© 2003 by Nicolo "Loco" Parenti
You'll notice a complete lack of concern in this text for disease and contraception. That's because it's FANTASY, dude, and that stuff just gets in the way. In real life, you'd be nuts to engage in these acts without protection.
When I write for fun there's no editor to give me feedback, so informed criticism is always welcome. Enjoy, and please write with comments and opinions.
This may be just for fun, but it is copyrighted, and reproduction for profit is forbidden. Any distribution must include this note and the author's email address.
I first saw Kirsten one summer morning as I gazed idly out the kitchen window while the coffee brewed. She'd come out of a duplex one block over to get her newspaper and to let her mini-dog fertilize the bushes. She was wearing a sensible robe belted over what I imagined was a short, sheer nightie. Hey, why imagine flannel?
She was a vision, I'll tell you, tall and slim with a regal bearing and an explosion of red hair. From 200 feet away I couldn't make out her features, but I could see that she was in her mid-30's and kept in shape. And a redhead, my personal weakness.
Where the hell had she come from? Last I knew, that unit was rented by an older couple. I shrugged -- there was always turnover, and I sure didn't try to keep up with their comings and goings.
It got to be a casual morning ritual -- start the coffee and wait for Red to fetch her paper. When after a while I still hadn't seen a Mister Red, I decided she was a recent divorcee, making a clean break in temporary digs. That's a lot to surmise from a few glimpses, but I knew this woman hadn't been unattached all her life, and would be alone only by choice.
I grew to recognize her habits: when she left for work (7:15), what she drove (late model Taurus), what days she worked out (green gym bag). I guessed from her clothes she was in a semi-professional job, maybe outside sales or an office manager. But she didn't know I existed, and I still hadn't been any closer than a city block. Starting now, that would have to change -- a deal's a deal.
As luck would have it, there's another woman in my life. Besides my wife, who we'll leave out of this. Way out. The other woman is Lisa. Oh, man, Lisa.
I work out most mornings at the Y, preferring it to the meat-markets of Bally's or Gold's. I spotted Lisa the first day she came in, and from her all-business manner -- the most anyone got was a nod -- I could tell she wasn't in meat-market mode either.
But you couldn't blame the guys, and some of the girls, for trying. Because Lisa is a stunner, a classic Mediterranean beauty. Dark and intense, early 20's, 5' 6", with olive skin and a lingerie-model figure that her baggy sweats only half concealed. My first guess was Italy but it could have been anywhere in the region -- Lebanon, maybe Greece. Turns out I was close -- she's Sicilian.
I decided that I had to see this girl smile. Then laugh. Then howl in ecstasy. Yeah... think big but start small. First let's crack that no-nonsense exterior.
The hook turned out to be her ride. She drove a bug-eyed Ford pickup that was born before she was. A farm truck, something hardly seen around here. Dad's gift when she left for the city? Whatever -- it stood out like a pig at a polka party.
Judging from the times she worked out, and the ratty truck, I figured her for a college student with an after-school job, probably at a restaurant or bar. It didn't take long to find out where, since her truck was conspicuous and there are only so many nightspots nearby. I became a customer.
She had the barmaid thing down pretty well. Semi-flirty but with a "No Sale" sign even a drunk could read. She looked damned good without the sweats -- firm, high tits and a rubber-band ass with legs all the way up. She was toned from her workouts, and I could imagine the energy she'd bring to the sack. I learned that she had a boyfriend (I'd have been shocked to find otherwise) but lived alone. Hmmm... sounding good.
I should describe myself here. Never a hunk even in my 20's, I'd made it to my 40's in reasonable shape but with only guile and charm to offset my plain looks and thinning hair. Lucky for me (and for most guys, truth be told), women don't rate looks as highly as men do. I'm a worm, a dog, and I admit it. It may be true that men only want one thing, but me, I want it in as many different varieties as possible. I love a challenge, and I'd played this game before.
It started with: "Say, don't I see you at the Y", and so on. Over a couple of weeks we grew friendlier and before long it was coffee after the Y and talk of her: her job, her classes, her rural background, her hopes, her frustrations, her loser boyfriend (who cares?), her favorites in music, film etc. You guys get the idea. Every little intimacy builds toward the big one.
She knew I was married but so what? I was just a friend, someone she could trust and talk with, share little things, drop an email. Maybe I reminded her of a professor she liked. But dog that I am (I mentioned that, right?), I was working the side door. A touch here, a knowing smile there, a shared joke, a quick hug or a little peck as we met for lunch. Intimacies... escalating intimacies.
My moment arrived one evening when Asshole Boyfriend, who clearly didn't know jack about women, broke it off and drove her to tears. She's not from around here. She's distant at the Y and aloof at work. Her classmates are children. Who can she call for comfort? Why, her good friend me!
Who arrives with a bottle of her favorite wine (coincidence?) and a heart full of solace. An arm around the waist, a shoulder to cry on, a hip to snuggle up to. Intimacies. One bottle later, it was with a bit of a shock (hah) that we looked into each other's eyes and saw that spark.
A tentative kiss (oh yes, she's still desirable in spite of the A.B.), then a probing one. A tender caress that becomes the stroking of a breast. Pretty soon we were making out like teens, and it turned horizontal. I reached for a button, she went for a zipper, we headed for her room. Months of buildup and it was happening right now.
Then we were naked. God what a sight. The first look at a new lover is always magical, and she was better than that -- full, high breasts tapering to a slim waist. Womanly hips framing trimmed and tangled pubes. And did a little pink peek out? You know, I wasn't really looking.
I'd never been harder, nor tried harder to resist just fucking the shit out of a girl. Here was a buff and gorgeous girl half my age, who had known only one lover, splayed on her bed half in fear of what could happen but hot for it anyway. I could trade this moment for a quickie, or I could start the process of turning this girl into a creature of passion -- my creature of passion.
Well, if you read this far you know, dog though I may be, I don't take the easy play. Challenge accepted.
I knelt by the bed and kissed her inner calves, then nibbled and nuzzled slowly upward toward her fuzzy patch while caressing and probing with my hands. Her lovely olive skin was like silk with a sheen of sweat, and her nerve endings were alive to my touch. She was squirming like an eel, gasping and moaning as I found each pleasure spot.
Lisa was going nuts -- by now her boyfriend would have already been zipping up and reaching for a brewski. I slowly rotated her nipples with my palms as I licked ever closer to her oven of a snatch. Eventually I was stretching and tweaking the tips of her breasts as I parted her lips to savor her liquid heat.
I gathered from her reaction that she'd never had the pleasure of a tongue in her labia, that her clit had yet to be gently nipped, sucked and tugged by loving lips. The reaction I'm referring to was a howling orgasm, and a clutching of thighs to press my face into her slick, dark triangle. Well, so much for that smile I wanted.
It's a wonderful feeling to give a woman pleasure... it's an even better feeling to introduce a beautiful woman to an ecstasy she'd never known and would want from then on. It wouldn't be easy duty, but dammit, somehow I'd persevere.
Instinct is a great thing. In this case, it told Lisa that, after a deep kiss in which she enjoyed the taste of her own juices, there was a similar act that might give me pleasure. You know, a blowjob. She found me rock hard and as randy as a brace of goats.
Now, a farm upbringing might give you an early education in the mechanics of sex, but no young girl ever saw a chicken blow a rooster, so Lisa was improvising. I guess college had made her a quick learner, because I can't remember ever being blown better, then or since. She licked, she sucked, she slathered and she swallowed my dick right to the root... like a pussy with tonsils. She was that rarest of treats -- a girl with no gag reflex. Heaven, take me now.
I grunted a warning, but she already knew. Maybe it was the way I almost levitated as I got close... could be, I guess. Anyway, I shot about a pint, and she took the first spurt cleanly. Then she let me out so just the head was inside her lips, and worked her tongue over the special spot. Tara Lipinski's tutu! I creamed and groaned and leaked all over her chin and down onto her beautiful tits.
So much for foreplay. We glowed for a bit, in awe of the intensity we'd just experienced. Then gradually the sight and feel of Lisa's lovely Sicilian frame got my cock stirring. When she noticed, she started to suck me again, but I demurred. We had a whole menu to order from... why stick with appetizers?
.... There is more of this story ...