The milf fantasy of a teenager and what became of it

Introduction: This is my first attempt at writing at story of any kind, yet an erotic one. If youu have constructive commentary and suggestion, they are more then welcome. Hope you will like it. The first time I ever laid eyes on Jane Sumners, I was twelve years old and covered in grass clippings. Bob Sumners had hired me to mow their lawn for twenty bucks a pop-good money for a kid whose only other option was bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. The Summers' place sat on a double lot at the end of our cul-de-sac, a sprawling ranch house with a kidney-shaped pool that glittered turquoise in the Georgia sun. I remember standing on their front porch, my dad's old push mower waiting in the driveway, when the door swung open and there she was. Jane Sumners was forty-nine then. Tall for a woman-five-ten in her bare feet-with legs that went on forever and a flat stomach that belonged on a magazine cover. Her hair was honey-blonde, streaked with the kind of highlights that came from actual sunlight, and she wore it loose, falling past her shoulders in waves that caught the breeze. But what really stopped my twelve-year-old heart dead in my chest were her breasts. Full, heavy D-cups that sat high on her ribcage, the kind of breasts that made you understand why men wrote poetry about mountains and curves and the soft geography of a woman's body. I didn't know any of those words then. I just knew my mouth went dry. "You must be John," she'd said, and her voice was sweet tea with lemon-warm and sharp at the same time. "Bob's told me all about you. Come on in, sweetheart, I'll show you where the lemonade is." That was the beginning. Six years of mowing their lawn, trimming their hedges, cleaning their gutters. Six years of watching Jane Sumners move through her world like she owned it-confident, graceful, completely unaware that she'd ruined me for every other woman I'd ever meet. And now Bob was gone. Heart attack, eight months ago. Fast and quiet. The neighborhood had rallied around her-casseroles, condolence cards, offers to help with anything she needed. I'd gone to the funeral in a borrowed suit that was too tight in the shoulders, and when I'd shaken her hand at the reception, her fingers had been cold and still, like she wasn't quite all there. I kept mowing the lawn. Couldn't stop, didn't want to. The money was still tucked under the welcome mat every other Friday, same as always, and I told myself I was just being neighborly. Just helping out a widow who needed someone to handle the heavy lifting. Lying to yourself gets easier with practice. --- This spring, she'd asked me to take over the pool maintenance too. "Bob used to do it," she'd said, standing in her kitchen doorway with a cup of coffee cradled in both hands. Her hair was shorter now, cut to her shoulders, but the rest of her was the same-those long legs, that flat stomach, those heavy breasts resting against the thin cotton of her sundress. "I'd pay you extra, of course. I just... I can't stand the thought of it going green." "Yes, ma'am," I'd said. "No problem at all." So here I was, early June, the Georgia heat pressing down like a wet blanket, skimming leaves off the surface of the pool while the sun baked my bare shoulders. I'd stopped wearing a shirt while I worked sometime in May-the humidity was brutal, and besides, it wasn't like anyone was watching. The screen door slid open behind me. "John? You out here?" I turned, the skimmer pole still in my hands. Jane stood on the patio in a white thong bikini that was barely more than dental floss and three triangles of fabric. Her skin was tan, sun-kissed to a golden brown that gleamed with the faint sheen of sunscreen, and her long legs seemed to stretch up forever from the flagstones. The bikini top cupped her breasts like a dare, the fabric straining to contain them, and I could see the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the white material-pencil erasers, I thought, and then immediately tried to unthink it. "Just finishing up the skimming," I managed, my voice cracking slightly on the last word. Eighteen years old and still sounding like a goddamn teenager. "Take your time." She settled herself onto one of the lounge chairs, adjusting the back so she could lie on her stomach. Her ass was round and firm, the thin strip of her thong disappearing between cheeks that were still tight for a woman her age. She'd taken care of herself-yoga, probably, or pilates, or just good genes. Whatever it was, it worked. "It's too hot for anything else." I went back to skimming, trying not to watch as she reached behind her back and untied the strings of her bikini top. Trying and failing. The fabric fell away, the triangles dropping to either side of her body, and even from fifteen feet away I could see the swell of her breasts pressing against the lounge chair cushion. The side of her right breast was visible, the tanned skin giving way to a paler strip where the sun couldn't reach, and the curve of it was heavy and full, the weight of it settling naturally against the cushion's weave. I adjusted my grip on the skimmer pole. Adjusted my stance. Adjusted everything I could think of, because there was no hiding the fact that I was getting hard. My board shorts-the only thing I was wearing-were suddenly too tight, the fabric tenting in a way that was impossible to miss. "John?" Jane's voice was muffled, her face turned to the side on the cushion. "Would you be a dear and help me with something?" "What's that, Mrs. Sumners?" "Jane," she corrected, for maybe the hundredth time in six years. "I've got sunscreen here, but I can't reach my back. Would you mind?" The bottle was sitting on the small table beside her lounge chair. White bottle, green label, SPF 50. I'd seen it a thousand times. "I, uh." I cleared my throat. "Sure. Let me just-" I set the skimmer pole down carefully against the pool fence, then walked over to her. Each step felt like wading through molasses. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a steady thud-thud-thud that I was sure she could hear, and my erection was pressing insistently against the front of my shorts, a ridge that was all too visible. But she was face-down on the lounge chair, her eyes closed, her arms folded under her head. She couldn't see me. Couldn't see what she was doing to me. "Go ahead," she murmured. "Start with my shoulders. I've been feeling so tight lately." I squeezed a dollop of sunscreen into my palm. The lotion was cool against my skin, and I rubbed my hands together to warm it before touching her. Her shoulders were smooth under my fingers, the muscles tight with tension. I worked the sunscreen in slow circles, feeling the knots beneath her skin, the way she sighed and relaxed under my touch. The back of her neck was slender, the fine hairs at her nape slightly damp with sweat, and I massaged the lotion there too, my thumbs pressing gently into the hollow at the base of her skull. "That feels wonderful," she breathed. "You've got good hands." "Thank you, ma'am." "Jane." "Jane." My palms moved lower, spreading sunscreen across her shoulder blades, down the elegant line of her spine. Her skin was warm from the sun, soft and smooth, and I could feel the ridges of her vertebrae beneath my fingers. She shifted slightly, her hips rolling on the cushion, and the movement made her ass cheeks part just enough that I could see the thong's string pulled taut between them. I was so hard it hurt. "Make sure you get the sides," she said, her voice lazy and content. "I always burn there, right where the-" She gestured vaguely, and I knew what she meant. The outer curves of her breasts, where the sun caught the skin just beside her bikini top. The areas I hadn't dared to touch yet. "Got it," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. I applied more sunscreen to my hands. Then I reached down, my fingers sliding along the sides of her ribcage, and as I did, the outer swell of her breast pressed against the edge of my palm. Soft. God, so soft. Heavy and warm, the flesh yielding under the slightest pressure, and I could feel the weight of it, the fullness, the way it spread slightly against the cushion as she breathed. My dick throbbed. "That's the spot," Jane murmured. "Right there. Rub it in good." I worked the sunscreen into the sides of her breasts, my fingers tracing the curve where they met her ribcage. Her skin was impossibly smooth here, pale and untouched by the sun, and I could feel the faint texture of stretch marks-silver lines, thin as spider silk-that spoke of age and time and the body's slow changes. The weight of her breasts pulled them slightly to the sides, gravity working on the heavy tissue, and when I pressed just a little deeper, my fingertips brushed the very edge of her areola. She inhaled sharply. A tiny sound, almost imperceptible. I pulled my hands back. "Sorry, did I-" "No." Her voice was different now. Lower. "You're doing fine. Keep going." Keep going. I could do that. "Your legs," I said, moving around to the foot of the lounge chair. "You said you needed sunscreen there too?" "Mmm. All over. I burn so easily." I started with her calves, working the lotion into her smooth skin. Her legs were long and lean, the muscles defined without being bulky, and I massaged my way up slowly-her ankles, her shins, the backs of her knees. She sighed again, a sound of pure contentment, and I felt her relax completely under my touch. Her thighs. That was where she wanted me. I squeezed more sunscreen into my palm. My hands were shaking now, just a little, and I pressed them together to steady myself. "Higher," she said. I moved my hands up her thighs, the skin growing warmer, softer. The muscles here were thicker, the flesh more giving, and I could feel the slight give of cellulite-faint dimples, barely visible-that only made her more real. More human. More beautiful. "Higher." My fingers were inches from her ass now. The thong's string bisected her cheeks, and I could see the way they curved, the way the flesh mounded on either side of the fabric, the way the lower curve creased where her thigh met her buttock. The skin was tan, smooth, dusted with the finest golden hairs that caught the sunlight. "Higher, John." I moved my hands up to the very tops of her thighs. The sunscreen was slick, making my fingers glide, and when I shifted position, my knuckles brushed against the fabric of her thong. She spread her legs. Not much. Just a few inches. But enough. "Inner thighs," she said, and her voice had gone husky. "That's where I really need it. Right there." My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. I worked my hands between her legs, my fingers pressing into the soft skin of her inner thighs. She was warm here-hot, almost-and I could feel the heat radiating from her core. The sunscreen made everything slick, my fingers sliding easily, and she parted her legs wider, letting me reach further. "Higher." I was inches from her pussy now. I could feel the fabric of her thong against my knuckles, damp with something that wasn't sunscreen. The scent of her rose up-musky, salty, sweet-and I could see the way the white fabric clung to her, the lips of her sex pressing against the thin material. "Right there," she breathed. "Don't stop." My fingers traced the crease where her thigh met her body. Higher. Closer. The sunscreen was gone, rubbed into her skin, but I kept moving my hands, kept touching, kept- Jane turned over. One fluid motion, rolling onto her back, and suddenly I was staring down at her naked breasts. They were magnificent. Heavy and full and pendulous, the D-cups settling naturally against her chest, the nipples large and prominent-pencil erasers, just like I'd imagined-and dark pink against the tan of her skin. The areolas were the size of silver dollars, slightly puckered, and as I watched, they tightened further, the nipples drawing up into hard peaks. I froze. My hands were still between her legs, my fingers a breath away from her pussy, and my erection was standing out from my body like a flagpole, completely unhidden, completely obvious. Jane looked at it. Looked at me. "You must have an erection now," she said, and her voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. "Remove your shorts and show me." I couldn't move. Couldn't think. My brain had short-circuited, all the blood rushing south, and I just stared at her breasts, at the way they moved with each breath, at the way her nipples pointed toward the sky. "John." Her voice was sharper now. "I said, show me." My hands moved of their own accord. The drawstring of my board shorts came loose, and I pushed them down, letting them fall around my ankles. My dick sprang free. Eight inches, thick as her wrist, with a slight upward curve and a head that was already slick with precum. The veins stood out along the shaft, pulsing with my heartbeat, and my balls hung heavy beneath, drawn up tight against my body. Jane made a sound. A low hum in the back of her throat. Then she crooked her finger at me. "Come here." I stepped out of my shorts, naked now except for the sun on my skin, and moved closer. She didn't sit up. Didn't move at all, except to reach out and take hold of me. Her fingers wrapped around my shaft. Firm. Warm. She pulled me closer, her thumb swiping across the head to gather the precum, and then she leaned forward and took me into her mouth. "Oh, fuck," I breathed. Her lips closed around me, warm and wet, and her tongue pressed against the underside of my shaft. She sucked, hard, her cheeks hollowing, and the sensation was so intense that my knees nearly buckled. I grabbed the back of the lounge chair for support, my fingers digging into the plastic, and Jane made a soft, satisfied sound-mmph-as she took me deeper. She was good at this. Expert. Her head bobbed, her hand stroking what she couldn't fit in her mouth, and her tongue worked in tight spirals around the head every time she pulled back. She didn't hurry. Didn't rush. She just sucked me with the kind of patient skill that came from decades of practice, and I could feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, tight and hot and inevitable. "Jane," I gasped. "I'm gonna-I'm close-" She didn't stop. Just looked up at me, her eyes dark, and took me deeper still. Her throat opened around me, the muscles squeezing, and that was it. I came. The orgasm hit me like a freight train, blasting up from my balls and out through my shaft in thick, pulsing jets. My vision went white. My hips bucked, driving deeper into her mouth, and I could feel her swallowing around me, could feel the way her throat worked to take everything I gave her. She swallowed it all. Every drop. When the last spasm faded, she pulled back slowly, her lips sliding off me with a soft pop. A thread of saliva connected us for a moment before breaking. She licked her lips, a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue, and then she smiled. "You have a great dick, John." I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. I just stood there, my softening cock glistening with her spit, and tried to remember how words worked. She stood up. The thong still clung to her hips, wet and clinging, and she wrapped her hand around my dick again-firm, possessive-and tugged. "Come inside." I followed. What else could I do? She was leading me by the cock, drawing me toward the sliding glass door of the patio, and my feet moved on autopilot. The house was cool and dim after the blaze of the sun, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my skin, and the tile floor was smooth under my bare feet. The living room. A beige sofa with overstuffed cushions. Jane stopped in front of it, released me, and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her thong. One smooth motion and the scrap of fabric fell to the floor. She knelt on the sofa, facing away from me, her hands braced on the back cushions. Her ass was presented to me-round, tan, the cheeks parting slightly as she arched her back-and between her legs, her pussy was bare and glistening. She was shaved completely smooth. The lips of her sex were full and meaty, the outer labia plump and swollen, and her arousal had slicked everything, the flesh gleaming with moisture. The inner lips were visible, a darker pink, protruding slightly from between the plump outer folds, and her clit was a small, hard button at the apex, peeking out from under its hood. "John." She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes hungry. "Fuck me." I pinched my arm. Hard. The pain was sharp and real, cutting through the fog of disbelief. Not dreaming. This was happening. I moved behind her, my cock already hardening again, and positioned myself at her entrance. The head of my dick pressed against her slick folds, and she pushed back against me, a low moan escaping her lips. "Mmm, yes. Put it in." I pushed forward. She was tight. Tight and hot and impossibly wet, her pussy gripping me as I slid inside. The inner lips wrapped around my shaft, clinging to me, and I could feel every ridge and fold of her interior as I sank deeper. Her vaginal walls were velvety, textured, and they squeezed me in rhythmic pulses as I bottomed out inside her. "Fuuuck," I groaned. "Jane, you feel-" "Don't talk," she gasped. "Just fuck me. Fuck me hard." I pulled back and thrust forward again, establishing a rhythm. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the room-wet, obscene, the slap of my hips against her ass-and Jane's moans rose in pitch with every stroke. Her breasts swung beneath her, the heavy D-cups swaying with the motion, and I reached around to cup them, my fingers sinking into the soft flesh. Her nipples were hard as pebbles, the pencil eraser tips pressing into my palms. I pinched them, rolling them between my fingers, and she cried out. "Yes! Oh, yes, right there!" I drove into her harder. Deeper. The angle let me hit something inside her-a rough patch on the front wall of her pussy-and every time I stroked across it, she shuddered. Her ass bounced against my hips with each thrust, the cheeks rippling with the impact, slight jiggles that lingered for a heartbeat before the next impact. "I'm close," she panted. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop, I'm so fucking close-" Her pussy clamped down on me. The walls spasmed, milking my shaft, and she let out a wail that was half-scream, half-sob. Her whole body shook, her legs trembling, her hands gripping the back of the sofa so hard her knuckles went white. The orgasm rolled through her in waves-I could feel them, the rhythmic clenching of her muscles around my cock-and she threw her head back, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck!" I held still inside her, letting her ride it out. Her inner walls pulsed around me, squeezing and releasing, and I could feel the rush of fluid-hot, copious-that soaked my shaft and dripped down my balls. When her tremors finally subsided, I pulled out of her. My cock glistened with her juices, slick and dripping, and she collapsed forward onto the sofa cushions, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Turn over," I said. She did. Rolled onto her back, her legs falling open, and I dropped to my knees between them. Her pussy was a work of art. Swollen and flushed, the outer lips puffy and parted, the inner lips protruding like delicate flower petals. Her clitoris was fully exposed now-a prominent button, pink and glistening, the hood pulled back-and her opening was still slightly gaped from my cock, the muscles contracting slowly. Everything was soaked, drenched, her arousal mixed with the fluid from her orgasm, and the scent of her filled my nose-musky, feminine, intoxicating. I lowered my mouth to her. "Oh, God," she breathed, her hands finding my hair. I licked her slowly. From the base of her opening all the way up to her clit, my tongue flat against her folds, tasting her fully for the first time. She was salty and sweet and slightly metallic, the taste spreading across my tongue, and when I reached her clit, I closed my lips around it and sucked. She bucked against my face. "Fuck! John!" I worked her with my mouth and fingers. Two fingers inside her, curling upward to stroke that rough patch on her front wall, while my tongue circled her clit in tight spirals. Her hips moved against me, her thighs clamping around my head, and her moans became incoherent-just broken syllables and sharp gasps, her voice rising higher and higher. She was close again. I could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around my fingers, in the way her clit pulsed against my tongue, in the way her breathing hitched and stuttered. I sucked harder on her clit, my fingers pumping faster, and she came apart. This time, she squirted. A gush of fluid erupted from her, soaking my mouth and chin and dripping down my neck. She cried out, a keening wail that echoed off the living room walls, and I kept licking her through it, kept sucking on her clit, kept milking the orgasm from her until she was shuddering and gasping and pushing at my head. "Stop, stop, I can't-too sensitive-" But I didn't stop. I rose up, grabbed her legs, and pushed them back against her chest. Her pussy was spread open before me, the meaty lips engorged and glistening, the opening fluttering with residual spasms. I positioned my cock at her entrance and drove inside in one hard thrust. "Ahhhn!" Her cry was half-pain, half-pleasure. "So deep!" I fucked her hard. No finesse, no rhythm, just raw, desperate pounding. The sofa creaked beneath us. My balls slapped against her ass with every thrust. Her breasts jostled with the motion, the heavy D-cups bouncing and swaying and jiggling, and I watched them move, watched the way the flesh rippled with each impact. Jane's eyes were wide, her mouth open, her face flushed. She was babbling now-please and yes and don't stop and harder and fuck me and more more more-and her pussy was gripping me like a fist, the inner walls clamping down in irregular spasms. I could feel my own orgasm building. The pressure in my balls was immense, a tight, hot knot that was about to burst. "Where?" I gasped. "Jane, where do you want it?" "Inside me! Fill me up! I want to feel it, I want to feel you come inside me!" That was all I needed. I buried myself deep, pushing past her cervix into territory that made her gasp and shudder, and I came. The first jet was massive-thick, white, pouring into her in a flood. I kept pumping, kept emptying myself into her, and I could feel my cum filling her, a sloshing wetness that made obscene sounds as I continued to thrust. My cum was thick and gluey, enormous globs of it that seemed to go on forever. More than she could possibly hold, and as I kept pumping, some of it spilled out around my shaft, dripping down between us in white rivulets. "Yes, yes, yes," she chanted. "Don't stop, oh God, fill me up, I can feel it, it's so warm-" She was coming again. Even as I finished, her pussy spasmed around me, milking the last drops from my shaft. The orgasm seemed to roll through her in waves-climax after climax, each one triggered by the one before, until she was nothing but a trembling, gasping mess beneath me. I collapsed on top of her. My chest pressed against her breasts, our sweat-slicked skin sliding together, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me into a kiss. Her tongue was in my mouth. Tasting herself on my lips. Tasting me. The kiss was deep and hungry, tongues sliding together, and I could feel her heart hammering against my chest in time with my own. When we finally broke for air, she was smiling. A real smile, the kind that reached her eyes. "I needed that," she said, her voice hoarse. "I needed that for a long time." Before I could answer, she pushed at my chest. "Now get up. We're not done yet." I couldn't believe it. Even now, standing in her living room with my cock still slick and my legs still shaking, I couldn't wrap my head around what had just happened. The object of every fantasy I'd had for the last six years-every sleepless night, every furtive glance through her fence, every guilty jerk-off session in my bedroom with her image burned behind my eyelids-had just blown me without asking. Had swallowed my cum like it was nothing. Had begged me to fuck her, had come three times around my cock, had squirted on my face, and now she was telling me we weren't done. My brain was a scrambled mess of static and heat. Jane slid off the sofa, her body moving with that easy grace she'd always had, even now-especially now-with her skin flushed and her hair a wild tangle and her inner thighs glazed with the slow drip of my cum. She didn't bother covering herself. Didn't seem to care that she was naked, that her heavy D-cup breasts swayed with each step, that her shaved pussy was still puffy and parted, the inner lips glistening and slightly protruding. She just walked toward the kitchen like it was any other afternoon. I followed because I didn't know what else to do. The kitchen was bright, sunlight streaming through the bay window over the sink, and Jane pulled two glasses from the cabinet. The same glasses she'd used a hundred times before-thick glass, faint blue tint, the ones she always filled with lemonade on hot summer afternoons. She poured from a pitcher in the fridge, the ice cubes clinking against the glass, and when she turned to hand me one, her nipples were still hard. Those pencil-eraser tips, dark pink against her tan, pointing right at me like accusations. "Drink," she said. Her voice was hoarse from all that screaming. "You're going to need your energy." I took the glass and drank. The lemonade was cold and tart, cutting through the haze in my head, and I watched her over the rim as she took a sip of her own. Her throat moved as she swallowed. The same throat that had just been wrapped around my cock. She set her glass down on the counter with a soft clink. Then she dropped to her knees. No hesitation. No preamble. Just those long legs folding beneath her, the tile floor meeting her knees, and her hand reaching out to take hold of me. I was half-hard already-had been since she'd pushed me off the sofa-but the sight of her on her knees in front of me, naked and hungry-eyed, sent the blood rushing south so fast I got lightheaded. "Finish your drink," she murmured, and then her mouth was on me. "Oh, fuck," I breathed, the glass nearly slipping from my fingers. Her lips closed around the head of my cock, warm and wet, and her tongue did that spiraling thing again-tight circles around the ridge, flicking at the sensitive spot just beneath. She sucked, her cheeks hollowing, and I could feel myself thickening, hardening, filling her mouth inch by inch. My free hand found the counter's edge and gripped it hard. I raised the glass to my lips and drank. It was surreal-standing in her kitchen, lemonade cold on my tongue, while a fifty-five-year-old widow sucked my dick like she'd been starving for it. Her head bobbed, her hand stroking the base of my shaft in time with her mouth, and she made these little sounds-mmph, mmm-that vibrated through my cock and up into my spine. The lemonade was gone. I set the glass down before I dropped it. Jane pulled back with a soft pop, her lips slick and parted. "There. That's better." She stood, her knees faintly red from the tile, and then she hopped up onto the kitchen island. The island was granite-topped, an expanse of cool gray stone that dominated the center of the kitchen. Jane sat on it, her ass flattening against the stone, and then she leaned back on her hands and spread her legs wide. Her pussy was right there. Swollen and flushed, the meaty outer lips parted, the inner lips protruding like delicate pink petals, and everything was drenched-her arousal, my cum from earlier, all of it mixing into a slick, glistening mess that dripped slowly onto the granite. Her clitoris was fully exposed, a prominent button that seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, and the hood was pulled back so far it almost disappeared. The opening of her vagina was slightly gaped, the muscles still lax from the pounding I'd given her, and I could see the faint flutter of contractions deep inside. "Don't make a lady wait," she said. I didn't. I crossed the kitchen in two strides and stepped between her legs. Her thighs were warm against my hips, the skin smooth and tanned, and I could smell her-musky and sweet and salty, the scent of sex and sweat and something deeper. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my mouth to hers. The kiss was filthy. Open-mouthed, tongues sliding, her teeth catching my lower lip and biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. I could taste the lemonade on her breath, and beneath that, the faint salt of my own cum. Her hands were in my hair, pulling, and my hands found her breasts. God, her breasts. Heavy and full and so soft, the weight of them settling into my palms like they belonged there. I kneaded them, my thumbs circling her nipples, and she moaned into my mouth. The sound vibrated through me, a low hum that I felt in my chest, and I broke the kiss to lower my mouth to her nipple. "Yes," she hissed. "Suck them." I did. I took her left nipple into my mouth and sucked, hard, my tongue flicking at the stiff peak. Her areola was large against my lips-the size of a silver dollar, slightly puckered-and I could feel the tiny bumps of her Montgomery glands against my tongue. She arched into me, her back bowing, and her fingers tightened in my hair. "The other one," she gasped. "Don't forget the other one." I switched. Her right nipple was just as hard, just as responsive, and I sucked on it while my hand continued to work her left breast. The flesh was so full I couldn't hold all of it-it spilled between my fingers, soft and heavy, the skin faintly lined with stretch marks that traced silver paths across the tan. My cock was pressing against her thigh now, hard and insistent. I didn't need to look down to know it was ready-I could feel the throb of it, the way the head was already slick with precum, the way my balls were drawn up tight. Jane must have felt it too, because she reached down and wrapped her hand around me, guiding me to her entrance. "Put it in," she breathed. "Fuck me, John. Right here on the counter." I pushed forward. She was still loose from before, still wet, and I slid inside her in one smooth motion. The inner lips clung to my shaft, wrapping around me, and I could feel the way her vaginal walls gave and then gripped, adjusting to my size. She was hot inside-so hot it was almost uncomfortable, the heat of her body a furnace around my cock. "Aahn~" Her head fell back, her throat exposed. "So deep. You're so deep like this." The angle was different. On the counter, with her legs spread and me standing, I could hit something inside her that I hadn't reached before. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her ankles hooking behind my back, and she pulled me deeper, her heels digging into my ass. I started to move. The rhythm came naturally. Slow at first, long strokes that pulled me almost all the way out before sliding back in, and then faster, harder, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the kitchen. Slap-slap-slap. Wet and obscene. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, the heavy D-cups swaying and jiggling, the nipples tracing arcs in the air. I leaned forward and caught one in my mouth again, sucking as I fucked her, and she cried out. "Yes! Right there, don't stop, don't you fucking stop!" Her pussy was gripping me. The inner walls pulsed, squeezing my shaft in rhythmic waves, and I could feel her getting close. Her breathing went ragged, her moans rising in pitch, and her nails dug into my shoulders. "I'm gonna come," she panted. "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, I'm-oh, fuck, I'm coming!" Her body went rigid. Her back arched off the counter, her thighs clamped around my waist, and her pussy spasmed around my cock so hard it almost pushed me out. The contractions came in waves-clench, release, clench-and I could feel the rush of fluid as she squirted, a hot gush that soaked my groin and dripped down my legs. She wailed, a keening cry that echoed off the kitchen walls, and then she collapsed back onto the granite, her chest heaving. But I wasn't done. Neither was she. "Off," she gasped, pushing at my chest. "Get off. The table." I pulled out of her slowly. My cock emerged from her pussy with a wet, sucking sound, and a trickle of fluid followed-her cum, my cum, everything mixed together. Her inner lips clung to me for a moment before releasing, and her opening gaped slightly, the pink interior visible for a heartbeat before the muscles contracted closed. She slid off the counter, her legs trembling, and walked toward the dining room. The table was solid oak, heavy and dark, and she leaned over it, her chest pressing against the wood, her ass presented to me. The position made her cheeks part, the cleft between them deep and shadowed, and I could see everything-her still-dripping pussy, her perineum, and the tight, puckered star of her anus. Her anus was small and pink-brown, the skin slightly darker than the rest of her, and it was smooth-no hair, no wrinkles, just a tight little pucker that clenched as I watched. The cheeks themselves were round and still firm for a woman her age, but when she leaned forward and arched her back, they spread naturally, the flesh yielding to gravity. She reached back with both hands and spread herself wider. Her fingers dug into the meat of her ass, pulling the cheeks apart, and her anus stretched slightly with the motion, the tight ring of muscle becoming more visible. "I want you in my ass," she said. "Now." My cock throbbed. "Are you sure? I mean, have you-" "I've done it before." She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes dark with hunger. "With Bob. Years ago. I know what I can take." A pause. "And I want what you've got." I moved behind her. My fingers found her pussy first, sliding through the slick mess of our combined fluids, and I coated them thoroughly before bringing them to her anus. The pucker was tight-very tight-and when I pressed one finger against it, the muscle resisted. "Relax," I murmured. "Just breathe." She exhaled, long and slow, and I felt the ring of muscle loosen. My finger slid inside. She was hot. Tighter here than in her pussy, the walls smooth and gripping, and I could feel the curve of her rectal canal as I pushed deeper. She made a sound-half-gasp, half-moan-and her fingers tightened on her own ass cheeks. "More," she breathed. "Give me more." I worked a second finger inside. Then a third. The stretch was visible-her anus spreading around my fingers, the pink-brown skin going taut-and I could feel her body adjusting, the muscle yielding inch by inch. By the time I had four fingers inside her, she was panting, her hips rocking back against my hand. "You're going to come like this," I said. "Aren't you?" "Yes. Yes. Keep going, don't stop, I'm so close-" I fucked her ass with my fingers. Slow, deep strokes, my knuckles pressing against the tight walls, and she came with a guttural cry. Her pussy gushed fluid-another squirt, soaking my wrist and splashing onto the floor-and her anus clamped down around my fingers so hard I could feel the individual muscles contracting. I didn't give her time to recover. I pulled my fingers out, slicked my cock with the fluids from her pussy, and pressed the head against her anus. "Ready?" "Just fucking put it in." I pushed. The head of my cock stretched her open. The tight ring of muscle resisted for a moment-a moment of pressure, of tension-and then it gave, and I was inside her. Just the tip. Two inches. The heat was incredible, tighter than her pussy, tighter than anything I'd ever felt, and Jane made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "More," she gasped. "Keep going." I pushed deeper. Slowly. An inch. Another inch. I watched her face, watched for any sign of pain, but all I saw was pleasure-her eyes half-closed, her mouth open, her breath coming in sharp pants. Her ass stretched around me, the skin going taut, and I could see the way my shaft disappeared into her, the way her body took me in. Three inches. Four. I was halfway there, and her anal walls were gripping me like a fist. The sensation was unreal-a smooth, tight channel, no ridges or folds like her pussy, just relentless pressure and heat. My balls were tight against my body, my heart hammering in my chest. "All the way," she demanded. "Give me all of it." I pushed until I was buried to the hilt. My hips pressed against her ass, the cheeks flattening against me, and I stayed there, letting her adjust. Her inner muscles fluttered around my shaft, tiny spasms that traveled from base to tip, and she let out a long, shuddering breath. "Okay," she said. "Fuck my ass. Slow at first." I pulled back, then pushed forward. The friction was intense-no natural lubricant here, just the slickness from her pussy-and I could feel every inch of her anal walls gripping me. I established a rhythm, slow and steady, and Jane's moans rose with each thrust. "Harder," she breathed. "You don't have to be gentle. Fuck my ass hard." I did. I picked up speed, my hips slapping against her ass cheeks with each thrust, and the sound filled the dining room-wet, obscene, the slap of skin on skin. Her cheeks bounced with the impact, rippling slightly with each strike, the fuller flesh jiggling in the aftermath. My balls swung forward to slap against her pussy, and with each impact, a spray of fluid-her arousal mixed with my cum from earlier-splashed against my thighs. She was coming. I could feel it. Her anal walls were spasming around me, milking my cock, and her pussy was gushing fluid in rhythmic pulses. She was wailing, her voice cracking, her hands gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles were white. "Fuck-fuck-fuck, don't stop, don't stop, I'm coming again, I'm always fucking coming!" The orgasms were rolling through her in waves-one after another, each one triggering the next. Her body shook. Her legs trembled. Her ass clenched around my cock so hard I could barely move. And through it all, she kept babbling-yes and please and fuck my ass and harder deeper more- I felt my own climax building. The pressure in my balls was immense, a tight, hot knot that was about to burst. "Jane," I gasped. "Where? Where do you want it?" She pushed back against me, forcing me out of her ass. Then she turned around, her body moving fast despite her trembling legs, and dropped to her knees on the dining room floor. "On my face." She looked up at me, her mouth open, her tongue extended. "Cover my face with it. I want to feel it. I want to wear it." That was all it took. My cock jerked in my hand, and I came. The first jet was enormous-a thick, gluey rope of white that splashed across her forehead and dripped down into her hair. The second hit her cheek, coating the right side of her face from her eye to her jaw. The third landed on her waiting tongue, filling her mouth so fast it overflowed, spilling down her chin. I kept pumping, kept emptying myself onto her, and the cum just kept coming-massive globs of it, thick and sticky, more than I'd ever produced in my life. Her face was covered. Her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her chin-all of it glazed with white, the thick semen dripping in slow rivulets down her neck and onto her breasts. Her tongue was still out, still catching what she could, but there was too much, way too much, and it kept coming, spurt after spurt, until finally-finally-the last pulse left me, and I staggered back against the kitchen counter, gasping for breath. Jane stayed on her knees. Her eyes were closed, her face a mask of cum, and she was smiling. A slow, satisfied smile. "Mmm," she hummed, and swallowed what was in her mouth. "That's what I wanted." She stood. Cum dripped from her chin, falling onto her breasts, tracing white lines down the tan curves. She didn't bother wiping it away. Just looked at me with those dark eyes, still hungry, still not done. "We need a shower," she said. --- The master bathroom was something out of a magazine. I'd never been in here before-never had a reason to-and as Jane led me through the bedroom and into the adjoining bath, I couldn't help but stare. The shower was enormous, a glass-walled enclosure big enough for four people, with rainfall showerheads mounted on the ceiling and body jets lining the walls. The tile was a soft gray marble, veined with white, and the floor was heated-I could feel the warmth through my bare feet. Jane turned the water on. Steam filled the enclosure almost immediately, fogging the glass, and she stepped inside, pulling me after her by the hand. The water was perfect. Hot, but not scalding, and it pounded down on us from above. Jane tilted her face into the spray, letting the water wash away the cum. It slid off her skin in white streaks, dissolving and disappearing down the drain, and when her face was clean, she turned to me. Her hands found my chest. My shoulders. My arms. She traced the lines of my muscles, her fingers light, exploring, and then she pulled me down into a kiss. It was different this time. Slower. Softer. Her tongue moved against mine with a kind of lazy exploration, and her hands slid around my neck, holding me close. The water streamed down between us, slicking our skin, and I could feel her breasts pressed against my chest, the heavy D-cups flattening, the nipples hard points against my pectorals. My hands wandered. Down her back, over the curve of her ass, along the backs of her thighs. She was still wet-not from the shower, but from everything that had happened-and when my fingers slid between her legs, she gasped into my mouth. "Already?" she murmured. "You're hard again?" I was. I couldn't help it. Something about her-the way she moved, the way she touched me, the way she looked at me like I was the answer to a question she'd been asking for years-made it impossible to stay soft. My cock was pressing against her hip, thick and ready, and she reached down to wrap her hand around it. "Mmm. I've created a monster." She turned around. Faced the glass wall. Placed her hands against it, her arms extended, her back arched. Her ass pressed back against me, the cheeks parting, and she spread her legs. "Pussy first," she said. "Then ass. I want both." I didn't argue. I positioned myself at her entrance and slid inside. Her pussy was still slick, still slightly open, and I bottomed out in one smooth stroke. She gasped-aahnn-and her hands slid down the glass, leaving faint streaks. The water beat down on us, mingling with the sweat on my back, and I started to fuck her with a steady rhythm. The position was perfect. She was bent at the waist, her ass tilted up, and every thrust drove me deep-deeper than before, the head of my cock pressing against her cervix with each stroke. Her breasts swung beneath her, the heavy D-cups swaying in time with my thrusts, and I could see her reflection in the glass-her face flushed, her eyes half-closed, her mouth open in a silent moan. "Harder," she gasped. "Faster. Don't hold back." I didn't. I pounded into her, my hips slapping against her ass, and the sound echoed off the tile walls. Her cheeks rippled with each impact, the flesh bouncing and jiggling, and the cleft between them deepened as she arched her back further. The glass wall fogged around her hands and her breasts, two blurred circles in the steam. She was close already. I could feel it-the way her pussy tightened, the way her breath hitched, the way her legs trembled. "Don't stop," she begged. "Right there, right fucking there-" She came. Her pussy spasmed around me, the walls clamping down, and she squirted-a gush of fluid that splashed against my thighs and the shower floor. Her cry was muffled by the glass, her forehead pressed against it, and her whole body shook. I pulled out of her. The head of my cock was slick, dripping with her fluids, and I pressed it against her anus. "Yes," she breathed. "Put it in my ass. Fill it up." Her anus was still slightly loose from before, and I slid inside more easily this time. The tight ring of muscle stretched around me, then closed, gripping the base of my shaft. She moaned-a low, guttural sound-and pushed back against me. "Fuck it. Fuck my ass until you come." I did. I drove into her, hard and fast, and her anal walls gripped me like nothing else. The tightness was incredible, the constant pressure squeezing my shaft from base to tip, and I knew I wouldn't last long. My balls slapped against her pussy with each thrust, slick and wet, and she kept coming-her orgasms rolling through her in waves, her pussy gushing fluid down her thighs, her voice breaking on every cry. "I'm close," I gasped. "Jane, I'm gonna come-" "Inside! Come inside my ass!" I buried myself deep and let go. The orgasm hit me like a wall of heat, blasting through my body, and I emptied myself into her. Thick globs of cum, filling her anal canal, the sensation of it so intense that my vision blurred. She kept squeezing me, her muscles milking the cum from my shaft, and I pumped into her until there was nothing left. When it was over, I pulled out slowly. Her anus gaped for a moment, the tight pucker now a small, open hole, and then it contracted closed, a trickle of white escaping to drip down her perineum. She turned around. Her face was flushed, her hair plastered to her head, and she was smiling. We washed each other in silence. Her hands on my body, my hands on hers, the soap slick between us. The water rinsed away the sweat and the cum and the evidence of what we'd done, but it couldn't rinse away the way she looked at me. That hunger was still there. Still burning. When we were clean, we stepped out and toweled off. Jane led me to the master bedroom-a room I'd only glimpsed through windows-and pulled back the covers on the king-sized bed. The sheets were white and crisp, the pillows plump, and when she climbed in and held out her hand, I didn't hesitate. We lay together, naked, her body curled against mine. Her head rested on my chest, her hand over my heart, and her legs tangled with mine. The ceiling fan turned slow circles above us, and the afternoon light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed. "I needed that," she murmured, her voice sleepy. "I needed that for a long time." I kissed the top of her head. "Me too." She made a soft sound-half-laugh, half-sigh-and within minutes, her breathing slowed into the deep, even rhythm of sleep. I lay there, my arms around her, my mind still reeling, still struggling to process everything that had happened. The last six years. Every fantasy. Every guilty thought. And now here I was, in her bed, her body warm against mine, the smell of sex and soap and her shampoo filling my nose. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me. The light through the blinds was orange-that deep, honeyed orange that only comes at sunset, when the sun is low enough to paint everything in shades of amber and gold. My eyes opened slowly, the ceiling fan still turning its lazy circles above me, and for a long moment I didn't know where I was. Then it all came flooding back. The pool. The sunscreen. Her mouth on me. The kitchen counter. The dining table. Her ass. The shower. The way she'd looked at me-hungry, desperate, like I was everything she'd been starving for. I sat up, the white sheets pooling around my waist. The bed beside me was empty, the pillows still dented where her head had been. My board shorts and t-shirt were folded neatly on the edge of the mattress, and I reached for them, pulling them on with hands that still felt a little unsteady. The bedroom door was open. From down the hall came the clatter of pots and the sizzle of something cooking, and the smell-garlic, tomatoes, fresh basil-hit me so hard my stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Hadn't thought about food at all, really, not with everything that had happened. I stood up. My legs worked. That was a good sign. The hallway was dim, the last of the sunset filtering through the windows at the far end, and I followed the sound and the smell to the kitchen. Jane was standing at the stove, her back to me, and she was wearing a silk robe the color of champagne. It fell to just above her knees, the fabric catching the light and shimmering with every movement, and her honey-blonde hair was loose, still slightly damp from the shower, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. Two wine glasses waited on the counter. A bottle of red-something Italian, the label worn at the edges-sat open beside them. She must have heard my footsteps, because she turned. When she saw me, her face broke into a smile that was different from the hungry looks she'd given me before. This one was soft. Tender. The kind of smile that made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with sex. "Ahh, you're awake," she said, her voice warm and slightly husky. "I was starting to think you'd sleep through the night." I crossed the kitchen in three steps and wrapped my arms around her. She came into the embrace easily, her body fitting against mine, and when she tilted her face up, I kissed her. Not hard. Not desperate. Just a slow press of lips, her mouth soft against mine, and I could taste the wine she'd already been sipping. She pushed me back gently, her hands flat against my chest. "Serve the wine. The food's ready." A pause, and her eyes met mine. "We need to talk." Those words usually made my stomach drop. But the way she said them-calm, steady, still smiling-kept the panic at bay. "Okay," I said. I poured the wine. The glasses were the same thick ones with the faint blue tint, and the wine was dark and rich, staining the glass in ruby streaks. Jane carried two plates to the dining table-the same table where I'd fucked her ass not three hours ago-and set them down. The pasta was simple: spaghetti in a red sauce with flecks of basil and shaved parmesan, steam still rising from the plates. We sat. She took a sip of wine. I did the same. "I need to apologize," she said. My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. "What? For what?" She looked down at her plate, her fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass. "For using you. For... trapping you into having sex with an old lady." Her voice was quiet, the words coming out in a rush, like she'd been rehearsing them. "I was lonely and I was horny and I saw you out there and I just-I acted on impulse. I didn't think about what you might want, or what this might mean for you. I just took what I needed. And that wasn't fair to you." I set my fork down. "Jane." She kept going. "You're eighteen years old. You've got your whole life ahead of you. The last thing you need is some lonely widow dragging you into her bed because she can't handle being alone. I should have-" She stopped, swallowed hard. "I should have asked. I should have made sure you were okay with it. Instead I just... I just grabbed you and-" "Jane." I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "Stop." She looked up at me. Her eyes were glistening, the faint shine of unshed tears, and seeing her like that-vulnerable, uncertain, so different from the confident woman who'd ordered me to drop my shorts-made something twist in my chest. "You didn't use me," I said. "You didn't trap me. You didn't do anything I didn't want." I squeezed her hand. "You're my greatest fantasy, Jane. You have been for six years. Ever since I was twelve years old and you opened your front door and I forgot how to breathe." Her lips parted. "What?" "I've had a crush on you since the day we met. I used to spy on you through the fence when you were sunbathing. I'd make up excuses to come over-Dad's mower needs a part, does Mr. Sumners have one I can borrow?-just so I could maybe see you for five seconds." I laughed, a short, incredulous sound. "You think you used me? Jane, you made my dreams come true. Every single one of them. And you're not an old lady. You're the most beautiful women I've ever known." The tension in her shoulders dissolved. The tears that had been threatening to spill over didn't-instead, she blinked them back and smiled, a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "You really mean that," she said. It wasn't a question. "Every word." She exhaled, long and slow, and then she laughed-a light, surprised sound that was half-relief and half-joy. "If I'd known that, I would have fucked you way earlier." I choked on my wine. "What?" "Three years ago," she said, twirling a strand of spaghetti around her fork. "That's when I started looking at you. You'd started mowing the lawn shirtless, showing off those abs and those big shoulders, and I thought..." She shook her head. "I thought I was going to lose my mind. Every Wednesday, I'd find an excuse to be outside when you were working. I'd pretend to garden, pretend to read, pretend to do anything except stare at you like a piece of meat." I remembered. I remembered those afternoons-the way she'd always seem to be in the yard when I was there, the way she'd wave and smile and ask how school was going. I'd thought she was just being neighborly. Friendly. "I thought you'd freak out if I came on to you," she continued. "I thought you'd be disgusted. An old woman hitting on a teenager-that's the kind of thing that gets people in trouble. I was sure you'd complain to your parents, or to the police, or just stop coming around. And I couldn't bear the thought of that. Of losing the only bit of... of excitement I had left." "What about Bob?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "I mean, I know he was older, but-" "Bob was twenty years older than me." She said it matter-of-factly, no bitterness in her voice. "I loved him. I loved him for thirty-five years, and I don't regret a single day of it. But he lost interest in sex a long time ago. Ten years, maybe more. The last decade of our marriage, we were roommates. Friends. Companions. But not lovers." She took a sip of wine. "When I said I needed it for a long time, I didn't mean since he died. I meant since long before that." I didn't know what to say. So I just held her hand tighter. "I looked at you because I was lonely," she said. "Because I was starving for something I couldn't have. And today, when I saw you out there by the pool, all sweaty and shirtless and so goddamn beautiful, I just... I acted on impulse. On desire. I didn't think. I just did." "I'm glad you did," I said. "Because I never would have had the guts to make a move. I was too scared of losing you. Of losing the chance to see you every week. If I'd said something and you'd been freaked out, if you'd told me to leave and never come back..." I shook my head. "I couldn't risk that." She smiled. A slow, knowing smile. "So we were both just pining away in secret, each thinking the other would be horrified." "Pretty much." "We're idiots." "Yeah." I grinned. "But we're idiots who just had amazing sex." She laughed again, and the sound of it filled the kitchen-bright and warm and genuine. The wine bottle was empty. Our plates were clean. The sunset had faded to a deep purple twilight outside the windows. Jane stood. I stood too, reaching for the plates, but she caught my wrist. "Leave them," she said. "They can wait." She took my hand and led me back down the hallway. Back to the master bedroom. The silk robe whispered against her skin with every step, and when we reached the foot of the bed, she turned to face me and let it fall. The champagne-colored silk pooled at her feet. She was naked beneath it, and the sight of her-the long legs, the flat stomach, the heavy D-cup breasts settling naturally against her chest, the shaved mound of her pussy, the faint silver stretch marks tracing the curves of her hips-hit me like a punch to the gut. Her nipples were already tightening, those pencil-eraser tips drawing up into hard peaks, and the areolas were dark and puckered in the dim light of the bedroom. I was instantly hard. My cock pressed against the front of my board shorts, and I didn't bother trying to hide it. I just reached for the drawstring and pulled, letting the shorts fall to the floor. My t-shirt followed, and then I was naked too, my erection standing out from my body, the head already slick with the first bead of precum. Jane looked at me. Her eyes moved over my body-my chest, my abs, my cock-and then she stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin, and said, "Before, you fucked me. Now..." She reached up and cupped my face in both hands. "Now make love to me." I kissed her. Not like before. Not hungry and desperate. This kiss was slow. Deep. My lips moved against hers with a tenderness that surprised me, and when her tongue slid into my mouth, I met it with my own, the taste of wine and garlic and something sweeter-something that was just her-filling my senses. My hands found her hips, my fingers pressing into the soft flesh at her waist, and she made a sound against my mouth-a quiet, breathy moan that vibrated through my lips. I walked her backward to the bed. The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she fell onto it, her hair fanning out across the white pillows. She was still smiling, still looking up at me with those dark eyes, and I lowered myself onto the bed beside her. "Lie back," I murmured. "Let me take care of you." She did. She stretched out on the bed, her body an expanse of tanned skin and soft curves, and I started at her neck. My lips brushed the hollow of her throat, the skin there warm and faintly salty, and I kissed my way down-her collarbones, the upper slopes of her breasts, the valley between them. She shivered under my mouth, her fingers finding my hair and threading through it. "Mmm," she hummed. "That feels good." I kissed the underside of her left breast. The skin there was pale and smooth, the weight of it pressing against my cheek, and when I traced my tongue along the curve where breast met ribcage, she gasped. Her nipple was a hard point against my jaw, and I took it into my mouth, sucking gently, my tongue flicking at the stiff peak. "Oh, yes," she breathed. "Just like that." I worked her nipple with my mouth while my hand found her other breast. The flesh was heavy and full, spilling between my fingers, and I kneaded it slowly, my thumb circling the areola. She moaned, her hips shifting on the bed, and I switched sides, giving her right breast the same attention. Her nipples were so responsive-every flick of my tongue made her gasp, every gentle bite made her arch into me-and by the time I pulled away, they were both glistening and hard, the areolas puckered tight. "You're good at that," she said, her voice breathy. "I've got a good teacher." She laughed-a giggle, actually, light and girlish-and I kissed my way down her stomach. The flat plane of her belly, the dip of her navel, the jut of her hipbones. She was still giggling, half-moaning, as I worked my way lower, and when I reached the top of her mons, she spread her legs without being asked. Her pussy was already wet. The outer lips were plump and slightly parted, the inner lips-those delicate pink petals-already protruding, glistening with her arousal. Her clitoris was a hard button at the apex, the hood pulled back, and when I lowered my mouth to her, she moaned before I even touched her. "Aahnn~" The sound was high and breathy. "John, please-" I licked her. A long, slow stroke from the base of her opening all the way to her clit, my tongue flat against her folds. The taste of her was salt and sweetness and something musky, something that was uniquely Jane, and it filled my mouth and my nose and my head. She bucked against my face, her hips lifting off the bed, and I wrapped my arms around her thighs to hold her steady. "Fuck," she gasped. "Oh, fuck, your tongue-" I worked her clit with my lips, sucking gently, while my fingers found her entrance. One finger, then two, sliding inside her wet heat. Her inner walls were velvety and tight, gripping my fingers as I curled them upward, searching for that rough patch on her front wall. When I found it-when she let out a sharp cry and her whole body jerked-I knew I had her. "Right there," she panted. "Right fucking there, don't stop, don't you dare stop-" I didn't. I sucked on her clit, my tongue circling the hard nub, while my fingers stroked her G-spot in steady, rhythmic pulses. Her breathing went ragged. Her moans rose in pitch. Her thighs clamped around my head, and I could feel the muscles of her pussy starting to spasm around my fingers, the first warning signs of her orgasm. She came. Her pussy clenched around my fingers, the walls pulsing, and she let out a wail that was half my name and half unintelligible syllables. Her hips bucked against my face, and I kept sucking on her clit, kept stroking her G-spot, kept milking the orgasm from her until she was shuddering and gasping and pushing at my head. "Too sensitive," she breathed. "Too much, I can't-" I pulled back. My chin was slick with her juices, and when I looked up at her, she was sprawled across the bed, her chest heaving, her eyes half-closed. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, the heavy D-cups shifting on her chest, and the sight of her-flushed, disheveled, completely undone-made my cock throb. I moved up her body. Positioned myself between her legs. The head of my cock pressed against her entrance, and she opened her eyes. "Slowly," she whispered. "I want to feel every inch." I pushed inside her. Not fast, not hard-just a slow, steady pressure, the head of my cock parting her folds, the inner lips clinging to my shaft as I sank deeper. She was so wet, so hot, and her pussy walls gripped me like a velvet glove, adjusting to my size inch by inch. I watched her face as I entered her-watched her eyes flutter closed, her lips part, her breath catch. "Aahnn~" she moaned, her voice wavering. "So deep. You're so deep." I bottomed out. My hips pressed against her thighs, and I stayed there, letting her feel the fullness of me inside her. Her inner walls fluttered around my shaft, tiny spasms that traveled from base to tip, and she let out a long, shuddering breath. "Okay," she said. "Move. Slow. Deep." I did. I pulled back, then pushed forward, establishing a rhythm that was nothing like the frantic pounding from before. This was slow. Deliberate. Every stroke was a long, languid glide, the head of my cock dragging against her inner walls, and I could feel every ridge and fold of her interior. She was textured inside-velvety and rippled, the walls pressing against me from all sides-and when I hit the right angle, the head of my cock stroked across her G-spot and she gasped. "There," she breathed. "Yes, right there." I kept the angle. Kept the rhythm. I placed myself on my elbows, my chest pressing against her breasts, and lowered my mouth to hers. She kissed me, her tongue sliding into my mouth, and I kissed her back as I fucked her with those deep, slow strokes. Her breasts were flattened between us, the heavy flesh molding to my chest, and I could feel her nipples-still hard, still sensitive-pressing against my skin. I broke the kiss to lower my mouth to her nipple. She moaned-a low, throaty sound-as I sucked on her, my tongue flicking at the stiff peak, and I kept the rhythm steady. In and out. Slow and deep. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the room-a wet, intimate sound, the soft slap of my hips against her thighs-and beneath it, her breathless moans and my own ragged breathing. "I'm close," she gasped. "I'm close, I'm close, I'm-" She came. Not a violent, squirting orgasm like before-this one was different. A deep, rolling wave that started in her core and spread outward, making her whole body shudder. Her pussy spasmed around me, the walls milking my shaft, and she let out a cry that was more sob than scream. Her fingers dug into my shoulders. Her legs wrapped around my waist. And through it all, I kept moving-those slow, deep strokes that drew out her orgasm, made it last, made it stretch on and on until she was trembling and gasping beneath me. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Oh, God, John, that was-" I pulled out of her slowly. My cock emerged glistening, slick with her juices, and she made a small sound of loss at the emptiness. But I wasn't done. I rolled her onto her stomach, then guided her onto her hands and knees. Her ass was presented to me. The cheeks were round and still firm, the cleft between them deep and shadowed, and when she arched her back, they parted slightly, revealing the tight pucker of her anus and the still-dripping lips of her pussy. The inner lips were swollen and protruding, glistening with her arousal, and her clitoris was still visible, still hard, peeking out from under its hood. I positioned myself behind her. The head of my cock pressed against her entrance, and she pushed back against me. "Yes," she breathed. "More. I want more." I slid inside her. The angle was different-deeper, somehow-and when I bottomed out, she let out a sharp gasp. I started moving, keeping the same slow, deep rhythm, but now I could reach parts of her that I hadn't been able to before. Every stroke pressed the head of my cock against her cervix, and every time I bottomed out, she moaned. But I didn't just keep the same pace. Every few strokes, I'd pull back and then thrust forward hard-one powerful, fast stroke that made her gasp and cry out, her hands gripping the sheets. Then I'd go back to the slow rhythm, drawing out the pleasure, making her wait for the next hard thrust. "Fuck," she panted. "That's-when you do that-aahnn~!" I reached around her with one hand and cupped her breast. It was heavy, pendulous, hanging down beneath her, and I kneaded the soft flesh, my fingers finding her nipple and pinching it gently. With my other hand, I reached between her legs and found her clit. The hard nub was slick with her arousal, and I circled it with my fingertip, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. The combination made her lose control. She came-hard. Her pussy clamped down on my cock, the walls spasming, and a gush of fluid erupted from her, soaking my hand and splashing onto the sheets. The squirt was powerful, spraying in rhythmic pulses, and she screamed-a raw, throaty scream that was my name and a string of curses and a plea for more all at once. "John! Oh, fuck, John, don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop!" I didn't. I kept thrusting, kept circling her clit, kept pinching her nipple, and the orgasm kept rolling through her, wave after wave, until she was nothing but a trembling, gasping mess on her hands and knees. The fluid kept coming, soaking the bed beneath us, and the sound of my cock moving in and out of her drenched pussy was obscene-wet and squelching and so fucking hot I could barely hold on. But I held on. I held on until she was spent, until she collapsed forward onto the mattress, her face buried in the pillows, her ass still in the air. And then I started moving again. "No, no, I can't-I can't take any more-" "You can," I murmured. "You can take it. One more. Give me one more." I kept the rhythm slow. Deep. Every few strokes, a hard thrust that made her gasp. And slowly, impossibly, I felt her building again. The tension in her muscles. The way her pussy tightened around me. The way her breathing hitched and stuttered. "I'm going to come," I said. "I'm going to come inside you, Jane. Fill you up. Do you want that?" "Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, yes, yes, fill me up, come inside me, please, please-" The orgasm hit me like a wave of heat. It started deep in my balls, a tight, hot knot that unspooled all at once, and I buried myself deep inside her and let go. The first jet of cum was massive-thick, gluey, painting her inner walls white. The second followed right after, then the third, and I kept pumping, kept emptying myself into her, and the cum just kept coming. More than I'd ever produced before. A flood of it, hot and thick, filling her pussy until it overflowed, spilling out around my shaft in white rivulets that dripped down her thighs. Her pussy clamped down on me, milking the last drops from my shaft, and she came again-a final, shuddering orgasm that seemed to drain every ounce of strength from her body. She collapsed completely, her legs giving out, and I went down with her, my cock still buried inside her, my chest pressed against her back. We lay there, tangled together, our breathing ragged. The sheets were soaked-sweat and cum and her juices all mixing together-and the room smelled of sex. My cock softened inside her, and when I finally pulled out, a gush of white followed, spilling out of her gaping pussy and onto the mattress. She turned in my arms. Her face was flushed, her hair a wild tangle, her eyes still glazed with the aftershocks of pleasure. She looked at me, and then she started to laugh-a soft, incredulous sound. "You," she said, her voice hoarse, "are going to be the death of me." "Worth it?" She kissed me. Her tongue slid into my mouth, tasting herself on my lips, and when she pulled back, she was smiling. "I already knew you were great at fucking," she murmured. "But I didn't know you could make love like that." I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Every great artist has an amazing and beautiful muse." Her eyes went soft. "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me." "It's true." She kissed me again. And again. And again, until we were both breathless, and then she pulled back and looked at me with those dark eyes, still hungry, still burning. "You know," she said, "the night is young." I laughed. "You're going to kill me." "Probably." She traced a finger down my chest, her touch feather-light. "But what a way to go." I pulled her close, and she curled against me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart. The ceiling fan turned its slow circles above us. The moonlight filtered through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the bed. And I held her, my arms around her, my lips pressed to the top of her head. "Thank you," she whispered. "For what?" "For not running. For not being freaked out. For..." She paused. "For making me feel young again." I tightened my arms around her. "You make me feel like the luckiest man alive." She made a soft sound-half-laugh, half-sigh-and pressed a kiss to my chest. "Stay," she said. "Stay the night. Stay as long as you want." "I'm not going anywhere." She smiled against my skin. "Good." Read 140769 times | Rated 96.4 % | (890 votes)