We’re heading into a muggyish Friday night here. It might rain. It might not. Puts me in mind of another night where rain threatened, but there was still good reason to get out and risk the storm.
Let’s call it a warm-weather month, in 2005. I only remember the exact year because of something she kept saying, once I’d told her my age — a variation on “You’re not 42. You’re 29. That makes this okay.”
She, herself, was 24 — long red hair, fair skin, what you’d either call “curvy” or “chubby” — and you’d not be off the mark, either way. Apparently she had a five-year rule on older men. Equally apparent was that the “rule” wasn’t even a guideline, once we put it to the test.
You’ve heard the first part of the story. It’s a lot like the first part of any decent-sized number of these little narratives. It was around 10 p.m., I couldn’t sleep, and I was on Yahoo Messenger, and both of us were looking for someone to talk to. In her case, she was killing time waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up from a friend’s house, maybe fifteen minutes from here, and he was late.
In my case, I was biding time — talking more or less innocently while she made a couple of drinks and worked through them. If her boyfriend showed up, fine. If he didn’t, well …
He didn’t — at least not by a little after midnight Of course, I offered a ride. Everyone else here was asleep, and I didn’t foresee any problem slipping out for a bit.
There was a pause.
“Okay,” she messaged back. “Since you’re 29.”
She gave me an address and a phone number, and less than a half-hour later she was navigating me onto the street where her friend lived. She got in, looking a bit nervous, and asked if I’d take her to her parents’ house (which was also where she lived), about 20 minutes away They were out of town, she said. Then she took a deep breath and smiled: “But I can trust you, because you’re 29.”
“Exactly. Twenty-nine.”
She didn’t talk much on the way there. We had the streets to ourselves, for the most part. I hadn’t made a move to touch her yet; I was still treading somewhat lightly. I saw lightning a few times, and the wind picked up, but no rain.
We pulled up in front of the house, a nice two-story on a quiet street. She sat for a minute, then asked — again, almost hesitantly — if I wanted to come in. I did, so she took me inside and up to her bedroom. I sat on the bed, still proceeding slowly, not making any move to touch her.
She stood at the foot of the bed, repeating “29” a few times. Then she smiled again, said “Okay, be right back” and ducked into what looked from the outside like a huge walk-in closet. Five minutes later, she came back out. She’d taken her hair out of the ponytail she wore when I first picked her up — and she’d traded her jeans and t-shirt for a short, light purple satin nightie.
I held my position, but she could tell I thought she looked great. She blushed a little, then came and sat next to me on the bed, looking down and away. I decided to risk it, reaching out to gently stroke her hair. She took a deep breath, and I stopped stroking her hair as she held it. Then she breathed out, relaxing, and I slowly moved from stroking her hair to rubbing her shoulders. Another ten minutes, and I felt it was time to lean in, turn her face to mine and kiss her.
It went like that, in small increments, until we were both on the bed, me in boxers and a t-shirt and her still in her nightie and matching panties and I was bending between her thighs to pull her panties to the side and give her soft furry mound a light kiss. She giggled and pushed my head away playfully. I did it again, and this time she didn’t push me away.
I added my tongue to the mix, and eased a finger inside her — and suddenly, she picked the pace wayyyyyyyyyy up.
She pushed my face away again, but this time she followed that up by pulling her panties off, then undressing me. She grabbed a condom out of the nightstand lay back down on the bed, legs open, nightie bunched around her waist, and said “Come here.” I started to go down on her again, and she said, “No, I want you in me now.”
That was soon accomplished, and I lay inside her kissing her for a few minutes before I started to move my hips. After a few minutes in the missionary position, she wanted to try riding me. She slid down on me like a champ, but kept losing the rhythm once she started to get going.
“I’ve never been any good at riding,” she said. “Maybe when I’m 29 I’ll be better at it.”
She rolled back onto her back, and this time the pace was faster after I got into her. She ran her hands down my arms, lightly grazing them with her fingertips, then locked her legs around my back and said “Now, now …”
She wasn’t a moaner, a curser or a gasper. But when she came, she dug her nails into my arms, held her breath and then released it in a long, shaky sigh. We cuddled for a while after that, her head on my chest, until she raised up with another one of those sudden smiles.
“Since you’re only 29, you should be able to go again right now,” she said.
So we did, with me on top the whole time this time, and her breathing and her hips a little faster this time — and when her fingernails found my skin, just before we let go again, , it was with a series of soft insistent rakes down my back.
This time, we spooned for a few minutes. I checked her bedroom clock. It was 3 a.m. — time for me to make my exit, unfortunately. I got dressed in between kissing various parts of her not still covered by the nightie, gave her one more long kiss as she stretched out on the bed and put her arms around my neck, and then slipped out and drove home.
It finally started raining a few blocks from home, and it was pouring when I pulled into the driveway, crept inside and crashed on the recliner with the TV on.
She never told her boyfriend (who had fallen asleep at home and didn’t wake up until the next morning), as far as I knew. We talked a few times online after that, trying to align our schedules for one more round, but within a couple of weeks they’d moved in together. That pretty much ruled out a repeat performance, though we continued to talk for another couple of months — and every time, she reminded me that I was still just 29.
Apparently, he wasn’t ever late again. That was probably a wise move on his part.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/co9thd/4229_another_true_story_xpost_from