When Olivia Met K: Chapter 1 - Educating Olivia, a series by Michael McCarthy at Spillwords.com
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When Olivia met K

Chapter I

Educating Olivia

written by: Michael McCarthy

@FlateyeFiction

 

I had a special friend with whom I discussed my most intimate matters of the heart.
This person was not one of my closest girlfriends, but a man with whom I had a passionate affair decades ago and I’d fervently hoped that one day, he’d propose to me and become my first and only husband.
I obviously didn’t realize just how well Roland knew me and how I would develop.
Roland introduced me to the joys of sex. I’d been an avid reader of my mother’s magazines at a time when taboos were falling and sexuality was being more and more openly written about; and I’d been absolutely dying to experience the real thing.
For my introduction into the adult world I didn’t want to endure the clueless groping of one of my peers. I wanted a man of experience. Roland was a friend of my parents of many years standing and somebody I’d never grown tired of looking at and fantasizing about. I liked the glint in his eyes when he was looking at me. And Roland looked at me a lot.
Roland’s form of greeting me changed over the years from a kiss on the head and an inhalation of my toddler smell, to a playful peck on the back of my hand, gripping my cheek between his thumb and forefinger and gently brushing my lips with his. As I hit my teen years I took to visiting him at his place of work, not far from where my family lived; he owned a string of hotels around the world all of which I would eventually come to stay in; there was even a suite named after me in his favorite hotel. I would wile away an hour or so chatting with him with an ice cream or a cold drink in his spacious office and then as I was leaving I would be on the receiving end of a prolonged kiss and his hands would caress my back; these actions would become gradually more protracted and probing and the caresses more intimate as time went by.
Roland was extremely rich and taught me an appreciation of the finer things in life; wines, food, art and, of course, sex.
It was clear to both of us what we were leading up to. I’d made my feelings known, however indirectly. I was sure he’d got the message as he hadn’t tried to dampen or discourage my ardor.
I would, of course, determine when; where, would be his flat.
As my 15th birthday approached, I really couldn’t wait any longer, I decided I would visit him at his office.
I was greeted with a friendly,
‘‘Hi Olivia. How are you?’’ from a very pretty, blonde girl as I waltzed into the reception of his nearby hotel.
‘‘Fine thank you. Is Roland free?’’ I asked.
‘‘Just knock on his door.’’ She answered with a smile.
Clearly one of Roland’s devotees I surmised.
As I raised my hand to knock, the door was pulled open and Roland stood before me, elegant and smiling. I can still remember he was wearing a dark three-piece suit, a pink shirt with a button-down collar and accompanying flower on his lapel and a multi-colored tie.
‘Olivia, my favorite young woman.’ He stood back and I walked into his office. On his dark wood desk were a few neat and tidy piles of documents and a green dial telephone. On the walls were photographs of the famous guests who had graced his hotels down the years as well as paintings of those hotels.
Once inside he pulled me gently into an embrace and kissed me on the lips, as he withdrew I pulled him towards me and took control of our kiss.
We broke our coupling simultaneously and Roland retired to his masculine, black leather, upholstered chair and I to the visitor’s less ostentatious but comfortably padded, beige chair.
‘‘What can I do for you, Olivia?’’
He steepled his fingers and looked directly into my eyes.
‘‘I trust you and you can trust me. I’m hungry to learn and impatient.’’ I said confidently.
He nodded.
‘‘I’d like to book a room, please.’’ I carried on.
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘Your house.’’
‘‘Overnight?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘When?’’
‘‘You tell me.’’
He sent me a note a few days later with a date and time. I duly presented myself at the appointed hour. His house consisted of three stories, each with a balcony packed to overflowing with a horticulturist’s dream of plants and flowers. I rang the bell beside the pristine white door and Roland opened it after about 20 seconds, boasting a dark, shiny, silk dressing gown and ushered me up the floral carpeted stairs to what turned out to be his bedroom. On our way up I felt the full weight of what I was about to do and broke out in a sweat and my stomach began to churn. Once in the bedroom my nerves disappeared and I felt relaxed and keen. Thick white mats were scattered all over the floor. On a light brown dressing table stood a white vase filled with red roses. The bed was huge, a four-poster draped with intricately woven, white curtains; it stands in my bedroom today.
We sat on the edge of the bed which was covered with a white eiderdown.
He turned around to a night table and poured two glasses of water.
‘‘A toast. To life.’’ said Roland.
‘‘To life.’’ I sipped gratefully from the cool, refreshing liquid.
‘‘Rolly, I read a lot about sex from both the man’s and the woman’s point of view. I’ve revisited many of my mother’s magazines in the last few days so I know what to expect and what I want to do.’
‘‘I don’t doubt it. However, I think it’s advisable that I give you the benefit of my many years of experience and explain, what I consider to be, our best options. Agreed?’’
‘‘Yes, of course.’’ I answered, chastened.
Roland was a man who considered his body to be a temple, he was not interested in developing his muscles for show, he was a yoga devotee and a man possessed of remarkable agility and stamina as well as what I would describe as an inner contentment. He had short, thick, white hair and an open enquiring face.
He was also a thoughtful man and very caring. With Roland everything was considered and calculated; the most simple request would be met by his immediate and total attention and when the response came it would be measured and polite.
Roland’s eyes never left me as he calmly described exactly what my first experience of sex would entail. He stopped several times to ask me if I understood or was worried about anything.
‘‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Olivia? If you’re concerned about anything at all, please interrupt me.’’
I wasn’t remotely troubled, quite the opposite, although I didn’t tell him that. In fact, the more he talked the more excited I became.
Finally, we were ready and Roland sent me into the en suite bathroom where a red, fluffy gown, matching towels, and various expensive toiletries and perfume were waiting for me. I showered and when I came out Roland was lying in bed with the bed sheet up to his chest, looking more like a hospital patient than my deflowerer.
The act was exactly as he’d said it would be, if anything a bit mechanical, but nonetheless, I’d taken a quantum leap in my development and was relieved and proud.
Roland re-filled our glasses.
‘‘How do you feel, Olivia?’’ He asked softly.
‘‘I feel very well, Rolly.’’
It was quiet for a while, a pleasant quite, as we processed what we had done. After all, we both had a lot to appraise.
After a few more minutes, I asked him, ‘‘Rolly, now we’ve got that out of the way, I have another question.’’
‘‘The answer is yes, Olivia.’’
That night I couldn’t sleep and was overtaken by a strange feeling; I felt unsettled but couldn’t think why. I woke up with the answer; I was on the cusp of an exciting new adventure, nothing would ever be the same again. I knew this feeling would pass and it did.
So Roland and I carried on where we’d left off and continued to do so for a few years. At the same time Roland began to see less and less of my parents, this I’m certain was his idea.
‘‘Why don’t you and my parents see each other anymore, Rolly?’’ I asked him while sipping from our regular post-intercourse glass of water.
‘‘Ultimately, you have to work at a relationship, Olivia. If you want it to succeed.’’
I thought of Roland a lot and I often asked his opinion on various suitors over the years. Roland was a student of body language so he never actually met any of my budding partners but conducted his appraisals from a nearby restaurant table or bar stool, apparently just another customer scanning a newspaper or book; I never had reason to doubt or question his findings.
One day we were sitting on one of Roland’s balconies, drinking tea when he put his hand on my shoulder,
‘‘Olivia, I have something to say to you.’’
It was obvious what it was. I can’t say I’d been expecting it but I’d known it would come, as sure as day follows night. I’d prepared myself for it as best one could. I was close to a few young men but felt there would always be a place in my life for the older, experienced man.
‘‘I know, Rolly. It had to come.’’
‘‘I’ve given our relationship considerable thought.’’
‘‘I know.’’
‘‘You’re clearly aware of how enormously fond of you I am, Olivia.’’
‘‘Of course, Rolly and I of you.’’
He nodded biting his lip.
Roland was the most honest and open person I’d ever met in my life. Painfully so at times. When someone is painfully honest with me, and men especially tend to be overawed by me, it starts a process in my mind which invariably brings me to the realization that the person in question is right. And so it was with Roland.
Roland’s best years were clearly behind him and eventually he gave up the reins of his business to a couple of nephews and seemed content to potter around in his suite at his New York establishment. Yes, the ‘Olivia’ suite.
I kept in touch with him and stayed with him out there, on several occasions.
The last time, as usual, we sat there drinking a Roland-recommended wine and I told him about my adventures, including my packed love life and, of course, we reminisced about our past.
‘‘Have you ever regretted sleeping with me that first time?’’
‘‘No, Rolly. Never. I treasure that time and often look back on it fondly.’’
Roland took my hand, sighed and leaned back on the sofa and I watched a tear run down his cheek.
‘‘You’re not ill, are you Rolly?’’ I felt the slight warmth of panic cover my face.
‘‘Not ill, but feeling my age a bit.’’
As it turned out, he was ill. That was the first and only time he’d ever lied to me. I know men and Roland was in my all-time top three men and always would be.

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