The Winding Staircase

I am charging toward a climax when I hear the front door open and my parents' voices in the foyer below. They've come home from the reception at State early.

I have Claire on my bed, her long, sleek legs spread, and my pelvis insinuated between them. Our foreheads are plastered together, our eyes intensely staring into each other's. Her mouth is slack, emitting a long moan. I'm pumping hard, squeezing one of her perky breasts and thrumming her nipple with the hand of the arm I have encircling her back, holding her torso off the bed. The index finger of the other hand is brushing the root of my buried cock as the finger presses into her clit and rubs hard.

She has exploded twice already, and I'm about to come. It's another stellar performance. We are here because she said she'd heard about me and wanted to see what all of the excitement is about.

We're going to a nerdy junior college. There's a lot of wild talk about what everyone has done, but it's mostly bravado. Not with me, though. Since the start of the year, I've probably fucked a quarter of the females in the sophomore class. I made it nearly all the way through the freshman class the previous year. They keep coming for it.

Hearing my parents, I hold. Claire pants and wheezes under me. she moves her face to press in the hollow of my shoulder. Will they come straight upstairs? No, I hear them move toward the family room at the back of the house. They must have been stingy with drinks at the reception, or Dad was too busy doing business to get properly lit up. They were going for a nightcap—or two, or three. The true mark of a diplomat is a red nose.

I go back to pumping Claire's pussy, setting my cock on overdrive. She emits a loud moan, and I have to let loose of her tit and cover her mouth with my hand to keep her quiet for the finale.

She jerks and bites the heel of my hand as I ejaculate, filling her box deep in three strong spurts. She caught me without condoms at hand, but insisted on getting it anyway. I'd planned on pulling out before coming, but the untimely return of my parents rattled me.

Getting my jollies permits me to ignore the pain where she has bitten me, although I release her immediately and she falls back on the mattress, giving me a dreamy look with her eyes. She reaches up and rubs both of my nipples with her fingers. I really should do her again. One of the secrets of it is fast first, fingering interval, slow second. And she wants it. The expression on her face says it all. She doesn't seem to realize the change in the setting caused by my parents' early arrival home.

She's mewing and running her claws along my biceps. Why do they all have to pretend to be a cat at this point?

"You've got to go," I whisper. "Dress quietly, and I'll get you to the front door without my parents seeing you." I sit up on the side of the bed, widen my legs, and pull her buttocks between them. She's fumbling with her bra, but can't put it on because I'm covering her tits with my hands and squeezing. I kiss her on the neck and she moans for me to be inside her again. I let one of my hands drop to her snatch, and I give her more clit work. That's part of my secret, I think. I work them a while after I've fucked them. It makes them think I care.

She lays her head back into the hollow of my shoulder. "Fuck me again, Paul," she murmurs.

"Can't now, honey," I murmur. "Parents home. Gotta get you out of here."

Despite this, I enter her pussy with two fingers and finger fuck her for a good five minutes. She writhes under me and explodes again. It's something she'll remember.

I manage to get her to the door and out without arousing notice from the family room. I tousle my hair and make an appearance.

"You guys are home early," I say.

"More like on time," my Dad responds. "The other times we've been home late. Hope we didn't wake you."

"It's OK," I answer. "I won't have trouble going back to sleep."

My mother is opening the day's mail. "Oh, look, a letter from Inga," she says, obviously pleased. "And a photo of her with her little boy." This didn't sound quite so pleased. I feel myself tightening up.

Inga had been the family maid from the year before last during my dad's posting to Berlin. I had no idea they were getting letters from Inga. My understanding was that they had to let her go the fall after my visit to them that summer.

"She say how they're doing?" my father asked. He wasn't giving this his total attention. The big slug of scotch rocks seems more important to him and he is looking through some documents. It seems he always is looking through work he's brought home.

"She says so," my mother answers, "but it seems so sad." My mother's voice sounds sad too.

"Why so?" my father asks. As he does so, I see that my mother has dropped the photograph on the table she is sitting at. I look down at it and freeze.

"I don't think she's found anyone yet. It's tough raising a child on your own. She doesn't mention a job, either."

"Does she ask us to up the money we're sending?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"Good. We'll send her more then. I want to help her but I don't want to feel I'm being fleeced."

"I just wish she'd find a father for that sweet little boy," my mother says.

I flip the photo over as if that will change everything—that it will make it all go away. How can my mother look at the photo and not know? Although, if they are sending Inga money, maybe they do know. Surely not.

* * * *

It had been sort of a waste, in terms of family togetherness, for me to have flown out to Berlin for the summer after high school. My father's assignment at the embassy kept him super busy, and my mother was on the go constantly as well. And it wasn't just the days. They had some diplomatic whatever to go to nearly every evening.

I got left alone in the large, drafty prewar German apartment for long stretches of time. They looked around for other Americans my age to hook up with that summer, but no one else seemed to have brought their college-age children out, and I was too shy to go out and find friends myself. It was OK at first, as I had my computer games.

And then, after a while, it was more than OK.

The apartment had huge rooms, with the post furniture allowance not being able to come anywhere close to making the place look lived in. Across the front of the top-floor apartment were the living room, some sort of music room—with a platform and a baby grand piano and all—and then the dining room. The entrance foyer extended along the inner walls of the living room and music room. Dad's study was in back of the dining room. To the right of the foyer was a gigantic kitchen, located so far from the dining room, that, my mother said, this must have been a status symbol in old Germany—necessitating having servants deliver the meals quickly before the food cooled.

Two corridors, with a wall separating them led back from the foyer. The one by the kitchen went to two large bedrooms, one of which became mine for the summer, and a bathroom. The other hallway ran between the kitchen corridor and the master bath and led back to the master bedroom. There was a nook off this hallway that contained a narrow metal winding staircase to a small landing and a closed door above.

"That's Inga's room up there, the maid," my mother had said when she was giving me the guided tour. I looked up to the top of the staircase. The door was slightly ajar, and I sensed the presence of someone up there, just on the other side of the door.

Inga turned out to be a buxom blonde who probably was in her thirties. She was what we'd call zaftig or Rubenesque—big boned and well padded without quite slipping over into being considered fat. She obviously was delighted to have the position and she gave me special attention from the start—insisting that I eat more and that I do less in terms of picking up after myself. As well as the cooking, she did the laundry, and she starched and ironed everything of mine, including my briefs. She seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with these at the ironing board in the middle of the kitchen.

She was always patting my head and shoulders and pulling at my ear as she served the meals. And it seems like every time I had an occasion to walk down the back hallway to my parents' bedroom, she was there, standing on the winding staircase to her room above. More than once she informed me that her room was up there, as if I wouldn't know that already. She moved as silently as a cat, and she felt no embarrassment in coming into my room when I was just in my pajama bottoms or shorts.

On these occasions she'd let her eyes linger over me and she'd have a comment or two about how I was growing into a fine form of a man.

I was completely inexperienced. It is quite understandable, I believe, that her behavior would start to arouse me without me having any idea that it did or why.

The start was an evening when my parents were out and the apartment was quiet—except that I was hearing the voice of a woman singing a lullaby of some sort. I went to investigate. As I was passing down the hallway to my parents' room and reached the niche where the winding staircase was, I looked up—to catch a glimpse of the door above being slit open and the view of a voluptuous naked body in the room beyond the door. Inga was singing while she brushed out her long, blonde hair. In the daytime she always had it up in a tight bun. Somehow I saw beyond the maid in her to the woman in her with her hair cascading down her back. It helped to see her as a woman as well to see the blonde thatch at her snatch and rounded curves of her heavy breasts, with the big, rosy aureoles, and her rounded belly.

I'd seen plenty of naked women—just not in the flesh.

I pulled away in embarrassment, but the image of seeing her up there in her room wouldn't leave me. I returned to my bedroom, stripped, and masturbated. Masturbation, of course, wasn't a new entertainment for me. But seeing a voluptuous naked woman in the flesh was.

As I jerked myself off I had the sensation that I wasn't alone. I'd thought I'd closed my bedroom door behind me, but when I looked over, it was slightly ajar. I was too far gone toward my approaching orgasm to stop, though, so I just closed my eyes and continued stroking myself.

My parents went out for the next four evenings straight, staying out late each night.

Each night I was compelled by the singing to appear at the foot of the winding staircase. Each night Inga was at the top of the stairs, the door to her room more open on each succeeding night. Each night she was naked and combing her hair. I had heard the legend of the Lorelei on the Rhine, and I now knew the effect of the siren call. The first two nights I returned to my room and masturbated.

The third night, trembling, I climbed the winding staircase.

* * * *

The first time, I was so clumsy and came so fast that I wanted to die. But Inga didn't let me die. She was patient and gentle. Melding with her body was like falling into a featherbed. She embraced me and held me fast as she moved a hand between our bodies, taking my cock in her hand and rubbing the head of it between her folds. I knew nothing about the folds of a woman or what a clit was or what to do with it. She moved my cock with her hand, patiently introducing me to all of those mysteries.

Feeling overwhelmed and guilty, I tried to pull back, she held me close in strong arms and cooed to me about how natural it was and how ready I was for it. At the same time, she showed me that her nipples were for sucking and her lips were for kissing.

I came almost immediately as she was introducing my glans to her clit. I sobbed in frustration, but she tut tutted me, assured me that all was well, sang a low lullaby to me, and rocked our bodies back and forth against each other.

I was young, and thus was hard again before I'd even gone half flaccid. The rocking aroused me and helped me harden again. She never let loose of my cock with her hand, and as I hardened again, with her sighing and humming softly to me and me groaning, she moved the head of my cock between her folds, and slowly I reveled in the sensation of it being drawn into the moistness between those folds and beyond, into a passage of warm, undulating walls.

Inga's broad hands went to my buttocks and she squeezed and moved them in a rocking motion that drew me deeper inside her and then withdraw a bit and then in, deeper. In, out; in, out. I grunted and groaned and spouted off a second time, deep inside her. She had complimented me on how big I was, which gave me pride and confidence.

I had lost my virginity, something I'd been wanting to lose for some time. I had fucked a woman—or, more precisely, a woman had fucked me. An older, more experienced, understanding, and patient woman.

I whimpered my apology for taking advantage of her and for my inability to perform well. She shushed me and said I'd been magnificent-and, still holding fast to me with a vice grip of arms and thighs, that I'd be magnificent again immediately.

Inga hugged me close, kissed all over my face and throat and nipples, and held me prisoner inside her as I started going flaccid again. But the wonder of it all and her relentless attention to me, patience with me, and her ability to introduce me to the various aspects of her anatomy and to show me how manipulation of this and that could pleasure us both, and her encouragement on how well I was doing made me go hard again.

This time she turned on her back and made me go on my knees between her meaty thighs. She was more insistent on instructing me in my role in the thrusting, once again squeezing my buttocks and manipulating them back and forward to show the friction effect of me stroking inside her with my cock. I took longer this time, beginning to learn how to control my ejaculation, being completely surprised but impressed and aroused when she suddenly held me close, cried out, and jerked her own orgasm. And then another, followed by mine.

Lying there, side by side, both of us panting, I moaned deeply and she whispered that there was something else a woman should do for her man, moved down my body, took my cock in her mouth, and sucked me into ecstasy.

Before she let me go, she had me flat on my back and was saddled on my cock and fucking herself while she let her long breasts dangle down for me to take the nipples in my mouth.

I thought the night would never end; I didn't want it to end. I gave no thought to my parents returning before I returned to my bed. The gods were with me, though. They were very late in returning.

The fourth night she refined my education and had me standing at the foot of her bed, holding her legs spread and raised, and I was doing the pumping action inside her. Before she released me, she taught me that lips and teeth on a clit would elicited more appreciation and more intense reaction than a finger or the tip of a cock rubbing it, although she taught me that each of these acts of attention had their place. It was even this early that she advised me about the importance of the after-orgasm attention and of a second, slower, more intense fuck.

The fifth evening my parents told me that I was welcome to accompany them to their evening's event. But I had a headache, I told them. After a while, as the summer moved on, they stopped bothering to ask me if I wanted to be included when they went out.

That fall, after I had returned to the States and started junior college—and begun expertly fucking the coeds at the college—my mother let me know in a letter when I'd asked how the maid, Inga, was doing, that they'd had to let her go. Mother didn't tell me why and by the time Dad's assignment in Berlin was over and they'd moved back to where I could live at home while attending college, I'd pretty much forgotten about Inga. I had acquired a lot more sophisticated moves by that time and was screwing my way through college in more ways than one.

* * * *

With a sigh, my mother gathers up the photograph and slips it and the letter from Inga back into the envelope. She stands, takes up the rest of the mail, leans over and kisses me on the cheek and ruffles my hair. She bids both Dad and me goodnight and heads for the stairs.

When she is gone, my Dad speaks up. "Was that Maryanne you had upstairs when we came home?"

Surprised, I answer quickly, "No. I was alone."

"Was it that petite brunette, Sarah, you've been dating."

"No. Sarah and I haven't dated for weeks, Dad. You made enough cracks about her being Jewish that she drifted off."

"Well, whoever it was, I hope you've learned to use protection, Paul. We don't want to have any more Ingas and sons to have to support."