Mature: His first time back in the game

Mature: His first time back in the game, She was small and thin and soft. She smiled a lot. It was off-putting at first to be sitting across from her, her eyes locked on him as he told his stories. He had to edit the stories. 22 years of marriage meant that the woman that was the main supporting character in any of his stories was his wife... ex-wife? He still wasn't sure what exactly to refer to her. She was not technically an ex-wife. They hadn't even talked about making her an ex-wife in at least two months. He had planned to wait her out. She would make a decision one way or the other soon enough. He would be patient. But then the girl had smiled at him. Yes, she was a woman, a buxom, beautiful, twenty-something woman, but at almost twenty years younger than him he thought of her as a girl. He paid the check. They had eaten seafood and drank wine and talked for hours. He suggested another place just down the block. This was the second time they had gone out. The first had been a journey from one small bar to another walking along the coast until finally exhausted she said she needed to go and he put her gently into a hired car. He hadn't expected to see her a second time. The first night had been awkward. They were from different worlds. She listened to different music, watched different movies, had different plans and goals, but thoroughly sauced in a light rain she had kissed him before slipping into the back seat of her ride home. She told him to call her. "We can if you want," she said to his plan to try the Greek place and order ouzo. "Or we could go someplace else." "I am all yours, where would you like to go?" he had asked. "Your house?" she said, her voice high and soft and silky smooth. She rode quietly in the passenger's seat staring at her cell phone. It was the sort of thing his wife had done that drove him nuts. At that moment he didn't mind. He was happy not to have to talk to her. He was not prepared for this. In his kitchen, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. She sat on the kitchen island, her legs swinging like a little child's. She had kicked off her shoes. Her feet were delicate and perfect; the nails painted a bright red. Her legs were... he tried not to look at them. He wasn't prepared to think about them. When he handed her the glass, she took a sip and then gripped him by the front of his T-shirt. She kissed him. She kissed with soft lips. His hand found her bare thigh, and she added her tongue. It was small and moved slowly along her lips. His heart raced, and He swelled uncomfortably in his "skinny jeans," She purred a little, and her hands moved up the inside of his Tshirt along his chest. She giggled. "What?" "Nothing." "Tell me." "All the guys I know... You know... shave... or wax... this..." She tugged at the hairs on his chest. "I guess I'm out of touch," he said. She gripped his shirt at his love handles and tugged. He had to bend down. She buried her face in his chest running her soft cheeks against him. It was a tender moment. Almost affectionate really, and he laced his fingers through soft short blonde hair. "I think I am supposed to be the one focussed on your chest," he said, daring a slight joke. His voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. "Do you want to see my breasts?" she asked. The youthful innocence in her voice caused him actual, physical pain. "Mmm. Very much." She pushed him back until he was pressed against the refrigerator. He looked quickly, found his wine glass, and turned his focus back to her. As he watched she tugged slowly at the spaghetti straps that had held the little romper up, slipped them off her shoulders, and down her arms. The romper fell free from her chest and then she rocked from ass cheek to ass cheek pulling the little outfit off her hips. At her knees, free of the kitchen counter it fell to the floor all on its own. She arched her back. Her bra was one of those little ones that only half covers a woman's breast. One nipple was peeking out from the creamy yellow lace. She reached between her breasts, released the clasp, and shrugged her shoulders shaking herself free. She smiled at him, leaned back onto the island, and posed. He smiled back at her and took a sip of his wine. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Wrong? Nothing!" "You are an awfully long ways away." "I'm right here." "Yeah, but it seems like you should be right here," she said. He wasn't sure if the movement of her hand along her perfect thigh was meant to indicate here or not. "I am... a little intimidated." Her smile softened. "I can get dressed again." He thought about it. It would be best if she did. He thought of the woman in San Antonio. He had tried once to call her on a Friday night only to be sent immediately to voicemail. He thought of her out with friends, or worse, out with a friend, and turned his focus back to the creamy soft flesh laid in in front of him. She leaned forward when he moved to her, and they kissed again as his hands moved over the flawless skin. He explored her hips, her ribs, and finally her breasts. He ran a hand down her spine until he reached the laced waist of tiny panties. Their kisses grew deeper and longer until they were gasping for breath, their tongues touching lightly. Kissing caused him again to think of his wife. He thought of the times he had approached her, hungering for her, wanting her, wrapping his arms around her. They were married, where could she go. He thought about kissing her. It was always brief, emotionless. "I'm sorry, honey. You are just not a very good kisser. I love you anyway." she had told him decades ago. He moved from the girl's lips to her neck. She cooed. She had leaned back onto her arms, stretched behind her back like a beach chair. He moved slowly down her neck to her collarbone, her chest, and finally a tiny erect nipple. She sighed. "Oh, Alan." she had moaned over the phone. They didn't talk a lot and when they did it was always of the most practical matters. He didn't remember exactly what she had said to trigger the question, but he had asked her if she was seeing someone. As if she pulled a script from a back pocket she had released a canned speech, probably practiced a thousand times in her head. "You don't need to ask me that. I know why you are asking. You have met someone, or you have fucked someone, and you need to get it off your conscience. No, I haven't. I told you from the start this was never about me wanting to have sex with someone else. I get it. You are a man. You are going to fuck the first little thing that comes along and smiles at you. I'm not going to stop you. It's different for women though. I don't NEED to spread my seed. You are the last man I have slept with." The speech played in his head, and he suddenly felt bad for the girl who had just wrapped her skinny little legs around his hips. He hated to think this was all happening because she was the first little thing to smile back at him. He needed to stop, back away, let her get dressed, send her on her way, finish the bottle of wine, and pass out in the hammock. Instead, she gripped him by the back of the neck and pulled his head to her tit. "Yes!" she purred. He sucked at her tit, taking it firmly in his hand. She sucked air through clenched teeth and pressed her hips against his pulling his jeans against her panties by tightening the grip of her legs laced behind his lower back. He backed away and looked at her. She didn't smile at him this time. Her face contorted in a different way - a way he didn't understand when he was younger - a way he didn't understand a year ago. He would have interpreted the look of sadness and pain as some sort of regret. He would have backed away, settled her beside her and held her gently never wanting a woman to look frightened or sad he would have played the big brother. Over the summer, since his wife had told him she needed to move home, since being told he was okay but not worth the effort, he had learned to interpret the look the young girl gave him as something different. He switched tits, gripped it even more tightly than he had the first one, sucked at it even harder. He even took her nipple in his teeth biting it gently and tugging at it, pulling at it. She growled, and dry humped his engorged but still hidden cock. Yes, he had lost weight. Yes, he had gotten in shape. That wasn't why he fucked differently now. Layed out on his kitchen island like a chocolate cake cut and served he devoured her the way a dog attacks table scraps. His arm moved around her. His hand gathered her hair. He gripped it firmly in his hand. He tugged enough to pull her head back and buried his face in her throat. He sucked a mouthful of flesh into his teeth and growled. She gasped. He moved on. Her tits again, briefly. Her ribs. Her hip. There was soft tender unmarred flesh. Her lower belly was like filet mignon. He kissed it, sucked at it, and bit at it. He tugged at her panties with her teeth. Her hands wrapped around his head. He ran his tongue along her lace panties. He smelled her pussy and his mouth watered. He traced the panties around each leg. She growled this time. He released her hair. He took her thighs in his hands. Lowering himself to his knees, he accosted her with his lips teeth and tongue through her panties. She continued to coo and growl until she could take it no longer and reached down with her free hand to pull her panties to the side. "Slowly," he thought to himself. He ran the length of his tongue over the cleft of her sweet lips feeling with each pass the swelling of her sweet clit. She rocked her hips, and her legs struggled against his grip, but still, her hand held her panties pulled aside. "Oh shit!" she muttered. "Oh shit! Shit! Shit!" His assault moved from slow torture to rapid, rabid, onslaught. She came with surprising violence, her body thrashing about the counter, her legs kicking at his shoulders as she fought against his grip. She squealed a little. He continued until the fight was out of her and her body lay quivering in front of him. He let go of her. She looked up at him. Again, she looked frightened and hungry at the same time. Her eyes, however, held that sparkle and smile from earlier. He dropped his jeans, struggling to get them free of his feet. A tall man, the height of the counter was entirely too perfect. "Wait!" she said quickly, struggling to lean forward. "Wait?" he asked. He pressed his hard cock against her wet lips. She was glistening from the tongue lashing. "I want to suck it." "Later," he said. "Later?" she asked. As an answer he slipped his cock inside of her, her tight cunt welcomed him. "Later!" she agreed. He held her by the ankles, her ass just barely off the edge of the granite. He moved slowly for a moment measuring her reaction. He watched her. His mind played tricks on him and the woman he was watching flashed between his 47-year-old wife and his new twenty-something lover. He pressed his eyes closed tightly to fight off his conscience. He focussed only on the feel of her clenching at his cock. His pace was fast, his thrusts firm. His hips slapped against her tight ass and thighs. He dared look down at her. Her hands had moved to her tits. He watched her roll her nipples between her fingertips. His wife has always knocked his hands away. This time he knocked the woman's hands-free and took her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers and pinching and pulling he fucked away at her. Her eyes were open. Fuck that was weird. Her mouth hung open. "Oh shit. Oh Fuck." she gasped. The night pulled away, the room disintegrated. Time and space took on a crooked sort of distortion. He was old, and she was young and then she wasn't her at all but was instead his young wife, and he was his, and it was the night after Christmas of their first fight. "You just aren't a very good kisser." He would feel bad later about what he had done to the young woman. Decades of frustration and ger and pain were taken out that night. He fucked her on the counter. He moved her to the floor. He gripped her firmly about the throat as she held him by the wrists. When she let go, he let go. She reacted by putting his hand back where it was, and eyes closed he pillaged the poor girl. He fucked her over the back of the chair, upholstered in baseball glove leather, that his wife had hated so much she had tried to ruin it. He fucked the girl against the wall. She was small enough, strong enough, agile enough, to pull it off. He fucked her in the bedroom, surprised his cock was still working. He fucked her until he couldn't any longer. His cock, half hard, trying to give it a go the last part of his body to give in. They laid side by side for a time in bed until he began to drift in and out of sleep. "Hey," she said. "Hmmm?" he managed to grunt. "So... uh... I should go." He opened a single eye to look at her. "If you have to," he said. "I don't HAVE to," she said. He reached out and pulled her back towards him until her small body was curled up around his chest, his arm locked around her back, his hand gripping a soft, thick ass cheek. He thought briefly about how her ass had jiggled when she walked in the little loose fitting romper. The torment in his mind slipped away as the young woman ran her fingers along his arm, his chest, and his belly. His mind blank he drifted off to sleep. Added by ofloveandlust

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