wanted to help bankroll her niece’s education at Michigan State. Chandler ran some numbers, but found himself reluctant to offer Kate the mundane rates he could find for everyone else. Not that he would waive his fee, or anything.
“Let me make some phone calls,” he said.
Later that month, on a private charter out of Connecticut, he met Keith Richard of The Rolling Stones. Surprisingly nice guy. He diagramed the guitar chords for Brown Sugar on the back of a napkin, gave it to Chandler.
“It’s more attitude than skill, Mate. There’s only so many places to go with a guitar, anyway.”
Chandler talked finances with Keith’s wife, Patti Hansen, gave her his card.
The beginning of April: Kaitlyn called. She was in San Francisco for a convention. She wanted to thank him for the tidy deal he’d worked on her business and take him out to lunch. Chandler thoroughly enjoyed this and offered to show her some of the local sites.
They kissed for the first time amidst a crowd of tourists at the base of Coit Tower.
June brought another war–The Government’s spurious compulsion to spread democracy by invading foreign countries. Chandler read the news and discussed it at length with his colleagues, all of whom seemed mostly disinterested.
Frustrated, he called Kaitlyn and found she had an admin whose son was in The Marines.
“I’ve started praying for her and her son,” Kaitlyn admitted. “I mean, I’m not all that religious most of the time, but I see the look on her face and I think about her son, and I’m thinking, “Dear God, please don’t let anything happen to him.”
Wars and prayers notwithstanding, Chandler found himself thinking about Coit Tower.
Christmas Eve: Chandler brought an illustrated copy of The Kama Sutra, and they laughed while trying to mimic the weirdest of the positions.
Needless to say, Sandra enjoyed “lower congress.”
Chandler found “Upper Union” intriguing (the soles of his feet supporting hers–surprisingly erotic), and “The Sporting of The Swan,” The sight of Sandra’s gorgeous bottom bouncing up and down on his cock.
“Isn’t ‘The Leaning Position’ supposed to be a joke? Comic relief?” Sandra wondered.
Chandler agreed. “Vatsyayana clearly had a sense of humor.”
He could see “The Bond Of The Tiger” intrigued her though. He cheated some by supporting the small of his back on an ottoman, then assumed the upside-down “U” position–his head and feet on the floor, his thighs and cock at the top of the arch. Sandra straddled, mounted, impaled herself on Chandler’s erection, and began to ride vigorously, alternately grinding and bouncing on the saddle of Chandler’s hips.
“I think I like Vatsyayana,” Sandra said, squirming to and fro with her cunt full of Chandler. “I do, I do, I do…”
She came this way quite easily, and then let back-aching Chandler lay on the bed while she sucked him off. Then they rested and Sandra leafed through the book until she saw illustrations of men with multiple women, women with multiple men, and asked if Chandler ever thought about bringing some one else to their room.
“No,” Chandler said, quite honestly.
“Really? Sandra asked. “Why not?”
After they discussed it more, Chandler admitted he’d be uncomfortable with another man in the room, and they settled quickly on the prospect of feminine company for the next year.
That year, a former President passed away. Chandler had always respected him, but never voted for him. Philosophical differences.
A famous, exceedingly wealthy actress got arrested for shoplifting. Chandler advised her lawyers which assets to liquidate for their fees.
“This hasn’t hit the press yet,” Chandler told Kaitlyn, over the phone, “So if I tell you who it is, promise to keep it under your hat.”
“Hon,” She said, giggling. You know I don’t wear a hat, but tell me anyway.”
That was the night Chandler hung up the phone wishing he’d asked Kaitlyn to touch herself for him. When she called back that same evening, saying she couldn’t sleep, Chandler confessed.
“I’ve a slight confession of my own,” Kaitlyn countered. “For the last hour or so, I’ve been one step ahead of you in that regard.”
Kaitlyn flew out again to sew up an autobiography contract with a famous, retired film director turned vintner. Chandler was pleasantly surprised when she side-stepped a hotel and accepted his offer to stay in his guest room. Dinner with Director and his wife went well, and by way of celebration, Chandler took Kaitlyn to see Wicked at The Geary.
Later, at home, he told her about Keith Richard and played the intro to Brown Sugar on his acoustic. Later still, he took her to his bedroom and made love to her for the first time.
Fucking Kaitlyn, Chandler felt like Columbus discovering the new world, Cortez conquering the Aztecs. This was how Edison felt turning on the first light bulb. Yes, he’d hungered for Kaitlyn in the most painful and profound ways for so long and somehow been unaware of it.
But even as Ms. DeBallardier slept in his bed, he was exploring internet communities devoted to open sexuality, on the prowl for a partner for Sandra and he.
No, the notion of asking Kaitlyn never crossed his mind, even as he became frustrated with the handful of women online who expressed tentative interest but required pictures of Sandra that Chandler didn’t have.
Then one of the aforementioned ladies blatantly asked if Chandler was willing to pay for it and it dawned on Chandler that he was. Not with that lady in particular, but certainly with someone else.
Days later, He reluctantly saw Kaitlyn off at S.F. International. In line to board the plane, she turned, smiled, waived and held her thumb and little finger up to one ear and mouthed the words “Call me.” Then she moved on a little more, stopped again, turned with an expression that somehow bordered every emotion you can think of, and mouthed the words I love you.