The Girl from Ipanema

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I first saw her as she walked into a small sidewalk bistro in front of my hotel on Ipanema Beach. “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema comes softly, and when she passes, each one she passes, goes “Ahhhh…” Except for the tall part, Gabriella was all of that. And more.

I was in Rio de Janeiro for two nights before turning around on the USAF Andes Run to return to my base in Panama through Buenos Aires and Santiago. The trip was a military junket of sorts. I was a professional soldier assigned to duties as a provisional staff officer for a contingent mission to storm into South American capitals to rescue American embassy staffs. Such an event would occur in Tehran ten years later. So my mission was to investigate the terrain between the airports and the embassies in six capitals.

At least that was our story. Two friends, Ron (another Captain) and a Major, Joe, were with me on that staff and the trip. For six days we flew down the Pacific coast, over the Andes, and up to Rio. A no frills trip in a C47 (WWII propeller transport without heat and paratrooper strap seats), but free and not even charged with vacation time. It was a great adventure for a twenty-three year-old, going places where I’d never been. What I had not anticipated however, was that those places included the heart and the groin. That’s because, unspoken among us at the beginning of the journey, our adventure was intended to include sex on the exotic continent. Three young married men, two bound for war and one just returned, imagined a cornucopia of sensual and sexual delights in Latin America.

I had married two years before, right out of West Point, to a beautiful young woman. She was slender, had natural blonde hair, and had the most perfect breasts – pink nipples straight ahead and soft round shape. We were both Army brats, prepared well for the trials of military life and she was an eminently suitable Army bride. Our marriage immediately after graduation in 1968 was expected – part of the cultural package we grew up with. It was comforting to anticipate a certain tour in combat with the knowledge that someone was waiting at home who cared if I lived or died.

We discovered sex together, if you can call it that. She was my first (at age 19), although I had had three other brief encounters with college women before marrying. That is a euphemism for fucking. Actually, I had fucked two while the third fucked me. But those are different stories.

I was not an experienced lover, by any stretch of the imagination. I knew where to put it and I knew to use my hands and lips (on her nipples) to prepare her before. No oral sex allowed by her, neither giving nor receiving (“dirty”). Then, I knew to last long enough for her to orgasm (with her on top, only and always). I could then cum, after which she would jump up and clean herself.

That was the recipe for screwing a couple of times a week. Sometimes it was more often but always at my initiative and never a celebration. And more accurately, for “sexual intercourse” between a penis and a vagina, to the extent we articulated a vocabulary at all in those intimate moments. It was all I knew. I did not know what I was missing.

I started out wanting and doing sex more often but the ardor began to gradually fade. As fine as was the feeling of being inside her, the excitement of that practiced and one-dimensional act we shared became vaguely unsatisfying. Like many if not all young men, I had yet been unable to discern the difference between lust to acquire regular pussy privileges, with love and marriage. Love is more than a passion for pussy which, by itself, recedes over time.

I had not yet discovered a soaring passion for the woman who owned the pussy, but that was about to change.

The trip became more than an exciting detour. Looking back, it was the capstone of a relatively innocent and naïve chapter of my young adulthood, preparatory to stepping off the abyss into war. Ron and I were on orders to Vietnam within 60 days. This was a last fling – a chance to sow some oats; perhaps to create memories to justify a premature death that loomed as an uncertain prospect. As though we could somehow create a lifetime of pleasurable experiences during that short, anonymous sojourn in foreign lands. It was not likely, but fantasy abounds with young men bound for war. Debunking that fantasy was I suppose, a right of passage for us.

Like most young men who fantasize that sex will somehow fall into their lap, we had no clue how to achieve our fantasies. The only prospects we had initially encountered were the paying kind.

Ron had “scored” first in Lima, Peru, responding to the proverbial cab driver asking whether we wanted to meet his “seester.” I was decidedly dubious, especially when he drove us into a carport beside a seedy hot-sheet motel-like whorehouse on the outskirts of Lima. Actually, everywhere was on the outskirts once you get off the two main European style boulevards in Lima. illegal bahis Two teenage girls stepped out of the doorway and opened their robes to display their naked bodies. All I remember is their pointy tits and the shaved pussies they exhibited when they lifted one leg almost to shoulder height against the wall.

Ron was hot to trot but I took a pass. I gave him one of my rubbers and told him I would watch his back from the backseat of the cab. Through the chest high room window, I could see at least the top half of the action. He may have done them both, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t ask. It lasted all of 15 minutes and he was back in the cab on the way to our hotel.

This was the stuff of fantasies?

Our next stop was Santiago, Chile, which was in the cold of winter. It was my turn that night. I met a 30ish woman at a pub we stopped in after a day touring the city and airport. She was almost Germanic in appearance: blonde, blue eyes and pale skin (not unlike an older version of my wife) but quite attractive and well dressed. Her name was Ilsa and as a bonus, she spoke very good English. We struck up a conversation, and I invited her to join us at the hotel bar later that evening after dinner. It really did not occur to me that she was a working girl.

We were seated around the bar fireplace, when I saw her waving to me outside a nearby window. When she wouldn’t come in, I went out to learn that the hotel would not allow prostitutes into the respectable bar.

“Oh,” was my clever response.

“Would you like to fuck me?” she asked. Presented with what must have been my rather stupid stare, she added, “15 US for sucking, 20 for a fuck, and 25 for both.”

Whatever reluctance I may have harbored about paying for a piece of ass totally collapsed when she uttered the magically erotic words “fuck me” while looking me in the eye and smiling. A delicious first for me.

“Where”, was the only retort I could manage.

She had a flat several blocks away, so I waved goodbye to my friends through the window. They grinned and made the thumb through the circled hand sign, as I set off for my first paying experience with an older woman who had asked me to fuck her.

Her flat was in a small apartment house 10 minutes walk away. Two rooms and a kitchenette, it was actually tastefully furnished in a Victorian motif. It was inadequately heated and smelled vaguely of cedar. She led me to the bedroom and quickly excused herself to use the lavatory. I took off my coat and seated myself on the double bed to await her return. I was considering the deluxe plan – a half and half. I had never had a woman’s mouth on my dingus – possibly another first for the evening.

She soon came out and my blood started to pulse when I saw her. She wore heels and black stockings held up by a black corset, with the cups pulled down to expose her full, voluptuous breasts. No panties! Her blonde bush was straight and somewhat sparse, and her lips were bare. Wow! I swallowed to clear my throat.

“So what would you like, lover,” she asked as she swayed over to me and unzipped my pants.

Her fingers quickly found my hardening cock as her other hand pushed my trousers and boxers down to my knees. I instinctively spread my legs and she used two hands to frig my dick and fondle my balls.

“Suck and then fuck?” I suggested and sighed as my cock rapidly reached full size and hardness in her skillful hands.

“What a lovely dick,” she said.

I reached for her nipples but she stopped me, and like the pro she was, asked for the money. She also announced that I must wear a rubber for both. Wait a minute, I thought. I intended to wear a condom to screw, but I didn’t think you could get a disease from oral sex. Since I could rarely feel a lot through a rubber, I considered changing my mind. What was I going to do while she sucked my laminated dick if I couldn’t caress her tits?

My imagination somewhat deflated, I changed the order to pussy only and paid her the $20. As I fished my rubber out of my pocket (why did I use mine – she had plenty), she pulled my pants the rest of the way off and helped me with my shoes. I reached for her, wanting to hold her ass in my hands as I kissed her, but she pushed me away to kneel to the task of rolling on the rubber. That felt better than if I did it but before I could react with any reciprocal affection, she again evaded me to lie on the bed with her legs spread.

Wait, this was going too fast! This was a moment to savor – wasn’t it? I had always loved standing with a woman loosely in my arms, while feeling her naked tits against my bare chest. It’s not quite the same lying on top of her – no jiggle and sway.

In an effort to slow things down, I took off my sweater and leaned in to kiss her red, full, lips. She did allow this, but no tongue. (I know, who plays tonsil hockey with a whore but I clung to my initial infatuation with her as a sexy older woman).

Had she responded, who knows, illegal bahis siteleri I may have had my first taste of pussy. It was certainly pretty and inviting enough. I was fascinated by the nakedness of it, unencumbered by the abundant long blond hair that concealed my wife’s pussy from me. The lips were thin and neat, more pink than others I had seen. It put me in mind of that wonderfully evocative Victorian word “quim.” You could actually see the delicate labia when she was standing in front of me, an anatomical distinction shared by few women. Had more of her body been available to me, as opposed to just her cunt, I would have wanted to explore that fascinating quim with more than just my cock. Even if just to look and examine closely, to inhale the scent; both privileges that were denied me by a wife who would allow my face no closer to it than the distance between my nose and my prick as it entered her.

Soft as her lips were, she wouldn’t open her mouth to let me in. I then moved down to kiss and suckle her tits but again she pushed me away, saying they were “sore.” I guess this was totally inappropriate behavior for a john, whose implied bargain must be to get on and get off. But what did I know? As much as I thought I wanted to fuck this attractive woman, I wanted equally to enjoy the touch and taste and feel of her beautiful body. After all, wasn’t the point to experience something different than I got at home?

My dick was still hard as nails, with the visual stimulation before me. But my ardor was starting to wane with the mounting limitations. I sat up beside her hip and began to unbutton my shirt while slowly drawing the other hand over her belly to her pussy. Two fingers trailing down the soft skin on either side of her lips at the juncture of her white thighs, then back up with my middle finger feeling the wetness in the furrow between. But before my finger could reach her clit, she pulled my hand away while hooking her leg around my torso to pull me between her thighs. Grabbing my hard on, she pulled it toward her damp pussy.

“Put it in.” she said coldly.

Whatever happened to the sublime “fuck me,” I thought.

This was not my fantasy. This was moving way too fast. I had not finished unbuttoning my shirt and I still had my socks on (Yes I know, gentle lady readers, I am embarrassed to this day to admit that I fucked Ilsa with my socks on). I wanted considerably more than just to stick it in. Truth be told, I wanted a lot more foreplay (which is supposed anathema to us insensitive males). How can there be fucking without kissing and sucking and touching and squeezing and caressing?

But I had now lost control of the situation, illusory though any control on my part may have been. I was in an unfamiliar environment and I gave in to her insistence. Not unlike a surgical patient on the way to the operatory, I was overwhelmed and surrendered to the nurse.

I shifted to straighten my hips for the insertion as she tugged my knob to her tight entrance. She seemed wet as she rubbed me up and down her labia to open them.

“Oh, you are so big”, she sighed as I began to push (yeah, right, I thought).

Five or six genuflections and the crown was in. I leaned down to kiss her as I kept my chest elevated with my elbows and began to slowly stroke into her quim. Ilsa allowed a brief kiss and then turned her head, eyes closed. Her legs were spread wide but not in contact with my hips and thighs; her hands lightly on my shoulders. No undulating hips, no heavy breathing, no nothing. Just a wet cunt.

It was not enough. With nothing more interesting to occupy me, I became focused on her quim, watching my cock slide in and out. The thin pink labia that I had so admired before did not change. The inner lips did not pull out with my retreat. I could barely see her clit. Inside her cunt, only the glans felt pressure and only that portion of my shaft that was sliding through her tight entrance. It was like squeezing into a long neck bottle, only to find a cavernous empty chamber behind. She was quite obviously not aroused, no blood to swell the silken walls of her cunt so they could provide me with that most exquisite of life’s sensations. Having been deprived of all the other titillations of sex, I realized I was even missing the awesome wonder of pussy.

In an attempt to garner some response and excitement from Ilsa, I shifted my hips for a deeper angle, bringing my balls in contact with her wetness. Unfortunately, the response I got was not the desired one when I bumped her cervix.

“No. Stop. Please. You are too big,” she protested.

At least that got her eyes open to mine and her hands moving to my hips to restrain the penetration. I shifted again to avoid full penetration, but sped up my strokes. Still nothing. I then began to have an out-of-body experience. It was as though I was standing beside the bed watching my butt going up and down between her stockings. Like there was someone else’s dick canlı bahis siteleri in that dead quim. What was I doing here?

We had been at it for about ten minutes when “Cum for me” called me back to reality.

I realized I was on the clock, yet another constraint to this joyous experience. But I had no orgasm on the horizon, not even a tickle. All the stars had aligned to thwart her plaintiff command. In my four years of serious sexual activity, I had learned to prolong the moment. The journey was always more fun than the arrival for me; and my wife needed 20 to 30 minutes to cum, before I could even think about my nut. Whatever my inexperience or shortcomings as a lover at age 23, lack of stamina was not one of them. The fact that I was wearing a condom, combined with her dead cunt, made it apparent that we were in for a trial. I don’t know whether she used too much lubricant or just did not enjoy sex, but I was beginning to wonder whether I was going to be able to cum at all.

After five more minutes, she realized that it was not happening.

“Why don’t I get on top,” she offered.

That was OK with me but this was the wife scenario and not likely to send me over the top. Maybe other guys might lose control to a woman that way but I was good for at least 15 minutes from regular practice.

And so I was. She began working a little harder to roll her hips and squeeze my cock. At least I got to see more of her tits that way. With Ilsa tilted forward, I could at least estimate the softness of these pendulous jugs. Like gourds filled with a thick viscous oil, they had large pink areolas and darker pink nipples, slightly askew, which gave not even a hint of arousal. She definitely did not pass the pencil test but they swayed and jiggled so nicely that I could have spent a long time loving them. Despite the fact that they were dancing in my face and making my tongue itch, there was still no touching. I mean, really, what good are tits if you can’t worship them?

“Please … cum,” she pleaded.

“I’m trying, Ilsa,” I whined, frustration plain in my voice.

I was determined to cum if at all possible. I was still hard but was beginning to fear what I call a dead dick – hard but I couldn’t feel much and eventually I go soft without cumming.

She lifted off, leaving my rod waving in the chilly air.

“Let’s try Doggie,” she said as she got on hands and knees.

I got behind her on the bed and slid into her artificially wet quim. Now this was something new and different (my wife thought it was demeaning and impersonal). At first I went too deep again and moved her to the side of the bed so I could stand up and approach from a lower angle. That worked much better and I could thrust hard.

I did get to watch her ass as I viewed her from this different perspective. It was not her best feature, as it was a little too wide and jiggly for my taste. Have you noticed how one of the maxims in the Battle of the Sexes is that critical appraisal of the female anatomy is inversely proportional to the opportunity to lick it? You guessed it, she didn’t want me to touch it.

But I did get to see her pink rosebud and that was a minor thrill. I didn’t get to do anything with it, but it winked at me in a most fascinating way nonetheless.

As Ilsa reached back to squeeze my sack, I began to feel the beginning of an orgasm (mine, of course). It was cold in her apartment, and nearly thirty minutes fucking had not prevented my scrotum from tightening up like rhinoceros hide. So “fondle” didn’t work. I’m not even sure my balls were still there, as she had been intermittently squeezing them for a half an hour and they were sore and cold enough to have retreated into my groin.

The tingle grew. I withdrew until just the crown was inside her vulva and commenced short strokes through her tight opening into the back of her cunt. When I couldn’t quite get over the top, I added my trusty right hand to the milking gauntlet at the entrance. Finally …. I came.

I wish I could say that my orgasm was worthy of twenty-five or so minutes of pussy time but I can’t. A low grunt was all I could muster. It felt like a hand-job. Indeed, in the end, it was. Mostly it was just a relief.

Ilsa rolled from under me and sat up with an annoyed expression on her face. She reached for the spent rubber and stood up saying, “I should have charged you by the minute or the inch.”

At least she had the good grace to smile when she said that.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there, so I was dressed by the time she returned from the bathroom in a negligee. She walked me to the door with those succulent tits hanging out, and we said goodbye with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Walking back to the hotel, I reflected on my experience. Ilsa was a very attractive woman with very attractive equipment but fucking her was nothing like I had expected. I wondered whether she was a dead fuck because she was a whore or was she a whore because she was a dead fuck. An imponderable, but one thing I was sure of was I didn’t want to repeat the experience. I never have. Sex without touching and tenderness is not worth having. If I just wanted friction, that’s why God gave me a right hand.

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