Greta

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Blonde

Greta: A name formerly reserved by me to be in the same category as the names Helga, Bertha and Ethel. A name that promised me nothing interesting, nothing of beauty. All that changed the morning I met Franz’ daughter.

Her head peeked around the edge of the door, showing very little indication that I’d woken her up. “Is Franz here?” I asked, kind of ashamed, kind of embarrassed to be knocking on their door at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m., even though it was late for me.

“Ja, schlafen. Aber, komm”.

The face disappeared and I pushed open the door, following behind her. Her ass gently moved to the left and right as she made her way back to her bedroom. And they call America the land of the free, I thought, as her nude body disappeared into her bedroom and I went left into the living room where Franz lay, half awake on the sofa bed.

“Guten morgan, Franz”, I said.

“Morgan”.

I don’t remember our conversation as the East Berliner lay there in bed, always the perfect host, always willing to talk, no matter the time. I stood, leaning back against a piece of furniture, facing Franz’ bed, and facing the door of the living room which entered the hallway.

Greta passed the door, left to right, from her room to the bathroom, stark naked. Still I talked. Franz talked. The shower started. bostancı escort bayan Greta passed the door from right to left. I still remember thinking that she’d thought I’d gone, leaving her free to bounce back and forth, just as pretty as her young D cup breasts would let her bounce and then she saw me and then maybe thinking she should return to her room to get some clothes, a bathrobe, something. Greta passed the door from left to right. The sound of the water changed as she entered the shower, bathing herself obviously. I don’t remember anything of the conversation with Franz, except that perhaps it dealt with cigarettes and when I would buy them and bring them to his house. Probably I wanted to bring them the following day, hoping to catch more of young Greta in the buff, liking what I saw of her smooth body, firm and virtually, I thought, untested, untasted, certainly not by a 22 year old like myself. She was what? 18 at the time. Delectable and firm and I was married and determined to do no more than look. This certainly came to the test the next time I saw Greta.

One evening after work, I thought to talk to Franz. The old man wasn’t there, but Greta invited me in nonetheless. This time she wasn’t nude, but tantalizingly wearing a loose-knit pullover sweater and a pair of white cotton ümraniye escort panties. Greta led me to the kitchen; she had to check on a roast she was making for dinner. A girlfriend of Greta was waiting in the kitchen for her return. After a brief exchange of words, the girl dismissed herself and went into Greta’s room. I haven’t yet been able to figure out the reason, unless maybe Greta had some small crush on me and told her friend that she wanted to talk to me in private. And that was the bad part about it: Greta knew English, but was too embarrassed to speak. I was just learning German. Our conversations never ran to deep subjects. Chattering on, Greta opened the oven and bent over to check on the roast. All concentration I had trying to understand what she was saying was suddenly diverted to the sight of Greta’s nether-lips bulging out from underneath her panty-clad butt. I quickly made an excuse to leave, telling Greta to let her father know that I came by and that I would visit again the next day. I had to get out of there. How many times since that evening have I fantasized her reaching back and pulling aside the panties, inviting me in? How many times have I wondered what she would feel like engulfing me? How many times have I wanted to taste that forbidden treasure? How many times have I placed my mental kartal escort picture of Greta over the woman I was making love to? So I left the apartment.

Soon thereafter, I moved to another apartment across the city of Frankfurt. I never forgot Greta and remembered her often. A couple of years went by and one day in a fit of resolution, I decided that I would go back to Franz’ apartment. I wanted Greta, and I was determined to have her once, if she would have me. I hopped the U-bahn and rode to Dietzenbach. This time when I knocked on the door, Franz answered. Single minded on my mission, I said, “Hello, Franz. Is Greta home?” And my bitter salvation came from his mouth: “No, she moved out with her boyfriend three months ago.” How can I describe my concurrent despair and relief? I wanted that succulent body, but I wanted to be faithful.

You never know what you like until you try it. Greta did me a favor and a disservice at once. She turned me into a voyeur. By being a voyeur, I can enjoy the highest form of art and remain faithful.

And so I must end with the benediction:

God Bless Germany, the land of the free, the home of those who enjoy the rare summer sun by stripping down at the beach, who wake up in the morning and step out nude on the balcony to shake out the bedclothes and hang them on the rail of the balcony to obtain the summer air’s freshness. God Bless those Europeans who understand the body to be God’s artwork and a natural not-to-be-ashamed-of item of everyday life. And God Bless Greta, the daughter of Franz, for sharing the canvas with me.

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