I was having a drink with a friend the other day that knows about my writing; indeed, I suppose I should really call him a fan. He was taking me to task for not writing anything recently. "Oh! That's easy to explain," I said glibly. "New job, a partner who knows about and doesn't like my 'hobby'... oh, and a lack of new plots."
"Jeez!" he said, "You'll have me in tears next." Then he followed it up by saying, "Go on, what about that truism we were talking about a minute ago?"
"Which one?" I countered.
"Oh, Gawd," was his response, "you really do have a bad memory! The one where you told me that these days you've given up fancying the younger women; you prefer their mothers."
Actually, inside I was still thinking of the remark. Alan had commented that at least older women possessed two things their younger counterparts didn't: patience and gratitude -- sexist remarks, ones that I took great pains to dissociate myself from, I might add.
The conversation in the pub went on to higher planes after that, but I have to admit I wasn't really paying too much attention. My thoughts were on a girl that the circle of folks at the club -- the Flying Club, that is -- called "the man-eater". It's funny how some places seem to attract women of that ilk, and Maggie was certainly "of that ilk". She was nothing to look at: about five foot six with a slim build, nicely proportioned, almost demure. She was nothing special. I was eighteen, and she was somewhere about thirty-one or -two. I was a late starter and had just lost my virginity a few months earlier. Very proud of that fact I was. Even though no one else knew, I felt they did. I might as well have been wearing a fluorescent flashing badge saying, "I've been screwed". But then young men are like that, or they seemed to be in those days, thirty- five years ago. Perhaps they 're still the same now.
I was out with the crowd on a Friday night. We often left the rather staid scene of the club bar and walked across the road down to the pub about a quarter of a mile away. Maggie wasn't sitting with us; she was at another table a little ways away. I said something about not fancying older women. Hell, what eighteen-year-old does? My companions were a married couple. She turned to me and said, "Maggie's after you, you know..."
I can remember choking on my beer and turning a brilliant shade of red, much to their amusement. All I could manage was, "What?!"
"Oh, she's been telling folks that you're going to be the next notch on her bedpost."
"Not bloody likely!" had been my response, and I then avoided Maggie like the plague. But she kept popping up in unlikely places, at unlikely times. It was fast becoming unnerving. I had taken to glancing over my shoulder. I felt that the next thing would be the development of a twitch.
My married friends thought it was all hilarious. "You may as well give up and just sleep with her. You know you'll enjoy it."
That made me dig my heels in even more. I realised afterwards they thought I needed a good seeing too, and that Maggie was just the person to do it. In retrospect I suppose I didn't really have a chance.
Inevitably matters came to a head. We had all been out to the pictures together -- I can't even remember what the movie was called. I ended up arriving late and had driven down on my own to meet the others at the cinema. Somehow, when it all ended, Maggie was the one who didn't have a lift, and yes; Sven, ever the gentleman, was coerced into giving her a lift. This was about six weeks after the initial gibes and comments, and I must have relaxed a bit. By the time we had walked to the car park some distance away where, being late, I had had to park, the others had gone on ahead. I opened the door of my little saloon and Maggie hopped in and we started back to the Flying Club, where we both intended to stay the night. The club's sleeping arrangements were spartan, but OK. There were two old huts for the single folks: one for the guys, one for the girls. The married folks had some other rooms available to them. We called them "The Nesting boxes" -- can't think why. So I still felt quite safe.
Halfway back and into open countryside, Maggie began to fidget.
"Sorry, Sven, I can't wait. I have to go to the loo; you'll have to find somewhere to stop."
We were on a fairly busy main road, a four-lane, so it wasn't going to be there.
"Look there's a turn-off," she said, "Take that. I'll find somewhere down there."
Off the main road by a few hundred yards there was a pull-in. So I dutifully pulled in, and Maggie hopped out and disappeared though a gate into a field. Fortunately, it had been a dry week, so there wasn't much in the way of mud about. I took the opportunity to nip over the opposite wall and relieve myself as well.
When I returned to the car, Maggie was already back, so I got in and prepared to move off. Before I could start the car, she put her hand on mine as I went to turn the ignition key. "Sven, I'm sorry you've been teased so much over me. "Maggie had turned towards me as she spoke. She went on, "You would think I was sex-mad or something. I just like a little bit of a kiss and a cuddle. The men here are making it all up." She had moved towards me and had now put her hand inside my half open shirt. It had been a warm evening; now, suddenly, it was positively sweltering. She twirled my nipple with her finger nails, and suddenly I became aware of a certain anatomical problem down south a bit. I decided to ignore it. Maggie moved closer and kissed me. She tasted rather nice. I decided the others could go to hell; Maggie was a nice woman. I kissed her back. After a little while, we came up for air.
"Umm... you kiss nicely." She still had her hand inside my shirt, where my nipple felt as if it were setting it was so hard. My lower extremities were now becoming decidedly uncomfortable. It was my turn to fidget and hope she didn't notice. I tried to turn a little more towards her and the damn steering wheel and floor gear-shift got in the way.
Maggie said, "Let's get into the back." It seemed an eminently sensible suggestion, so we got out our respective sides and into the back seat. I took the opportunity to "adjust my dress", to use the euphemism.
Once in the back, Maggie sat on my lap and giggled a bit when she felt my hardness. "Oh!" was all she said, but the way she said it spoke volumes. I knew Maggie was going to have her wicked way with me. By this time Mr. Happy had taken over my brain. I undid the buttons at the top of her dress and encountered bare flesh; when Maggie had been behind the hedge, she had taken her bra off. She moaned lightly as I caressed those wonderful orbs and then kissed and suckled on them. She was either a damn good actress or she enjoyed what I was doing. She held my face to her breasts and writhed gently underneath me.
I ran my free hand along her leg and got to her stocking top: the giggle band -- past that and you were laughing, so the old gag went. That night, you'd better believe I knew it was true. I ran my hand up, and Maggie moved her legs to give me willing access. She was furry and hot and wet and ready. She smelt wonderful as she pushed me back in the seat and undid my trouser belt. In a flash she had my trousers and my underwear round my knees and had her hands round me. That was my turn to tell her how good it felt. I half climbed out of the back seat as I leaned across to get a condom from the passenger glove box. She took the presented opportunity to slip her lips over me. I confess I nearly lost it all right then. She grabbed the foil from me as I fumbled; she tore it open and, in a flash, had it in place to her satisfaction. Then she straddled me, her knees on either side of me, and then moved them up towards my shoulders so she was sitting directly in my lap, sex to sex. She grabbed me and aimed me as she sat, pushing straight onto me, fully home, buried in one, pubic bone to pubic bone.
.... There is more of this story ...