My Juno

by Morgan Preece

When the big brunette entered the crowded restaurant I knew right away I wanted her. Easy to spot at five-foot-ten or more, about one hundred fifty pounds I guessed, she wore a deep rose-beige office suit that showed off her figure and her legs. Wide-shouldered and wide-hipped, a narrower-gauge woman could not have carried so much weight so well. Her large breasts strained against her well-chosen clothing discreetly. Her legs tapered in smooth nylon to sensible heels that pushed her height close to six feet. Her voice when she spoke to the hostess had a feminine cadence in a register even deeper than I had expected.

With four-inch heels, I mused, she would be more than a foot taller than me. The exciting thought almost caused me to blow the deal I had been working on for the whole of my lunch hour. I am a pro, though, one of the top salesmen in my field and I closed out of sheer habit. My mind raced with thoughts of how I could meet this Juno. I yearned to have her sitting at the table with me. The client nattered on as I cooled him off, still on automatic.

I noticed that she lingered near the entrance, looking patient. A glance around proved that all the tables in the Seventh Avenue bistro were occupied. She paid no attention to the door, so she did not expect anyone to join her. She only needed a table and two obvious parties already waited ahead of her. Her nails and lips were ruby, her eyes blue-grey with only a hint of shadow to deepen them.

I claimed the check as the client left, then signaled the waitress. Handing her several bills, I told her the change was hers
as a tip if I could keep the table for my next client. This was my favorite table in this restaurant, the one I usually had reserved for me when I entertained clients, or girlfriends, here. The tip seemed large enough because she agreed and called a busboy to clean the table. The waitress went to pay the cashier and fetch my "client," the lone woman I pointed out waiting by the door.

My heart raced as my Juno approached. A childhood kidney ailment had stunted my growth and I reached puberty about the same time I reached the four-foot mark. With medication I eventually topped out at the lordly height of five-foot one-inch, too tall to join Billy Barty's Little People of America and too short for pro football. But a sickly adolescence in the company of nurses and baby-sitters half again my height left me with an abiding longing for the charms of big women.

The busboy wiped the red vinyl tablecloth with a dubious dishrag, pushing the condiment boat from one side of the table to the other. The red vinyl hung to the seats of the chairs on two sides of the table. An L-shaped bench formed the other two sides of the semi-booth, and part of a structure that included another booth, planters for fake plants and a sort of side table where the waitresses left menus and things.

I had a fantasy involving that booth and a small hook I would place near the floor. I would screw the hook, the sort that swag lamps hang from, into the wood of the bench near the floor. My complicit, hopefully large, girlfriend would allow me to disappear under the table, concealed by chairs and hanging vinyl tablecloth. While she snacked as cover, I would pull her panties down and hook them under the hardware. Then I would burrow under her skirts and eat her while she ate linguini.

Alas, my Juno's business skirt would be entirely to tight to enable my fantasy burrowing. Impractical, anyway, but fun to imagine.

She looked doubtful when the waitress showed her to my table but I smiled hugely and stood up beside the table. My height revealed this way derailed her thinking momentarily. Her wide cheekbones and tip-tilted eyes spoke of a heritage not strictly European.

"I thought I'd save you a wait," I said. "We can share a table. Donna isn't it?" implying that I had recognized her even if I had her name wrong. Since she undoubtedly didn't recognize me I had the advantage. Nobody polite tells a short person they haven't been noticed. Her large faux pearl earrings complemented the colors of her lips and suit in a paler, pinker shade.

She shook her head but sat down when I did, swinging those long legs under the same table as mine. With a lift and a scoot she settled into the booth seat. The movement tested the adequacy of her hidden bra to restrain the movement of her breasts. "Juliette, but..." she began. I knew she would take the booth seat, no Juno could sit comfortably in chairs designed by men who can quote Bette Midler lyrics so extensively.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I interrupted. "Juliette, of course. I'm Tim." My smile could get no wider. You have to do this sincerely or it doesn't work but I had just saved her the embarrassment of asking my name. Like most people, she felt grateful for the unacknowlegeable kindness. Sincerity is the salesman's true talent. If you don't have it or can't fake it convincingly, you will never make a living selling.

I never actually eat when I lunch with a client so I had room for some real food. "Try the pasta al olio," I suggested, unfolding the menu. "Or do you eat here often enough to have your own favorites?" She sat erect, just as she had stood and walked, shoulders back, those large breasts proudly pushed against the ice pink cotton of her broadcloth blouse. I wondered if she had modeled, (BBW, of course) or done stage work, not too unlikely here in New York.

"Too much garlic," she protested, "although I do love it. I'll have the primavera and a salad." She closed the menu decisively and thanked the busboy who placed glasses of water in front of us. Taking a sip, she left carmine lip prints on the rim of the envied tumbler.

When the waitress came back, I ordered the primavera also and we talked like long-time acquaintances. I noticed that Juno-Juliette kept her nails medium-long, she did not type for a living nor work as a nurse. Certainly not as a waitress or anything manual. An executive perhaps or might my first guess, model or actress, have been correct? No, the suit said office worker, at least today. Her only ring she wore on the pinkie of her left hand, a thin gold band with a tiny peridot.

Our small talk turned to sports. She claimed to be a baseball fan but hated the Yankees and felt indifferent to the Mets. She favored the Indians "because they win by playing well" and the Dodgers "because of all their young talent." Her eyes were darker than I had supposed, not blue-grey but a changeable hazel with glints, now blue, now gold, now green.

I teased her that basketball was my favorite game and claimed to have "lettered in college." I didn't bother to keep my face straight. She tried to stifle a giggle but failed. Her lower eyelids crinkled and the parentheses of good humor appeared beside her nose. I revised my estimate of her age upward five years; she had laughed a lot, my Juno.

"Actually," I confessed, "I was the mascot of the women's team." When she laughed out loud she showed her teeth. Commercially whitened but the lower ones slightly crooked, more evidence of mixed heritage but also of middle-class or lower upbringing. Orthodontia is the privilege of the upper classes in America. I loved every maloccluded incisor, endearingly imperfect as they were. She probably had not modeled then, with those teeth.

When the food came, she ate well and seemed to enjoy it all. Salad, breadsticks and pasta disappeared between sips of white wine as we talked trivia. She knew when to talk and how to listen, she laughed in the right spots and smiled at me frequently. I tried not to look too much like a middle-school dropout on a date with teacher.

Her laughter seemed sweet to me so I played the comic. I told her that I had psychic powers. "Really," she said, smiling, playing along with the gag. Her hair, merely brunette from across the room, had proved at closer range to be dark chestnut with red and gold highlights dancing in it. She wore it off the shoulder with a turned-under curl and teased bangs, a sort of sexy librarian look.

"You're not a native New Yorker," I said, smiling back. "Your parents are from the South, or maybe Texas or Oklahoma but you were raised in Southern California. You're part Indian, Chickasaw or Cherokee, perhaps? You've never been married, you went to college but you don't have a four-year degree. Your birthday is August 12th." I paused to see her reaction.

"August 10th," she said, surprised. "But, how...." She moved suddenly but minutely, more than a tremble, less than a start. Her heavy breasts swayed ever-so slightly.

I waggled my fingers at her.

"You do know me, don't you?" She frowned with her eyes and smiled with her mouth. "Or have you been looking at my personnel files." Suspicion sharpened her looks into a warning, my Juno could be fierce if she felt the need.

"A magician never tells but I will if you'll answer some other questions for me," I offered. A broad smile took any sting off that. I know I look like a pixie and I'm not afraid to use it.

Smiling with eyes and mouth this time, she agreed. "OK, how?" Her eyes crinkled up when she smiled with them.

"You have a slight accent, you say 'tin' for 'ten' and 'putt' for 'put' among other things. You don't drawl like a real Southerner so you probably learned it from your parents. You have an Indian look to your eyes, the tribes were guesses but they both run tall. The only ring you wear is a birthstone, August, the date was another guess." I watched her smile grow somewhat ruefully. "You're educated, obviously, but if you had an MBA you'd be wearing real pearls, your Leo vanity would demand it." I grinned again.

She shook her head. "You're amazing, what don't you know about me?" Her chestnut mane flashed red-gold lights at me.

"I don't know your shoe size. I don't know what you like for breakfast or what you wear to bed. I don't know your phone number or whether you date short men."

She laughed again, not bells but oboes and French horns. "You're serious?"

"Um, hmm."

"Ten, anything but eggs, nothing but panties, it's unlisted for a reason and maybe." Her eyes brightened the "maybe" into an "ask me."

I asked. "How about dinner tonight, maybe a show. A friend of mine has a play running in the Village, we can get seats practically on-stage."

She laughed. "Just like LA, only there everybody's friend has a 'script in turnaround' or 'a video being shot out at The Rocks.' I'd love to ... see your friend's play." She made the pause meaningful.

***

That night, Juliette-Juno and I made love in her Westside apartment with the lights on. Outside, night in the City That Never Sleeps howled with sirens and flashed with gunfire. Inside, we made our own alarums and struck passionate sparks together.

We undressed each other while we sat on her couch. Somewhere, leaking through the windows, the gap-toothed voice of David Letterman counted backwards, wrenching laughter from inanity.

She had changed for our evening into a long periwinkle evening dress that made her eyes seem blue and her hair, black. The dress fastened at one shoulder with an oversize brooch, an abstract cat lacquered red and navy with gold trim. "My totem," she whispered. "The Cat Who Walks Where It Will." Her lips, nails, and belt had matched the red in the cat, her navy shoes and purse had red accents.

The top of the dress fell away. The nude demi-bra she wore did little to conceal her large pale breasts. Rose and blue highlights on the spheres invited me to touch them and I did. Reaching into the bra I played with her nipples while she caressed my head. The bra fastened in front but I did not release it yet. Her hands found my earlobes and squeezed gently.

I had already shed my coat and tie. Now I undid her belt while she did the same for mine. We stood briefly, stepping out of our shoes and letting our garments fall on the discarded footwear. A half-slip concealed her modesty and my long, starched shirt hid me nearly to my knees. She bent to kiss me on the lips, marking me with the come-away carmine I had seen her renew several times in the evening.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of her slip and pulled it down for her to step out of it. She stood barefoot in panties, garter belt, hose and bra, nearly a head taller than me, nearly a goddess. I turned while she held my shirt, stripping it from my shoulders, discarding it to lie on the floor with my trousers.

I wear jockeys -- what else? -- and I knew that I looked like a child beside my Juno. But I don't spend much time thinking about what I look like when I'm making love. She let me start pulling down her panties while still standing, then she lay back on the couch so I could finish.

The skin of her thighs felt smooth above the hose. The muscles underneath her womanly layer of cushion tensed then softened as she adjusted her position. I toed off my own socks and stepped between her legs. Kneeling between the columns, I kissed the clean flesh above her dark, curly bush. She reached a hand to the back of my head, pulling my face closer, pushing it downward.

I licked gently, nuzzled softly, nibbled delicately until she moaned and squirmed then I increased the pressure and frequency until I smelt and tasted her ready wetness. I stood then and she sat forward and we embraced. She folded me into the hollow between her breasts as we kissed.

Now I undid her bra and the large globes fell into my hands, warm where the bra had confined them. The heavy flesh felt soft as her mane of chestnut hair. The nipples found my fingers, large firm seeds in the big soft melons. "Play with them again, Tim," she whispered.

I used my mouth on the right, leaving it sticky with a mixture of our juices. Then her lips found mine again and we kissed deeply.

After she pulled my jockeys off we used pillows to get the angles right and I penetrated her standing up while she lay propped on the couch. I drove my Juno hard but she's a big girl and I knew she could take it. When I came, she closed those big legs around me in a nether hug. I'd still be there if she hadn't let go.

We finished on the floor with cushions stolen from the couch to lie on. I ate her again, this time tasting my own cum mixed with her pussy juice. Her coming featured grunts and writhings and another nether hug, this time on my head. I held my breath and kept her coming till she let go or I blacked out, I don't know which.

***

I bought coffee, bagels and non-fat cream cheese with herbs for our breakfast from the shop on Ninth Avenue. Then she dressed and went to work and I rushed to catch my plane for Atlanta.

I came back to New York in a week -- it's where I live -- but her phone was disconnected, her apartment rented to someone else. She had said, "Good-bye, Tim, it's been very special," when we parted. I didn't know she meant good-bye and I didn't realize how special.

Would I never see my chestnut-haired, Dodger-loving, hazel-eyed Juno again?

The End.