Denise Bryant: Mother and Daughter

Work satisfied me intellectually far more than study. I revolutionized the school's drama department, introducing the study and performance of some of the most modern and contemporary playwrights, alongside Shakespeare and the other classic writers. I talked the school board into the highest drama budget they had ever allowed, and completely redesigned and renovated the backstage and stage of the auditorium.

It was only a matter of time, however, until I realized that work could never completely satisfy me. I went without an interpersonal sex relation for three months, although I masturbated an average of once a week, usually on the weekend, and sometimes for hours on end. At those times, I would become absolutely frantic for a lover, and it was all that I could do to resist the temptation to go downtown to a bar or restaurant and pick up someone for a night of sex.

That three months was the longest I ever had to wait. After that, it was never necessary that I even think about going out to look for sex. Sex had a way of finding me, and a great deal of this had to do with the personality that I spoke of earlier. After I met Bill Britten, nothing was ever quite the same.

Bill was a singularly handsome young man in his late twenties, perhaps two to three years younger than I. He was tall and clean-cut, a veritable prototype of the decent young American man. I noticed him right away as he sat at the table across from me that Saturday morning at the public library where I was doing some research on Eugene O'Neill's plays for possible inclusion in the spring semester curriculum.

He was obviously looking at my legs, which intrigued me greatly. Yet in my newly acquired role of respectable schoolteacher, I instinctively reached down to be certain that my skirt was not revealing too much. Bill frowned, and when I did so, I realized that he had no idea who I was. The public library in the heart of the metropolis was a world removed from the fashionable suburb of Hollins Meadows.-

I crossed my legs and smiled, but I maintained just enough reserve to appear intrigued yet untouchable. I was unsure how to handle such a situation, while my body cried out at the same time to me to take advantage of this rare opportunity.

Suddenly, Bill closed the book he was reading, stood up, and walked toward me. His eyes scouted the reading room to be sure no one was watching. I was holding my breath with excitement, and not a little bit of trepidation, when he was almost upon me. But then to my great surprise and consternation, he walked right on by without so much as looking at me. I was so astonished that I was not even aware at first that he had dropped a folded piece of paper into the open book of O'Neill's MOON OF THE CARRIBBEES AND OTHER PLAYS OF THE SEA, which I had been reading.

When I read the neatly typewritten note, I was more amazed and even intrigued, than alarmed or fearful. It was the first real contact I made with the strange and offbeat element of the sexual underworld that was to rule my life for so long and through so much ecstasy and torment. His message read:

“Dear Miss or Madame: “Please do not be offended. If you have no interest in my offer, I hope you will destroy this note and forget about it.

“I think you have exceptionally beautiful legs. I would like to see more of them. I will give you thirty dollars cash if you will set across from me for about 15 minutes, wearing no pants or girdle, and allow me to feast my eyes upon your private charms. You would be fully dressed otherwise, and I would not touch or molest you in any way.

“I am an educated man from a good family. You can trust me. If you are interested, please meet me in the Rondelet Bar at 5:30 P.M. today.”

“Very sincerely,

“Bill”

The name of the bar and the time were written in ink, and the typewritten message itself had been duplicated. What a very strange man, I thought? How bizarre and unusual an approach. Yet for a person of my make-up, starved for sex, how compelling an invitation. In a purely sexual way, I was just as entranced by the promise of this invitation as a romantic high school girl would be if she were invited out for the prom by the boy of her dreams.

I went home and took a very long and relaxing bath, feeling most wonderful as I luxuriated in a sea of warm water and thick scented suds. I almost gasped for breath when I let my hands slide over my breasts and titillate and agitate my nipples.

While toweling off, I felt that it would be the most natural thing in the world to allow my fingers the free reign they cried out for, to let them caress, press and manipulate the little feminine folds between my thighs, the risen tip of my stimulated clitoris. I held back, however, as I was determined to save every last minute of my sexual energy for this strange and good-looking young man.

While leisurely dressing, I tried on several different skirts and dresses, practicing the art of exposure as I sat down in front of a full-length mirror. The flared cocktail skirt was too awkward.

My blue sheath was so clinging that nothing but raising it to my hips would reveal the deep blackness of my thick triangle.

Ultimately, I settled on a green knit dress that clung lusciously to my breasts and derriere, also displaying a good amount of cleavage from the proper angle with its scoop neck, but with enough flare to the skirt that I could control the exposure of my stockinged thighs and privates most beautifully. I wore no pants or girdle, and attached my stockings to a lace-and-ribbon garter belt that left my buttocks delightfully nude. I felt sure, from what he had written, this would please him greatly.

I was terribly excited, but not nervous. Bill, on the other hand, was a totally nervous wreck when I met him at a small rear booth in the Rondelet Bar at 5:30.

“Oh… have a seat… I… I was wondering if,” he mumbled in a breathless stutter, gulping for air, ”… you'd show up. I thought… well, I thought the way you looked at me, you… you might be the passionate type…”

“Your approach is quite unique, Bill,” I told him with a certain smile, projecting my tightly clad bosom as I sat across from him, “I'll have a scotch and plain water, by the way… And now, let's hear all about you and your exciting life. You look like a man who's done everything.”

“Yeah… uh…,” he continued to mumble uneasily after the waitress took our order, his eyes looking around questioningly, “Uh, let me give you the thirty now, so you'll know I'm on the level..

“Bill! I'm not a prostitute!” I protested with a degree of defensiveness, yet I took the money he offered in order to avoid making a scene. “I didn't come down to meet you just to make thirty dollars.”

“Well… it's better this way,” he insisted, his eyes brightening as he seemed to be gauging the path from the men's room to our booth, “Say… look, honey, I'm going to go back and wash my hands. Now… when I come back, see… I'll be approaching the table so that you'll be facing me. No one else will be facing you, as long there's nobody else walking along by me. So… when you see me coming back, you spread your legs and… fix your skirt or something. I want to see nearly everything… nearly everything, but not quite… okay?”

Before I could answer him, Bill had left the table and was on his way to the men's room. While he was gone, the waitress served our drinks. I then sat so that my legs were almost facing out of the booth, then put my right leg aside as I saw him coming back. I placed both hands on my thighs and raised the skirt. I was absolutely fascinated by all this.

Bill walked toward me very slowly. I could actually see his trousers move with excitement. The situation aroused me terribly and I could feel the rumblings of my own passions deep within my body. This was so strange, so very, very strange to be doing this in a public place with people all around. I know that I felt the excitement and danger of it in somewhat the same way that he did.