A Boy of Her Own
She could hardly believe what the last 72 hours had brought. The suddenness of it, the near cataclysmic change in her world, in her perception of her place in it. The sway and the shock of it rocked her so; it was almost akin to violence. How in the world had she become lover to this much younger man?
They had known each other for awhile now – a year, maybe a little more—had engaged in small talk and the vague kind of flirting two people do when they know there is no. possible. way. …. but find each other attractive nevertheless. She supposed something had been percolating there in the back of her skull. But she had been unaware of its unattended to presence.
Nothing had changed really, other than a slight shift in her work schedule, leaving him and her off at the same time, and her children still safely ensconced in school. She couldn’t really see what had prompted, three days ago, the slight brush of his lips on her cheek as they hugged hello, the trailing of his fingertips once along her neck as he pulled her hair out from the collar of her coat; and again his lips on her neck as they said their goodbyes, so light she was half doubted their tender reality.
A day passed where their paths did not cross and now on this third day they saw each other under completely normal circumstances—he making her coffee as her favorite barista, she browsing the magazines while she waited for him to steam her foam. She watched him from the corner of her eye, the deft way he measured and tapped, the length of his fingers as he snapped on to-go lids. She realized with a start that she was feeling proud of him. Proud of his measured efficiency, the obvious master of his skill.
Pride was a mother’s prerogative. She knew his mother, for crying out loud—had been friends with her in that way that you are friendly with whoever you sit next to regularly in yoga class. Side by side they had lined up their mats, chatting for weeks before she had made the connection that the son her friend spoke of was the handsome young man at her favorite coffee house/bookstore. Small world, indeed. The closeness of the connection made her squirm in discomfort.
As he passed through the line of customers, she sat alongside him at the counter. He pulled orders with confidence, making light conversation with ease. Not long ago he had passed her a mug made warm by his touch. Now it radiated heat into her cupped hands—a prophetic echo of the way her own hands would be cupped around his the heat of his body later that day. How could she have known? How could she have predicted the wrapping of her fingers around the curve of his neck, his protruding hip bone, the hot swell of his cock grown large under her touch.
She stayed at the counter until his shift was over. He had asked her to hang out, to wait for him. Her chest was tight with unspoken possibilities. He was young. So very young. Young enough to take a barista job seriously. Just barely of age, and well below the cougar equation of “half your age plus seven”. This was the common knowledge the magazines seemed to promote about women her age – too young to be old, too old to date college. She rolled her eyes at herself. Ridiculous. She cracked open her book trying to convince herself that nothing would come of this unseemly flirtation. She read while eating her scone in small nibbles.
After his shift they sat and talked books, he consuming an enormous sandwich appropriate only to the metabolism of the young. She tried to ignore the ache in her chest, the hunger at the back of her throat. He asked casually, could he come to her house? Drop off some books he’d found for the kids? They had just arrived at the shop. The next novel in an adventure series. Yet another picture book about dogs for the little one, obsessed with all things canine. She spun the mug in her hands, peering at the dregs in the bottom as if to find guidance amongst their leavings. Yes, she answered. Yes, everyone is gone now, but the kids would be home in a few hours and would be happy to find his gifts on the dining room table. A look passed between them then—not short, not long, but she thought, knowing. Breaking her gaze she gathered her things to go.
At the house she had let him in, dropped her bag on the sofa. Almost as soon as he shut the door, she was on him, and he upon her, his lips like the opening of petals. Their tongues were quick to find one another and the built up heat of the past weeks escaped on their breath. The teased each other with their kisses, their smiles emerging at the fluidity of it all. There were words between them, a brief few about discretion, the probable short lividness of this their small adventure. They did not rush, sinking eventually onto the bed, one that had not seen so much of someone else’s skin for quite some time. They moved through all the lovely, languid overtures, pausing from time to time for her to look at him, for her to stroke his neck. He had moves this young one. Skill beyond her imagining in one so fresh-pressed and new. There was a confidence there he had not previously portrayed, accept amongst the coffee mugs. She knew he would have some experiencing of course, remembering her own years of high school blow jobs followed by door room couplings. But he moved like a man–not like the yoga friend’s son that she had expected. He turned her so her hips aligned with his, quickly pinned her arms above her head, laughed at her surprised smile. Soon his fingers were slipping under the scoop of her shirt, exposing her breasts held aloft these days only by bras with infrastructure. Deftly he sipped them out of her satin cups; his lips too light for skin that had fed children – this the only indicator of inexperience, of a young man’s limited knowledge of women’s ways.
Without even thinking her fingers found the waist band of his jeans, unbuttoned the fly, sank below the edge of his boxers. He moaned ever slightly as her hands slid down and cupped his ass. Kissing her more intensely now as they rolled on their sides, he pulled her leg over his hip, pressing his hardening cock against her. They smiled at each other often now as they continued their journey; he asking her not to feel guilty about the age difference, she surprisingly angst free. This was not love after all, connection yes, but almost entirely physical. Pure sex. For the first time she realized what men meant when men said that it was “just sex.” She felt empowered by the scandalous truth of this reality that was right now before her…under her…perhaps soon to be in her.
He palmed her chin on his fingers, tipped her head up and moaned before burying his face in her neck, sliding his tongue down her throat to the hallow of her collarbone, then descending once more to her breasts. She mentioned almost like an aside, that perhaps he deserved a younger fitter body than her own. For the first time since they’d touched he called her by name, his voice somehow stern, as if shocked by this treasonous thought. Then without another word he returned to his lapping exploration. Looking directly at each other without pretense they ground against each other half-dressed, pants sliding down and skirts hiked high. She moved on top of him to ride him while they kissed and kissed, devouring each other: lips, tongues, earlobes. When her thighs grew tired of the rhythm she slid to her side, licking every inch of available skin until her hands found his velvety hardness. He groaned as she worked him, sank back and surrendered to her touch. She drove the blood into him, drifting over his shaft, cupping his balls, fingering along the edge of his stretched foreskin. Once he touched her hand to slow her, guide her. They entwined their fingers together stroking as one, she growing ever wetter at the unexpected union.
She wasn’t sure how far she wanted to take it, this first coupling with her ridiculously young lover. In fact, she had already called his hand away from the wet lace of her bikinis, his teasing fingers suddenly seeming too close, too intense for the flighty uncertainty that lay within her. These first glimpses at sexual adventure with the barely-twenty set were still new to her, and she was unwilling to surrender herself to the vulnerability that would accompany her cumming under his touch. She was too hesitant to stray too far to fast from the morays of hearth and home. There would be time—hopefully many other times, to build on this delicious adventure. So instead of letting him slide into her, she moved him more forcefully towards his end. She was giddy with the first shinning drops of cum on his cock, swirling the moisture around his tip, using the sweet flow to slicken his shaft as she stroked him. She realized with a bit of a start that she was longing to watch him cum, to see his juices flow. She would have to mop him up with whatever sheeting was at hand. But even the thought of the smear of him in her bed heightened her arousal. She whispered what she wanted in his ear, how he wanted to watch him come, to taste his salty sweetness only after it had seeped between her fingers. His body arched up into her almost before her sentence was done. He gasped at the thought of it, and with just one stroke, and then another her palm was absorbing his hot offering. She slid into the mess eagerly, thrilled by its sticky heat, using the lubrication to swirl her hand a few more times around his tight balls, his pulsing cock, overstimulating him with pure unadulterated desire. Eventually he pulled her away, unable to take another second more of a good thing. He kissed her then, laughing. She slid one wet finger indulgently into her mouth, then slipped one long digit between his own lips bidding him to taste himself on her. She pointed out that perhaps they were being ridiculously inappropriate. He commented that after that experience, he really didn’t care.
He offered to reciprocate, and she declined, saving that sensation for another day, savoring things. They mopped things up then, fixed buttons, adjusted clothes. The agreed to infrequent meetings—surely not dating–but meeting each other as they could. The unspoken anticipation of the next stage, and the next, and the next rested like a gift between them. She was dizzy with the change within her, the sound of her pulse in her ears, the rush of adrenaline in her body. She had forgotten, over this long dry spell the power she had wielded, the pleasure she could offer.
At the door, she slid her tongue around his mouth one more time as they said her goodbyes, and he slipped away before the children came home from school. This gave her time to catch her breath. She moved on with her day–switching the laundry, putting away toys, remaking the bed – all with the memory of his skin against her palm and her body wet beneath her clothes.
