Steamy Stories: A Boy of Her Own

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.

Steamy Stories: Consumption

Consumption

He leaned over my desk this morning, his face serious and still, whispering ideas for another rendezvous.

Sometimes we are like glassy waters, lying placid and every day. Then, suddenly, the boiling starts, the rolling waves of hidden heat. This then, is when hunger overtakes us and we hold an ache behind our breastbones, moaning inwardly at every brush-by of touch or breath.

We touch each other just daringly outside of the sight of others. I lick his neck, drag my hand across his chest. He palm my ass, kisses me quick and silent, just the soft pull of his lips on mine in an abandoned hall. Under conference tables, we slide our hands too high on each other’s thighs, heightening each other’s arousal until finally in some hidden place he twines his fingers in my hair, pulls my head near his skin, kisses me in dangerous places.

Late last night in a haze of heat and pheromones I came to stand behind him at his desk, where he works his vampire hours. He turns his eyes from the glowing screen, spins his chair to face me, his hands up my skirt, past my stockings, and sliding straight inside me in seconds. I am in a haze, just a blur of desire and wetness and the ever deepening ache, ache, ache in my chest, my gut, my thighs. We are playing a dangerous game. I break away from him, pleased as a cat on a hunt, drunk on his desire for me.

But that was just a moment late on a midweek work night. Today we circle each other in the presence of others, steaming like bodies emerging from a hot shower into a cold room. He whispers to me his hours, tells me of the place where he will be alone, most likely with an erection in wait. I thrill at this invitation, at his aggression, his assertiveness.

Instantly I swell, and then I wait. All the long day I wait – meetings unfolding before me, emails, phone calls, small chat around the coffee maker. All my tasks feel like mosquitoes, distracting me from the time and place where I will be his presumed conquest, but truly he will be mine. I wait for the time when his hands will be under my clothes, his lips on my neck, his tongue between my teeth. I will thrill at how he takes my fingers into his mouth, obediently, hungrily. He will want me on his lap then, both of us sitting in his office chair, grinding against the heat of his cock. He will bite my tits, rub his fingers insistent and sticky on my clit until I pulse and cry out, die a little death. I cannot wait to feel his eagerness cut through me, to gasp at his arrival in my void, to rock him to climax deep in my cunt, held tight between my thighs.

“Playmates, not soulmates” is our motto. Still, the urgency of this scares me; the intensity of my need for his body is like one I’ve never known. Unexplainable. Visceral. When I see him through the glass walls of our offices, serving all the long hours to our master, the firm, I yearn. I hunger. I WANT. So what is that then? This thing too intense for play, too insanely carnal for love? Like a beast, it wants to consume, and I am surprised to find myself wiling prey. I realize with a thrill of terror that we are both in the grip of a predator, more than willing to be consumed.

Steamy Stories: The Need of Memory

The Need of Memory

a friday fantasty from the imagination of Miss Virginia Prude

 

I can hardly breathe to think of it, that it was—it is—real. That you wanted me with such unchecked determination. That you spoke my name, one word laden with meaning, hushed like a lover. Like one who loves

 

That you came to me in the night smelling of club and cigarette, all hands and hunger, fingers all places at once, the ache of it with me still. That you drew my leg across your hips, your hand drawing across my thigh, your eyes half asleep. You pressed your lips on my neck, ate my mouth with your lips—so full, so clever. Wrapped your lean arms around me, drew me into your body. The intensity of it leaving me as hazy as a dream.

 

I want to remember: your confessions, your fantasies. That you wanted me in you and on you and you on me and in me. I want to remember your fingers in my hair, lifting it away to reveal my face, turning us in front of the mirror to watch me take you in.

 

I need to remember your smile, breaking like a door that opened to shine a blade of light across your face. So rare to see a man smile in the midst of hunger—pure, impulsive, like a secret joke, a riddle just for two. And your glee…at being under my hand, under my control, submitting to the press of my hands on your wrists, the ever-lengthening stretch of your body, the pressure and stroke of me everywhere while your skin tightened along all the delicate edges. The tension in your voice groaning out your readiness.

 

I need to remember the way you longed for me, with hunger and the need to be touched, to touch, to be lost in the sensation of one another. I need to hold on to the soft touch of your kiss on my inner thigh, of your chin glistening in the bed sheets. The husk of your parched voice asking “Do you like this? This? This?”

 

Will it continue, the richness of these things? Your skin in my mouth, my tongue on your neck, your hands on waist, your lips on my breasts? I hedge against uncertainties, against the vagrancies of personality and time. In case this fails, in case one night is unexpectedly, unforeknowingly, our last. I stokepile memories, rebuilding these things in my mind, in my body until I am sure they are real.

When I was seventeen…it was a very good year.

We were young then, and much in love, those days when he took my fingers into his mouth one by one, his lips a caress and a question. And then, a soft exchange, the pads of his finger tips on my tongue, long fingers, an artist’s hands, which I sucked with long strokes, my naiveté not quite catching the connection to other pleasures in other places.

It was the typical awkwardness of teen love – first times (too dry, too tight), bad angles (back seats, park benches), and of course, the ridiculousness of ‘protection’ (so embarrassing, so silly). In time though, we found our way–I always wet and ready for his touch, eager for new experiences; for the probe and search of his fingers, the paradox of his body at once both velvet and hard. Who can forget those early exploratory couplings? The instinctive arch of your body towards his, the thrust of his hips into your own. And finally, after weeks of near-misses, that first cresting gasp under his touch alone, the wave of your pleasure rolling over his fingers—or better yet, the pulse of your body sliding over his lips, his tongue, his wet and hungry mouth.

I never minded the ways we had to sneak and bumble. Mad couplings in parking lots, me astride him in the bucket seats, his jeans pulled low, my skirt hiked high. It seemed we were always half dressed then, boxers splayed open by a body with a mind of its own; satin things pushed aside, the lace wet with anticipation. Oh! And his army surplus coat used as a picnic blanket to save our backs from grass stains, my knees dented with the impression of pebbles as I sucked him, aroused by the salty drops first on my tongue, then rush in waves to my mouth.

Or if even those small minutes of solitude could not be managed there were always hands slipping behind belts, fingers under waistbands, palms sliding up a thigh and under the hem of loose shorts in the back row of movie theatres, or once, in the high shelter of a ferris wheel stopped mercifully long at the top of its arch.

And of course, almost as sweet as the every-time-we-can coupling were the love letters tucked under windshield wipers, flowers left on doorstops, silly stuffed animals with red satin hearts. And the phone calls, so long one of us would fall asleep on the other end. Or the heated glances across the classrooms–too obvious by far to other students and to teachers who turned towards the blackboard and rolled their eyes. Novel then, and thrilling were the kisses behind locker doors, hands held at orange picnic tables over Snickers bars and Diet Cokes.

Then always, after a week of those fine preludes, the weekends would arrive, when curfews lengthened and parents went out leaving behind empty rooms. There in whatever space could be stolen, there awaited the damp pull of skin against skin, and the new moans of hunger in the dark.