Did I Give Dolly Her Name
I’ve known Dolly for a very long time -- way before she was Dolly…I even tease her that I gave the name “Dolly” to her. It’s actually a pretty good story.
First, let me say “eat your hearts out, Dudes.” I’ve had eighteen weekend dates with Dolly, all free and all wonderful – one of the advantages of knowing Dolly before she was “Dolly”. In real life, she’s pretty damn cool, too, and pretty damn great in bed. In the vernacular of the 21st century, she’s about the best friend-with-benefits you could hope for. And I’ll call her Dolly, to protect the innocent…(chuckle)…
It was March eighteen years ago, before people generally used the term “escort”, “hook-up” hadn’t been invented yet, and the Internet hadn’t brought sophistication and safety to pay-for-play. Unlike my Ivy League classmates, I didn’t spend Spring Break chasing pussy in Fort Lauderdale (too cliché and too pedestrian), chasing pussy in St. Thomas or St. John (wrong kind of pussy and still non-exclusive) or chasing pussy in Cabo (right kind of pussy, right kind of money in those days, and where my blue-blood friends hung out). No, being wealthy, psychologically independent of the need to “fit in”, and an avid and very proficient skier, I picked up my ski bags (ALWAYS ready) and left the cold, frozen, icy mess of New England for the light powder and clear vistas of Taos, New Mexico. By myself -- which is how I preferred it. I ski well and hard, and I like to go where I want to go without friends slowing me down. I can be slowed down on the ice hills in New England any weekend of the winter. Sorry, Stowe, but Taos is a gift to myself.
My father, God rest his soul, was only good at three things – he was really good at making money (really, really good), he was a world-class skier, and he knew how to have fun. Other than when we were skiing, he was a crappy father, but he taught me to ski, took me to all the best ski mountains in the world (we often skied in July in South America) and spent money freely on anything that had to do with snow and ski vacations. And he introduced me to Taos…one of the most intriguing little mountains I’ve ever visited, with 10 or so runs that combine world-class challenge with world-class vistas and a very Bavarian feel. Except for the Texas twang of the snow bunnies on the ski lifts around you, skiing Taos powder is simply the best of the best, and that was where I headed that second week of March, eighteen years ago.
I remember it like I remember everything with Dolly – I was standing at the top of Longhorn – a half-mile of hell with a 1700 foot vertical, maybe 60 feet wide, with trees everywhere. Heaven! It was late in the week and I had taken the previous day off to rest, recreate and watch some March Madness, so my legs felt great and I was gonna push it. Longhorn was maybe the third run of the day, maybe my third favorite run in the entire world, and had about 5 inches of fresh light powder on it. Like I said…heaven. At the commercially-oriented ski areas, Longhorn would be called “Death Valley” or “To Meet Your Maker” or “Corkscrew” or something like that. At Taos, they didn’t even give you way out…once you got to the top of it, you could ski down, walk back up 200 yards or call for the ski patrol…no other options.
I was staring out at the mountain peak across the way, when a midsize female with big sunglasses, a long blond ponytail and expensive, high performance skis and boots swung behind me and J-hooked into the powder below me.
“Good morning,” I said. “Hope you’re not lost, because there’s not a pleasant way out of here unless you ski very well.”
“Is this Bam-bi?” the blonde asked with an exaggerated Texas twang. “It shore don’t look lahk Bam-bi.” She flashed a million dollar smile and looked around.
She pulled her scarf down and I got an OK look at her face. As much as you can tell with ski gear on, she was a great looking gal – and I saw sweat plastering her hair down in front of her ears…she’d been skiing hard. I looked at the boots and skis, added the sweat, and guessed she knew exactly where she was.
“No, not Bambi. Longhorn with about 5 inches of fresh powder. Hard trip, but worth it,” I replied. “But you knew that.”
Different accent this time, and a lot more intriguing. “Yes. Ski Patrol told me to come here early to get the most of the powder. They said it would be beautiful…and great skiing.”
“First time in Taos?” I asked.
“Yes, but not my first time on skis,” and she rewrapped her scarf, spun left and slid slightly away from me onto the top of the first mogul.
“Fresh powder flattens the moguls, but the nastiness is still right below the surface. This was pretty bumpy two days ago,” I said, with classic shredder understatement. Actually, it had been a merciless bitch two days ago. “Have fun.” And I jumped off and headed down. I worked hard, used my great technique and didn’t challenge the underlying bumps, and a minute later slid in beside a clump of trees to catch some oxygen and see if the blonde had started down. She actually must have started quickly after I did, because I turned in time to see only her last few turns as she flew downhill on the far side of the run – legs locked together, great form, not worried about the trees, very fluid. She turned across the mountain when she was even with me and stopped two moguls below me, facing into the trees.
“Wow! You’re right. Hard and choppy underneath. You have good technique – can you ski this harder than you did?” she asked.
As Humphrey Bogart once famously said, it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship -- good enough skier to know I was taking it easy, not intimidated by the invisibility of the moguls, and engaged in the conversation. Fun. “Sure, but it’s more fun at my pace. Ski this too hard and your legs will be dead by mid-afternoon. You skiing this alone? That’s not normal up here,” I stated.
“I’m not alone. I just arrived alone,” she responded, and spun through the trees and back onto Longhorn. Confident. Skiing was natural for her. “To the bottom?” she asked.
“Long way to the bottom,” I said, but she was already gone, and this time working harder. I followed, with my medium pace, more watching her than trying to keep up. She really could ski, with powerful leg action and now, an aggressive style. She’d done this before. But alas, even the best can’t power down Longhorn with powder over hard bumps. I saw her piston off the top of a bump, but her uphill ski caught on something under the powder and stayed uphill while her body, poles and blond ponytail headed downhill in a forward cartwheel of epic proportions. She landed hard once, bounced and then thankfully began sliding rather than rolling or flipping. She slid a long way, but it was reasonably gentle after the first bounce. I picked up the first errant ski and then dug the other out of a small clump of trees, and carried them down to her. She was brushing snow off her body and shaking out her scarf, both poles stuck in the top of the mogul beside her.
“As they probably say in Texas,” I said in my best fake twang, “’Whoooooaaaaaa Dolly!! Nice one!’ But seriously, you ok? That first bounce looked a little rough.”
“Snow down my neck, and I think I landed on my Snickers bar,” she responded. “Other than that, minimal damage. Uh, DOLLY?” Humorous edge to her voice. Not pissed, but fake incredulousness. Fun.
“Texas slang for ‘fallen female skier’? I don’t know. Seemed like something someone on this mountain in a bright pink bunny suit would have said,” I explained, laughing at myself and at her reaction.
“It was a pretty good fall, and given the accents at the ticket booth this morning, there’s probably six or seven ‘Dollys’ on the mountain. You’re funny.”
Anyway, you have to love a woman that carries a Snickers bar AND admits she may have crushed it in a ski fall. We dropped the rest of the way into the base area and rode the lift up together. I learned a lot about her – definitely not a ski bunny or a ski bum, but had been skiing all her life – big time runner, junior at a good college in the Midwest, majoring in business and out here with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend for just three days. It was a great ride up and we took a couple of nice hard runs together, she gave me half of a Snickers pancake (she must have hit pretty hard on that fall) and we broke for lunch after the rush had died down.
March Madness was on the TV inside the bar at the nationally famous St. Etienne Inn, but she wanted to eat on the deck, which is also famous. I’m no fool…we ate on the deck. When her scarf and hairband came off, I noticed just how good looking she was. Then, God bless spring skiing in New Mexico, the jacket came off. Wow! That was a game changer. I had spent the morning skiing with some nice gal that I met on a double-black diamond. Now, well, there was a little more going on and it didn’t have anything to do with skiing. She had a tight black sweater over her turtleneck, and both disappeared into form-fitting ski pants. This was my first view from mid-thigh up, and it was all A+. My eyes didn’t know where to linger. Backside was slim, but womanly…definitely nice curves from the back, but trim and athletic. And a nice rack, with broad shoulders that made her very proportionate.
And she caught me looking. Which I don’t think bothered her a lot. Megawatt smile as she said “That was a nice last run, but I’m starved. Burger, or something from inside?”
“Uh…beer?” was my killer response as I regrouped just a bit. “I’m more thirsty than hungry.”
The St. Etienne is a bar/restaurant/hotel at the base of Taos Ski Valley with a hopping deck, an old-country style bar and tiny little hotel rooms. Very European and very cool. I had a room there and, frankly, my mind was moving towards that room. Dreaming, of course, just dreaming…
We settled on turkey sandwiches and fries (best of both worlds) and a couple of beers. When the time came for another run, I suggested a shot of Jager (a St. Etienne tradition that hopefully has died by now) and she agreed. Then she took off her sunglasses to rearrange for a couple of last runs, and I was smitten. She was (is) gorgeous. Really. Blue-eyed blonde, pure bombshell…Bavarian Alps dream girl. My skiing skills would suffer more that afternoon from the company than from the Jager. And I needed another, if only to prolong the time before she put her jacket back on.
On the lift up, I began to plot my assault on her virtue…romantic dinner?...hot tub in town?…revelry in the bar at the St. Etienne (convenient to my bed)?...dancing in Taos? I had options, but did I have an interested partner?
I needn’t have worried. Her third-wheel status with her sister and the boyfriend was at the top of her mind.
“Do you have dinner plans tonight, Ron?” she asked near the top. “I would love to have company other than my sister and Phil.”
“No plans, and I know a bit about Taos.” Might as well get her split off from the pack early. “What kind of plans do you guys have?”
“None. We just drove in from Santa Fe this morning. We don’t even have rooms yet. We’re heading back to Taos at 4:30.”
Astute Ivy Leaguer that I was, I noted immediately that she said “rooms”. She was clearly third-wheel status. My dick twitched. My brain raced. I shouldn’t have worried.
We skied for 90 minutes, and I flirted when I could. She flirted back. My little head said there was chemistry. My big head wondered if tonight or tomorrow night was the time to strike. I had just about let my big head talk me into a nice, romantic dinner at Doc Martins when lightning struck. I honestly don’t know when Dolly’s legendary sex drive began, but I soon discovered that it was well developed by the time she was a junior in college.
We were standing, skis off, in the base area after a great final run back down through the trees behind Longhorn.
“So about dinner…..” I began.
“Sorry to interrupt, Ron, but that’s my sister coming off the catwalk. She’ll be here in a minute.” Dolly interrupted me. “I don’t want to be too blunt, but that’s just me…so, listen, if you are going to hit on me some time this weekend, now’s a good time because it will save me the cost of a hotel room that I really don’t want to use……so, Handsome….,” she paused for effect, “any thoughts about lifting this black sweater over my head…?” Her sunglasses were off in the late afternoon shade, and I got the Dolly-smile as her eyebrows arched upward and the ice-blues twinkled.
I was pretty experienced in the girl-thing, so though a bit surprised, I recovered quickly. “I have a double bed and you can have half of it…warning, though, it’s a small room and the bathroom was intended for pygmies on a diet. I can get that sweater off over your head if we’re on the bed or standing very upright,” I smiled. “And I have a jeep if that makes life any easier.”
“Ummm…my fantasy come true…” and she giggled. She turned and addressed a woman in turquoise and a tall, skinny English-Lit-major-type of guy in all black who had just skied up. “Georgie, Phil, this is Ron. He’s from Boston and we’ve made a few runs together.”
We exchanged introductions and a few pleasantries, and I was about to suggest a beer in the bar, when Dolly spun them out of the conversation faster than an ice-cube salesman in Nome.
“Georgie, Ron’s offered me dinner and I think I’ll get a room up here. Ron, can you help me with my stuff?” and with that she started walking toward the parking lot. Georgie, Phil and I were along for the ride at that point and five minutes later, Dolly and I were hiking back up the hill toward the St. Etienne with a backpack and a medium suitcase. Dolly doesn’t travel that light these days….
We trudged up the stairs in our ski boots to room 34 and Dolly got her first look at the closet that passed as my room. We threw her stuff on the bed, as there were no other options, and I reached for her. She leaned into me and our lips met…gently at first, slowly, but the feel was right and her tongue slid across my lips. I reached for my jacket zipper and her hand grabbed mine.
“Don’t we need to do something with the skis?” she asked. “And I need a shower. Why don’t you take care of the skis and I’ll wash off a layer of sweat.” Her hand dropped between my legs, under my light jacket and squeezed my quite obvious erection. “I see one of your poles is already inside.” Smile, twinkle, smile, twinkle. “Oh, and I told you that you could help me with my sweater….grab the turtle neck, too.” An invitation. She threw her jacket on the bed and raised her arms over her head. I lifted the sweater/shirt combo out of her pants and pulled upward….she spun toward me and pressed a very nice black bra (encasing what looked to be extraordinary cargo) into me, and this kiss was even better. As my hand wandered a bit, she pulled back, giving me access for just a moment. I ran my hand over the outside of her bra, gently, but feeling the contour and the softness. Then she pulled away and said, “Can you be back in five?”
“Help me with my boots,” I ordered and plopped onto the bed to get my ski boots off. The debooting process in that little room gave me an ample opportunity to check out Dolly’s body, the black bra and the full shape of the derriere. I reached for her again, but she playfully slapped my hand away. So I slipped hiking boots on and said “Make it three minutes” and I was out the door.
I had the skis inside and locked in the number 34 storage closet in well less than five minutes. I took the stairs two at a time and when I entered the room, a completely naked Dolly was reading a hotel pamphlet on the middle of my bed. Completely naked. Leaning against the headboard. Her hair was in a sloppy bun on top of her head. She was smooth shaven (everywhere) and had looooonnng, gorgeous, muscular legs. And red toenail polish.
“Ok, that was a quick shower,” I said, removing my coat and trying to normalize my breathing. I didn’t know what to ogle, and I was VERY anxious to touch. This was a stunning woman, simply as well put together as you could dream.
“Didn’t take one,” she said. “I thought it might give us a chance to get to know each other if we took one together….”
Well, my estimate was that two eight year olds couldn’t shower together in my shower, but if she was up for it, I was. She crawled across the bed and unsnapped my suspenders as I raised my sweater above my head. It didn’t take long to figure out that Dolly wasn’t helping me undress, as much as she was hunting for my cock. In fact, my recollection of that three minutes is that I did all work of getting my clothes off, while she stroked my ski-pole and whispered in my ear.
“We don’t have to wash much,” she said in my ear, “we just need to move off six hours of sweat….that shouldn’t take long…should it?” Rhetorical. She moved her hand enough to let me get my pants and hiking boots all the way off. Then she grabbed me by the cock and led me to the shower.
I’ve never been grateful for a small shower, but this was certainly an exception. We slid in under the hot water and let the water roll over us, kissing passionately as we let our bodies wet. It was an amazing kiss, some fun groping and a real challenge to wet my front and her back. I had grabbed soap on the way in and as we contorted, kissing and groping, we managed to lather each other up. Rubbing against a slippery female body is as much fun as you can have this side of….well, it’s as much fun as you can have. And Dolly ‘s right hand spent some more time with my third ski pole. We took our time rinsing while tongues explored each other’s mouths. Dolly could really kiss, even then. She wasn’t aggressive and demanding with her kisses, but she was “all-in” as they say now.
She broke from our kiss and leaned her head back just enough to look into my eyes. “This shower isn’t big enough for all three of us,” rubbing my incredibly hard and pointed unit between her belly button and the top of her neatly trimmed bush. “Let’s go use this thing.”
She stepped into the bedroom to dry and was turning down the bedcovers when I stepped out of the tiny bathroom. Great view of a great ass. I rubbed those gorgeous buns as I reached into the top drawer of the lone bureau in the room and pulled out a couple of condoms -- hey, I was 23 and on a ski vacation. She giggled and said, “There’s two more in the top drawer of the bedside table.” I laughed out loud, but not for long.
We crawled between clean sheets (the advantage of a hotel over a condo) and I got my first really up close and personal look at those Ds. (Really – it was a SMALL shower – those breasts might as well have been on Mars.) They were awesome, soft and pliant and big. And her nipples were hard as my dick…I was doing something right. I started slow, licking, kissing, nuzzling.
“Suck them, Ron, hard….both of them…” she moaned. Her knee was sliding up between my legs and she had one hand on my cock and one on the back of my neck. She pulled my head, my mouth, into her breasts and massaged my inner legs with her thigh. Both my hands were helping my mouth, rubbing, stroking, kneading, FEEDING her breasts and nipples into my mouth…where we had been exploratory before, almost languishing, now an urgency was building. Her hand left my cock and returned a moment later, wet and slippery, now pulling my unit gently over and over again.
I lifted my head and nuzzled her neck, whispering “you better be careful, or there won’t be anything left for dinner”. I guess that was the plan, because she reached for a condom. But she didn’t open it, not just yet. She forced her weight up and turned me onto my back. We were locked at the lips, deep penetrating kisses. She broke away.
“I’ve needed you inside me since the second shot at lunch.” She was urgent now, and we weren’t that far into it…this was a lady with an “ON” switch. She slid up over me bringing her knees up above my head and lowered her very wet bush onto my mouth. I began gently, slowly exploring to find her nub, but she would have none of that. Her hand pulled herself apart, exposing a pink and protruding clit, and she pressed onto my mouth, my tongue a tool for her to grind against. She stayed for a minute, but then moved her hand away, and I could hear her opening the condom. She moved off my face, down my body, my hands dragging across her breasts as she now straddled my knees, putting her mouth gently once…twice…three times over the head of my cock….then almost in seconds, the jacket went on and I was inside her.
Tight, and she squealed and exhaled sharply, but barely paused as she slid all the way down onto me and rocked into me, then lowered her lips to mine. I was still wet from her pussy juice and she seemed even more turned on by the taste of herself. The kiss was urgent and quite direct, but the rhythm that she set riding me was more so, as direct as I’d ever had…she was using me…making me take her higher...lifting off me slightly and then sliding back down hard, seemingly going deeper each time. She gave up on the kisses and lifted her head a bit to change the angle of her downward thrusts – I didn’t mind as it gave me almost unfettered access to those magnificent breasts – both hands and my lips had a field day in D-heaven. She moved at that angle for a minute or two, then put her hands on my shoulders and lifted upright, holding me down, and her rhythm shifted, turning into a grinding, sliding action.
“Ohhh….Ron….ummmm…fuck….ummmm….fuck,” she was in her own world now, and I felt her tighten and stiffen. Her stomach contracted and she moaned, “oooohhhhaaahhhh…ooooooo,” and shuddered, and shuddered again, staying tensed with tiny, almost non-existent grinding against me. Then she exhaled and opened her eyes. She was breathing deeply and hard, but she wasn’t done. She smiled at me, “I want more…can I be on my stomach?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer. She was weak and a little shaky, but she crawled off me and lay beside me on her stomach, lifting her ass slightly and reaching between her legs to guide me into a pussy that was very wet and apparently still very ready.
“Fuck me hard, Baby. I love it this way,” and she pushed her hips and ass back against my dick, hard and demanding and I did as she asked, bracing myself on my hands and knees so I could go deep inside her with each thrust. Her face was buried in a pillow, but she was clearly cumming hard and often, and then it was my turn….I pushed down on top of her, forcing her stomach and hips against the bed and shot deep, deep, deep inside her.
I collapsed on top of her and exhaled, relaxing and enjoying the residual twitching of my dick inside her. Dolly was limp beneath me. I stayed hard, so I didn’t pull out. It was a relaxed sensual bookend to some frantic fucking. She didn’t squirm or even stir, but little shudders continued to pass over her, and when I whispered in her ear, I think she almost came again.
“Wow,” I said. “You are a very intense little girl.”
“I needed that,” she whispered. “It’s been a month, maybe more.” She still hadn’t moved, but discretion is the better part of valor and I pulled out of her and dropped the evidence beside the bed. I lay back down, mostly on top of her and she was very relaxed...and very asleep. I set the bedside alarm for 90 minutes, which was the early part of the dinner hour and drifted off myself.
I woke gently to that most pleasant of all alarms, her mouth around my stiffening and cooperating cock. I stirred a bit and she raised her head, working my shaft with her hand. “Be very still. It’s your turn, but I’m hungry and you’re only the appetizer,” and she lowered her mouth back to the bottom of my shaft and licked and sucked and nuzzled down to my balls. Even at that age, Dolly was seriously good at giving head. I’ll admit that she’s improved with age, but I’d take that one over again. She used her hand like an able assistant to lips and tongue, a perfect handjob to go with a perfect blowjob. I reached for her pussy with my hand, but again, she raised her head and with a mischievous twinkle in those ice-blues, she said, “relax and enjoy this…you’re going to cum in my mouth and then we’re going downstairs for about 5000 calories….” I did as I was told and ten minutes later lost everything I had inside her mouth. She swallowed, smiled and then took my tool back inside her mouth, wanting every last drop and to give me a final throb or two.
“So, this restaurant any good?” she finally asked, “cuz ‘DOLLY’ wants dinner.” And we got dressed and headed downstairs.
From a perspective of 18 years, I could tell you that we fucked and sucked the weekend away, but that wouldn’t be true. We skied and ate and got to know each other…made true lifelong friends, actually. And we fucked and sucked like 22- and 23-year-olds can.
When we parted, I mentioned the possibility of another ski trip in our future and we agreed to stay in touch and get that planned. Actually, that kinda worked out well…...
To be continued as “Same Time Next Year”….
Purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure! Enjoy!