What To Wear

"Why? Why are you telling me to wear my nicest underwear to interview this guy?" I asked incredulously.

Marla was the closest thing to a mentor I had. Somehow her feelers reached all over the magazine world, and her tips usually paid off. She had told me to charge more for my time; she'd steered me away from the established publication that paid more, but whose circulation had actually fallen off a cliff, to the upstart I wouldn't have known to look at twice; and she'd recommended I turn down a seemingly-lucrative assignment on a pop star ("You'll spend days trying to get five minutes with her, and then she'll tell the editor you were impossible!").

Marla had interviewed Stephen Tramontane the year before, so naturally I checked with her first as I started my research. He was a famous environmental activist, and I'd expected a tip like "ask him about his public shout-down with the Halliburton CEO," not "wear sexy underwear." Marla's eyes were shining and she had a little smile on her face, too—she who was usually the first to bitch and moan about her gripes with pretty much anyone.

Rolling my eyes, I guessed, "Tramontane is God's gift to women? I hate men like that. You slept with him…and now you're planning a tryst for me too?"

My exasperation didn't faze Marla at all. Her smug smile widened further.

"Neither of us was sleeping, honey, and I'm just saying you should be prepared. I'd hate for you to miss the chance of a lifetime. Let me tell you, the man is incredible. He…"

"Whoa, TMI!" We didn't normally share stories about our sexual adventures, and I didn't want to start now. Not that sex wasn't important to me—but it was private. Since my break-up with Daniel, my last steady boyfriend, it had become even more private. Getting myself off, on my own terms, knowing just what I wanted, was so much more rewarding than finding a fuck-buddy. Sex with a guy was fun, but it was also an effort to live up to someone else's demands, someone else's quirks.

Marla didn't say another word, but I read her face: I'd be a fool, in her book, if I passed up whatever this Stephen guy was offering. It made me all the more determined to resist his undoubtedly very resistable charms. My built-in pickiness alarm was triggered by the sound of this lothario, and his pairing of activism and sleeping around rubbed me completely the wrong way.

But…after a lot of dithering, I did wear my one really nice bra and panties set. As a struggling freelancer and a pragmatic person, I'd long ago decided that cotton was fine for everything. This silk and lace number was a gift from Daniel, and it had come with strings—the expectation that I'd wear them to the door when he got home and do a little strip-tease for him. Daniel's departure had cut the strings, but seeing the lingerie reminded me how tired I'd gotten of those parts of the game.

I wore the nice underwear so I could tell Marla I'd taken her advice seriously, despite its goofiness, and to remind myself what I was up against with this interview. Damned if Mr. Tramontane would see a bit of it, but forewarned was forearmed.

Tramontane's press stop was at a decent but frugal hotel. At least he wasn't wasting the Conservation Club's money on palatial digs. His assistant let me into the suite, introduced me, and retreated, closing the door. It was a business-like space, and Stephen greeted me in a very business-like way, with a firm handshake. Rats, I thought to myself, noting that he was kind of cute—tall and skinny, with an intelligent face and a pointy nose. But I got absolutely no lothario vibe at all. In fact, I almost forgot Marla's warning as we talked about the Conservation Club's efforts to expose the greenwashing of large corporations, and the fight to bring pollution home to its creators. Not that we were getting on like a house on fire, but the interview was going well.

"Stephen, you're busy every day with legislation, flying to factories, and doing interviews. What do you do to relax? What are your hobbies?"

"My work is my life," he responded, suddenly looking very serious. "I only have one outside interest. Women."

I laughed, but he didn't look a bit sheepish. "No, it's true. I love women—every one of them, everything about them. Women recharge me. I'm fascinated by them. I love to get to know them, to admire them. You, for example," he said, a slight huskiness creeping into his voice. "You're so beautiful. You're completely unique."

Startled, I looked at him, and our eyes met. His eyes had the slightly unfocused, burning intensity I associated with total arousal. Yet he sat very quietly on the couch across from me, not making a move. Discomfited, I joked, "You probably say that to all the girls!"

"Yes, I do," he said, still deeply serious. "Because it's true." Again our eyes locked. I felt actual heat emanating from his gaze, like a laser beam penetrating deep into me.

My breath got shallower and my toes started tingling, even as I thought to myself, "As if!"

"Would you let me admire you a little more? Would you take off your jacket for me?" He leaned forward. His voice was soft but his eyes were hotter than ever as they moved from my face to my body. "You don't have to, if it makes you uncomfortable. I'll completely understand if you don't want to."

I hadn't planned on doing it, but that took me off guard. What would it hurt? My underwear was still safely away from display. Taking my jacket off wasn't a big deal. And yes, his intensity was flattering. It made me feel beautiful and desirable, even if it sounded like the soft-soap job of the decade.

Slowly—still a little amazed at complying—I slipped off the jacket, revealing my plain, long-sleeved blouse. Stephen hitched forward on the sofa, and I heard his breath catch in his throat. "Would you come sit closer to me? Only if you don't mind."

Again, why not? I was still in complete control. "Sure," I said, my attempt at nonchalance coming out in a squeak. I left my tape recorder and my notepad on the table and eased myself onto the couch, separated from him by a couple of feet. Stephen turned so our knees were almost touching and looked at me for a long minute. "Wow," he said softly.

This was ridiculous. I think I look fine, but I'm no supermodel. But he was acting like a teenager seeing a woman for the first time, and it felt sincere. I could see him trembling slightly, and a flush spread across his face. I almost felt his desire radiating from his skin. He said, "May I touch you? Just a caress. I won't do anything without your consent," and a subconscious impulse in me trusted him.

He slowly extended one hand and very gently caressed the top surface of my breast through my shirt. It didn't feel like making out at all; he was exploring me with genuine wonder.

"Would you take off your skirt too?" he asked next. "Nothing else." I didn't say anything, but I tugged the zipper down, watching his reaction as I lifted up in order to ease the silk-lined pencil skirt down my thighs and onto the floor. My professional getup of course included stockings, so I was still covered with fabric from the neck down; but my pretty panties were just visible through the tan hose. Stephen softly slipped his hand around the curve of my right breast, to my side, and down along my waist and thigh. The other hand repeated the stroke on my left side. He didn't grab me or pull me toward him; he just ran his hands over my blouse and stockings, and my body reacted by tingling wherever his hands moved.

"Okay, that's enough," I said to myself, but nonetheless I waited to see what he would do next. He was in no rush, caressing every part of my body he could reach, carefully examining me with his eyes.

"Thank you, thank you—you are so beautiful," he breathed. "You don't have to, of course…but would you consider removing your blouse and stockings? Would you let me see you in your underwear? It's not much different from a bikini at the beach, really…"

He was right. In context, I'd show the entire world the skin he'd see around my bra and panties, and not give it a second thought. Why not do it here?

I was enjoying his arousal, mastered as it seemed to be by his self-control. I didn't feel rushed or pressured at all. Years ago a friend had said, "After a certain point, the dick starts talking and it drowns out whatever you say." I didn't really believe that, but it was one of those sayings that stick and get replayed in your head. Stephen's dick was clearly talking—I saw it straining against the fabric of his corduroys—but it, like him, seemed to enjoy taking the time to relish me thoroughly. My comfort level was setting the pace.

For a moment, I worried about leading him on, about accusations of blue balls. Tensing, I made an almost involuntary "stop" motion. Immediately Stephen drew back and waited, watching me. My gut told me he wouldn’t push me further than I wanted to go. And ironically, the comfort of knowing I could stop at any time made me want to continue.

I unbuttoned and drew off my blouse, tossing it into the chair I'd recently vacated. Rolling my stockings down to my toes, I flung them after the blouse. Stephen's gaze burned, and I heard another involuntary indrawn breath.

Still, he didn't leap on me. He resumed his delicate caresses and intense examination of every millimeter of my skin. Lovers looking too closely had always made me self-conscious about cellulite, hairs that eluded the razor, potential bulges. For once, none of that crossed my mind. Stephen's adoration felt so unconditional that I simply soaked it in, like a neglected houseplant greeting the watering can.

With a slight inward start I realized how long it had been since the end of the interview. "Don’t you have another appointment? Isn't your time spoken for?"

Stephen laughed for the first time, and pulled even closer to me. "Let me tell you a story. Many years ago, when we were targeting Chinese poaching regulations, I was hiking the Himalayas. Emerging from a grove of trees, I saw a snow leopard. Time stopped while we stared at each other. I could have spent a lifetime there. When you encounter something rare and special…like you…it's a moment out of time. I have all the time in the world."

He extended a hand and cupped my chin. Eventually he said, "May I kiss your body? I would appreciate it so much." His eagerness was practically puppy-like, but with an undercurrent of the same intensity that was constricting my chest and tingling between my legs.

I barely nodded. Words felt superfluous.

With deliberation, he moved even closer to me, and bowed his head to my bra. He breathed on one breast for a long moment, and the moist warmth penetrated the bra's lacy fabric. Finally he made contact with his lips, embracing the nipple through its covering. He kissed the other nipple, then came back to the first one and kissed more firmly, increasing his attention to each breast until he was actually sucking and licking my nipples through the bra.

"May I?" he whispered. He moved his lips down my belly to my panties, pulling my hips toward him as I sank back into the sofa cushions. Again the warm breath, lips delicately brushing my mound, then firmer kisses, reaching the center of me as though the panties weren't even there. My pussy was so wet that each touch sent pre-orgasm shudders through me.

I reached out a hand for Stephen's pants, feeling somehow that I ought to participate more actively, but with gentle authority he pushed it back. "No, please let me do this," he whispered, hands now roaming up and down my body. Although each motion was still slow and tender, a craving had come into his caresses and kisses, as though he couldn't absorb enough of me at once. I expected him to ask for the final barrier, my underwear, to be removed. But instead he worked through and around the skimpy fabric, easing his fingers between the bra cups and my ecstatically shivering flesh, squeezing my nipples as he took the top part of my breast into his mouth; running his hands under the back of my panties, tickling my crack, drawing the fabric taut against my mound. Then he started pulling aside the panel of fabric between my legs, gently running a finger along my pussy lips. "Still in your underwear," he said. "You're still wrapped up…" Dropping to his knees in front of the couch, he began to kiss my legs, gradually moving up my thighs with little kisses until he reached their intersection. Then, burying his face in my cleft, he moved aside the crotch of the panties and tongued me.

I was on the edge of climax when he finally said, "Oh, please, may I see you in all your glory?" Taking my shuddering sigh for assent, he unhooked my bra and peeled away my panties. Instead of immediately caressing the few parts he hadn't been able to reach through and around my lingerie, he backed away from the sofa and looked me up and down. "You are just…gorgeous," he said, his voice husky. And I felt it—felt luscious and sexy and bountiful. With quick motions, Stephen stripped, then leaned toward me and suddenly scooped me up. For a moment I worried about being dropped, but his wiry arms gripped me strongly. As he carried me through an archway toward the bed he nuzzled my face, squeezed my bottom, and tickled me wherever he could reach. He paused every few feet to shift positions and caress me in new places, muttering "so sexy…so beautiful…"

His eager cock pressed against me. By the time we got to the bed I was panting for him. But after lowering me to the mattress, he again stepped back, surveying me. Eventually he drew closer. Warm hands spread my legs apart. "I want to feel every inch of you."

His fingers explored my vulva. One slipped inside my pussy, then another joined it. They massaged my inner walls, as the heel of his hand moved softly on my clit.

"Now, more deeply, with the most sensitive part of my body…just once…" I watched his full cock approach my vulva, the helmeted head just touching the zone which wanted to swallow it whole! He pushed against me just enough for the tip to fill the opening, parting my pussy lips enough to make a little indentation, like a grape on custard. He withdrew, then pressed against me again, just as gently. I steeled myself not to push my thighs forward and suck it in. I let him set the pace, enveloped and carried away by the strength of his desire.

"A little further…just a little further," he panted, and now the warm, firm cock pressed into me, penetrating just an inch or so and retreating. "Just a bit…" he repeated, and this time, it went a little deeper. "Just one stroke…" and very gradually he buried himself in me, each millimeter of my flesh taking its turn to send up a shudder of sensation.

When I felt him as deep inside me as possible, he kept gently pressing forward until I could practically feel his cock reaching all the way through me. Then he began withdrawing, even more slowly, like the tide retreating from the beach. As the sand parches when the water sinks away, each bit of my center was sorry to feel him go.

He pulled all the way out, and for a moment I worried this was really it—he wouldn't go to the next level. But as if drawn by a magnet, within seconds his warm wet rod was touching me again. "Just a few more…" and the same pattern repeated, slightly faster each time, until we were finally fucking like normal people. Now his words vanished in moans of pleasure, and I babbled with joy, until he climaxed inside me. The most powerful orgasm, almost painful, shook me. As his erection subsided, we nestled together.

"I know you now, in the old Biblical sense," he said, tracing a finger around my areola and down my ribs. "A precious, unique individual. We'll probably never see each other again, but I'll remember you forever." It sounded cheesy, but I believed him; and I didn't particularly crave seeing him again either. This felt complete.

"One more taste? May I?" he whispered. His erection was bolt upright again. He clasped me in his arms and in a flash was deep inside me, my wet pussy welcoming him back with delight. The methodical slowness was now a thing of the past, as he plunged and my hips rose to meet him. We fucked like crazed weasels.

I never did see Stephen again, except in the papers and magazines, where the glimpse of a photo would bring a reminiscent smile to my lips—and a tingling thrill to my other lips. When the interview appeared, I got favorable emails, and a call—someone I'd worked with on a struggling alternative weekly. "I saw your piece on Tramontane," Claudia said, "and I wondered if you could share any tips on getting him to open up."

Smiling in a way I knew she could hear down the telephone wire, I said, "Wear your nicest underwear."

Babes Illustrated: Generation XXX