A Polaroid of Kristina, Part 4 - Sex Stories

A Polaroid of Kristina, Part 4

... or so, given my powers of recovery at age eighteen. I started to follow her into the kitchen, but she shooed me out. “Go put on some music. Do you know how to use a record player?” When I got to her collection, I was stymied. There was so much to choose from, and all of it classical. I knew a few composers, and they were all represented in her records, along with countless others. But I didn’t want to pick something wrong. I soon reassured myself that nothing I picked could be all that offensive, given that she had liked everything there enough to buy it. I settled on Mozart’s clarinet concerto, and carefully set the record on the turntable. I turned on the tuner and set the selector to “phono.” As my father had taught me, after turning on the record player, I oh-so-gently lowered the arm onto the outer edge of the record. Soon the music was filling the apartment, and I heard Kristina call out, “A superb selection! And the slow movement is particularly beautiful.” I spent some time looking at her bookshelves, which were crammed with books, wherever there weren’t records. I recognized some titles and authors, but there were many in other languages. French. German. At least one language I didn’t recognize. Romanian? Hungarian? Could she speak them all? I was impressed, and momentarily a bit cowed. All I knew was high-school level Spanish, which I was very good at, but that was it. How had she chosen me? Soon a wonderful aroma wafted out of the kitchen, and she called out that ...

... lunch was ready. I joined her in the kitchen and washed my hands at the sink. She smiled at me almost shyly. “As long as it had been that I have been with a man, it had been at least as long that I have cooked for one, even something as simple as a sandwich. I had forgotten how… nice it is.” There were two plates on the counter. Each held a pressed sandwich, one much larger than the other. Kristina looked at me with concern to see if I liked it. “It’s havarti, prosciutto, tomato, and basil, on fresh bakery bread.” I hadn’t heard of havarti, but I told her it smelled wonderful, and it did. Just then my stomach provided more confirmation of my approval, grumbling loudly. She laughed, and said, “I believe you. Let’s take it to the living room. We can hear the music better.” So we took our plates to what I now thought of as “the” couch, even though the living room had two. We sat in front of it, leaning back against it, with our plates between our legs. The position made it possible for me to see glimpses of Kristina’s pussy, as she had not put on anything but the robe over her stockings and bra. When she saw me looking, she pretended to be shocked. “Michael!” She re-arranged her robe over herself dramatically. Even her joking admonition brought a bit of redness to my cheeks, and I looked away. When I looked back, Kristina made a point of flashing me, showing me her pussy brazenly. After a moment, she covered herself again, and said, “Let’s eat. I am famished too.” We sat like ...