© 2003 by Nicolo "Loco" Parenti

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?

We nuzzled and fondled for a few minutes as we maneuvered into position. When she was fully supine and spread, she grinned at me -- what a look -- and reached for my johnson. There wasn't much to do, I just eased forward as she guided me to her hot center. It was OK, I suppose... if you like pressing your cock into the tight, buttery sheath of a 22-year-old nearly virginal sexpot. Personally, I do.

She met my every silken thrust with one of her own. I managed to lick and nip at her glorious breasts as we humped like marmots, and when it came time for me to finally let loose, Lisa had climaxed twice and had somehow gotten onto her stomach and was screaming into the pillow for a third.

We fucked more than I would have imagined my 40-something body capable of. We tried things neither of us had any idea would work (some didn't, but oh the fun of trying). I swear, if I were twins I couldn't have been in more positions than I was that night. Thank god she was young, flexible, and lubricious (in all senses of the word).

Intimacies having escalated to a point we almost couldn't exceed, we naturally cooled off over the next few weeks. But we did manage to screw, maybe for lunch or as an evening snack, and it kept getting better as we practiced. Lisa was hot for me, or at least for sexual discovery, and I did all I could to keep up.

Then one day Lisa surprised me... the dog you thought was cynical beyond surprise. She wanted to know about anal sex. Oh, she knew what it was, she just wanted to know what it felt like.

I haven't been much of a fan of that deed. I know this isn't the way sex stories are supposed to go -- usually the ass-fucking starts about the time you shake hands. It's total pleasure for the women, who come like mad as their shit gets compacted, yada yada. I humbly suggest that in real life this is not often the case. Anyway, pussy is such a nice thing that I didn't quite get why folks would go for the thing we have in common, rather than for the difference.

But I was game, and this was her journey. I laid out the golden trio: preparation, lubrication, relaxation -- a good Fleet enema and a clean-water rinse for starters, a tube of KY and maybe some quality pharmaceuticals. She said she really wanted to try it, and she'd get everything together for the weekend.

Saturday came late that week. Like kids and Christmas, I guess time dilates as the event gets closer. When I arrived Lisa was extra-lovey, all kisses and strokes and seductive smiles. By golly, this lady really did want her second cherry popped. I'll spare you the enema, even knowing that some of you would rather not be spared, and skip ahead.

I started by licking her liberally, nibbling her lips, and generally just eating her like a fool. This caused some delay in the process because she kept coming -- the woman had no sense of the moment. As I ate her, I teased her asshole with my fingers and tongue, using only her copious natural lube. First a fingertip, then up to the knuckle, then two, all the time taking pussy breaks to keep her relaxed. This was hard for her -- you try relaxing and climaxing at the same time -- but it was doing the job.

Finally it was time for what the French call "le butt-fuck". Lisa got into the rear-entry position (doggy to you). I spread some warmed-up KY over my cock and probed a glop into her hole. Oooh, she liked that part. Then I cradled my dick at the entrance (exit?) and told her to imagine she was taking a shit -- push out with her sphincter to relax the O-ring. And what do you know, it worked.

I eased the knob past her tight spot while stroking her gently and fondling her pussy. She gasped, then purred, then pushed. I retreated a bit to add more lube, then forward again. Hey, this was going pretty well. If you've ever been there, you know how hot and tight it can be. Lisa didn't need anything tighter than her pussy to please me, but this was for her, not for me.

After a few minutes I was in up to my balls, and Lisa was wondering what all the fuss had been. When I was sure she was comfortable I started stroking, first easy and then faster and harder as she responded positively. Okay, so not all sex-story cliches are wrong. She reached back to touch her clit, and came so hard she nearly squeezed my cock into a soda straw. Peristalsis... gotta love it.

And again. And again. This was one ass-crazy lady... I thought maybe I wouldn't get her pussy anymore. As it turned out, while it wasn't a one-time event it was repeated mostly on special occasions. But she'd lost her anal cherry and we'd done it with little discomfort and more than a little pleasure. And I'd learned that when the situation is right, it can be a nice treat. I counted this a success, and a milestone. Dear diary: Lisa's first ass-fuck.

Have I mentioned that I'm deeply in love with Lisa? No? Well, that's because I'm not. She's gorgeous and uninhibited, and I want as much sex as I can with her, while she's willing. But love? Not in the equation on either side. We're just friends who like to fuck and are good together. I do know that I'm the luckiest guy in three counties, but remember, I'm also one crafty dog.

Our anal escapade brought out Lisa's adventurous side. We moved on to toys, silk-scarf bondage, everything short of asphyxiation. And every time we brought a big dildo into the mix, say with me in her throat and Black Bart in her pussy, I thought maybe this is when she'll decide she wants the real thing. So when one day she did sort of suggest that maybe, you know, there was room in our relationship for, like, another person (yeah: another cock), I was ready to be supportive.

But she wasn't done surprising me. Lisa didn't want another cock, she was looking for a bit of the other. She liked the taste of her own juices, she knew what a good pussy-licker could do for a woman (here I blush modestly), and she wanted to give it a try. She asked if I knew anyone who'd like to join us, and right away I flashed to Kirsten.

Remember Kirsten? Red hair, slim and sexy, lives across the way, and oh yeah, we'd never met? Did you think we'd heard the last of her? Well, at this point I didn't even know her name or exactly what she looked like, but I was pretty sure I'd love to fuck her, and wouldn't she be a nice present for Lisa too?

I told Lisa about her, and she jumped right into the game: we'd seduce this woman, fuck her brains out, lick her silly, teach her to love it in the ass and to eat pussy like a sailor, and... Wow, I had a partner. I'd never had a partner in seduction before, this was going to be interesting.

I proposed a double-donged, er, two-pronged approach to Lisa. We'd each make contact with Red in our own way, and work in parallel for a bit. When the time was right we'd converge. My part was harder -- I had to gain her trust and get her into bed, and this was no starry-eyed teen. Still, I had Lisa working the back door, and while the business about divorcees being sex-starved is cliche, that's because it's often true.

We knew she worked out, so Lisa was to join her gym and get friendly. Their age gap shouldn't be a barrier, you know how easily most women get on. So far Lisa was more excited about this project than I was. I started to think I'd created a monster.

It went really well for Lisa. Kirsten (as we now knew) was indeed a lonely recent divorcee with few ties to her new place and a deep suspicion of all things male, especially her co-workers -- salesmen all, the very worst, and just like her asshole ex.

She was also as classy and good-looking as I'd suspected. Lisa got glimpses of her in the showers, and reported that her 5' 9" frame held a pair of softball-sized tits with perky nipples. The red hair was natural, too. Her legs were long and lean, and Lisa said that while she had no ass to speak of, what ass there was looked ready to be fucked. Oh, Lisa, if they could hear you back on the farm.

Lisa made sure Kirsten got to see her, too. Women in locker rooms tend to be in two camps: those who always stay clothed in something, and those for whom nudity is no big deal. Lisa had started out demure, but found an exhibitionistic streak during this time. She knew she looked good -- every attractive woman knows it -- and wanted Kirsten to notice.

My part started at the grocery. It didn't take much to find out where Kirsten shopped and when, and there's nowhere less threatening to strike up a conversation than at the dairy case. Unless it's in produce.

I literally bumped into her, well, her cart, and after apologizing allowed myself a quizzical smile. Weren't we neighbors? Wasn't she the lady with the little dog my wife thought was so cute? (Notice the wife -- threat level down even more.) God bless dog owners, you must be OK if you admire Rover. She was too polite to mention that she didn't recognize me as her neighbor, so we made small talk for a couple of minutes.