It was hard to say goodbye to Meeghan. I wouldn’t be gone long—a few days in the Cascades staying at a friend’s place, a sort of reunion of college buddies and work acquaintances. Less than a week. But it was hard to leave my beautiful girlfriend behind.
We had already made love once that morning. I was vaguely aware that it was already full daylight when she got up to use the bathroom, and when she came back she wrapped herself around me, her skin cool from the morning air. I felt her lips on the back of my neck, nuzzling my vertebrae. She had catalogued them the night before—having taken anatomy classes for a massage license—but I had already forgotten the names of the ones she was kissing gently so I would wake up. After a few minutes of this treatment I rolled over on my back and she crawled on top of me, just like that. We had sex and I took a shower and was on to the next thing—packing for my trip—as she lazed in bed with coffee and the paper. She still had her arm around me, and the kiss turned into a long embrace that threatened to become much more. We had fucked for an hour the night before, and had just done it when we woke up—could we possibly do it again? I’m forty-two years old; I can’t do it like I did when I was 20—or so I thought before I met Meeghan.
We’d been lovers for less than two months, and I still couldn’t believe I was with someone like her—a young, beautiful dancer who waitressed in a Union Street restaurant, whose body was strong and lithe, who should be going out with someone closer to her age. Being with her obliterated the signs of middle age that had been making themselves felt. With her I forgot about the slack flesh in my midsection that refused to go away no matter how many sit-ups I did; I stopped feeling like I was too tired to go out in the evening; I forgot about the possibility of not getting a hardon. It wasn’t that she made me feel I was 21 again; she simply made me feel like I was myself, both ageless and young, with all the time in the world. And because she made me feel this way, the one thing I didn’t want to waste was a single opportunity to have sex with her. Especially that morning, when we were going to be apart for the first time.
My cock was stirring, and she knew it. She purred and moved against me, kissed my ear, pushed her hands under my shirt.
“You know,” I said, not really meaning it, “I really should get going.”
“You don’t want to,” she said. “Stay here. What do you want to go up to Seattle for?”
“It’s not Seattle, it’s in the mountains someplace. Argh,” I sighed as she put her hand on my crotch.
“Come on,” she urged. Without waiting for a reply, she unzipped and unbuttoned my trousers and held my cock in her hand. We had been kneeling on the bed as we kissed, and now she pulled away a little, while keeping her hand on me. “You know you want to,” she said, looking at mischievously into my face.
“Are you kidding?” I groaned. “It’s all I want.”
“Mm hmm,” she smiled, kneading my cock through my shorts. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
“I don’t know… Sleep with the waiters at the restaurant. Sleep with the bartender.”
“All the waiters are gay and the bartender is even older than you are.”
“Even older than me! That’s saying something.”
“Anything with you in the sentence is saying something, baby,” she said, placing her other hand behind my head and kissing me again. See, this is the way she made me feel. I was twelve years older than her and it was no more than a joke.
“This is insane,” I protested.
“You drive me crazy too,” she said.
“If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be falling asleep at night in the middle of Oregon.”
I separated myself from her as gently as I could, attempted to stand up, and stumbled backward.
“See, it’s dangerous outside of the bed,” she said, patting the empty place next to her.
“Get thee behind me,” I said, pulling my pants up and going to the bathroom to gather up my toothbrush and razor. I had to pack with some presence of mind, since I was heading to a remote cabin in the woods. I came back into the living room, which also served as the bedroom. Not because the apartment didn’t have a designated bedroom, but because that room was gloomy and painted green, and being in there felt like being underwater. So I had put the bed in the big room, between the couch and the TV on the one hand and the dining area near the kitchen on the other. Right in the middle of the apartment. I like it like that, even if I do have to squeeze a little bit to get to the kitchen.
So the bed being in the middle of the room meant that Meeghan, in all her naked glory, was right in the middle of everything. She had brushed the newspaper off the bed and rolled onto her belly, and lay wiggling her butt in a slow, seductive motion. I stood there shaking my head in disbelief.
“Come over here,” she said. “There’s a rough patch on the back of my leg I want you to look at. Tell me if it’s discolored.”
A thought entered my mind to the effect that if we stopped now, we’d only be hotter for each other by the time I got back. On the other hand, we were already hot for each other. What was better—to hold back, or go out in a blaze of glory? I sat on the edge of the bed and laid my hand on one ass cheek. Her butt was as round and firm as two halves of a melon laid face down. “Where’s this bump, now?”
“I said a rough spot, not a bump. On my leg. The left one. Down the side… the inside. A little higher…” In this way my fingertips reached the tender flesh between her legs. “Oh, what are you doing?” she fretted, as if she didn’t know.
I brushed the backs of my fingers against her labia, noting she had managed to pull a pillow under her abdomen so that I could examine her more easily. “Oh,” she breathed. “Not there.”
“But I think I found a rough spot,” I said innocently, making sure the side of my hand ran up and down her pussy lips. She began making little noises, pretending to disapprove of my touching her there when she had supposedly been inviting me only to inspect her leg.
“This will only take a minute,” I said, something I knew turned her on for some reason. I slipped a fingertip into the lowest part of her crack. It came out wet, and my cock began to stand up. With the other hand I undid the trousers I had refastened only a minute before.
When the pants slid to the floor she gave a little cheer: “Yay!” It was one of her endearing traits, the half ironic little cheer she gave when something pleased her. In the morning I would look through the newspaper for stories that would bring about these cheers—an old lady who had whomped a mugger with her purse, a Hummer driver who somehow got run over by his own vehicle. Once I mentioned to her a story about a hunter who had been fatally gored by a deer he was trying to shoot: “Yay for the deer!”
I put a second finger inside her. “Don’t you dare stop now,” she breathed. Still facing away from me, she drew herself up on hands and knees so I could have a clear shot, and rocked herself back on my hand as I wiggled my fingers inside her.
There is nothing like a woman’s pussy when you have your fingers in her. Nothing in the world feels like it, acts like it—the soft slickness, the warmth, her body’s weight and all of her attention focused on the fulcrum of your fingers, as if she were balanced on that spot. And the mysteries of her insides, the complex shape of her vagina, the different locations magnified to my touch in the same way the tongue imagines the interior of the mouth to be varied and cavernous.
She never touches herself while I do this to her, preferring to plant her palms on the bed and push back. The strong shoulders and arms of her dancer waitress body, tensing against the strength of my wrist and hand. Finally she let herself fall away from me, turning over and opening her legs. I wiped my hand off on the sheet so I could open a condom and put it on. Then I sank into her, and she wrapped her legs around me and drummed her heels on the small of my back as I moved inside her.
I watched her while we fucked: eyes closed and mouth open, her head turning gently from side to side. After a couple of minutes she opened her eyes halfway like a cat, whispering to me, “Let me get on top.”
I plopped down on my back and she straddled me and pulled me inside her. After adjusting to the sensation, she began to ride, her black ponytail bouncing up and down. She loved doing it this way, with her on top. The way she fucked like this was so energetic that occasionally I thought it might not matter much to her who was beneath her—that if it wasn’t me it might well be someone else. But she swore it was better with me—something about the angle of my cock and my body.
I moved gently with her, pushed back at the moments she seemed to want me to, and above all, stayed with it until she came. I wanted her to get a good taste of me before I left.
When she came she liked to really give herself up to it, sometimes striking out blindly with her hands, slapping my chest and shoulders. Since she often rode me like this, I knew it was only a matter of time before she accidentally clocked me, and the danger of this happening, if nothing else, distracted me enough so that I couldn’t quite time my orgasm to match hers. But coming together remained a goal for me, something she thought was funny the time I mentioned it. “Simultaneous orgasm, there’s something so 20th century about that,” she laughed.
*First excerpt of many from my book “How They Scored.”*
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/lit5eq/just_some_straight_up_sex