Meeting Margaret

Feedback to the link below.

We're standing near a window overlooking the city, ignoring the noisy early evening cocktail party, our eyes locked, a soft smile on her face. Is she amused or is the smile unimportant? "So tell me," she says, "what sort of women do you like?" Direct, certainly. A direct woman. I have a vague memory of someone telling me she owns a company. She might also be an attorney, a corporate manager, a successful real estate developer, a politician. She has the demeanor of a woman comfortable with success and the trappings of power. Married, I suppose. I don't know anything about her. I don't know why she asks about my preferences. A short while ago our eyes happened to meet across the room, and then a few minutes later I found myself talking to her. She's not young, certainly past forty, tall, perfectly groomed, a beige tailored dress with a pleated skirt, dark hair, brown eyes gazing at me.

She laughs, a quiet, bubbling laugh. She says I haven't said a word in answer to her question. I don't know what to say. I fumble. She smiles and says she'll take me to dinner and we'll talk about it. And that's how it is. Confidence. She knows what she wants. We leave the cocktail party, she chooses the restaurant, and less than two hours later I'm in her apartment kissing her on a large black velvet sofa. Kissing her, or is she kissing me? After the second long kiss, she slides her hand into my lap, finds my penis and squeezes it. "You're sweet," says. I'm disoriented. Who is this woman? I know all the trivial details, but I still don't know who she is. How does one know that about anyone? The inside workings. Some people are clever about it and they always know. But I'm not one of the clever ones. Margaret remains a mystery. She continues fondling me through my trousers. We're not kissing now. She has her left arm around my shoulders, her hand stroking the back of my head, her right hand in my lap as she continues exploring me. It's not a surprise when she slowly unzips my fly and brings my cock out. I'm erect now, the head swollen. We both look down at it. She rubs her fingers over it. She squeezes the shaft, rubs her fingers over the tip and smears the leaking juice around the glans.

She says it's a nice one. "Lovely shape," she says. My eyes are closed. I'm aware of nothing except her stroking fingers. Glancing touches, a rub here and there, nothing coordinated, not the stroking that will lead to an ejaculation. I'm certain it's deliberate: she doesn't want me to come. It's a tease. She wants to tease me like this until I can't bear it any longer. Now she starts talking. I'm too focused on my penis to follow most of it. She talks about her company, about her divorce, about her children, about the cocktail party where we met, idle banter, chattering easily as her fingers continue to toy with my cock, her fingertips stroking the tip, stroking the rim of the glans, tickling the underside of the shaft. Finally she stops. "Let's go the bedroom," she says. "I think we'll be more comfortable there."

Of course. A bedroom is always more comfortable. She rises, takes my hand, urges me to my feet and we walk together to her bedroom. My penis is exposed, and I want to push it back inside my trousers, but I don't think she wants that and I leave it as it is.

Her bedroom is lavish, done in pink satin, extremely feminine and almost Edwardian in its classic decor. She has me stand near the bed as she kisses me and undresses me. Nothing is rushed. She murmurs something about my clothes. Another kiss, another piece of my clothing removed. Shoes, socks, trousers. Then my shorts are dropped and I'm naked before her, my penis erect and bobbing out in front of my belly. She strokes my chest, my waist, my hips, and then she cups my balls in her hand. "You're delicious," she says. "Lie on the bed while I undress." She urges me toward the bed, and in a moment I'm lying on my side, stretched out naked on the satin counterpane. I decide any urge I have toward modesty is ridiculous. So I take my cock in hand and hold it.

She objects. She tells me not to touch myself. "Be patient," she says. I withdraw my hand and place it on my hip. She nods, her eyes on my body as she slowly undresses herself. First her jewelry, then her shoes, then her dress, pantyhose, bra and panties. She has a lush body, full breasts, round hips, strong thighs. Only a hint of plumpness in her waist and belly. Her breasts are lovely, mature globes with a ripe droop. Her body excites me, but I restrain the urge to take hold of my cock. I merely lie there on her bed, not moving, waiting.

She takes hold of her breasts, massages them a moment, fingers her prominent nipples. Then she walks to the dressing table, and with her back to me she gazes in the mirror as she unpins her hair. She asks me about my divorce, about my ex-wife. I can't help staring at her buttocks. Margaret's hips are broader than Carol's. Margaret of course is a few years older than Carol. Margaret also has a darker coloring, since Carol is blonde.

Finally Margaret turns from the dressing table and she approaches the bed. She climbs onto the mattress and she kneels beside me. She gently pushes me so that I roll over and lie on my back. She leans forward to kiss me, and at the same time she takes hold of my cock, strokes it, fingers the tip and fondles my balls. My erection is very firm, and I'm hoping the erection will last a long time. She continues toying with my cock as she kneels beside me. I lift my hand to cup the underside of one of her full breasts, but she ignores it. Her attention is on my cock as she tugs it from one side to the other, her fingers constantly rubbing the tip and slowly stroking the shaft. At intervals she squeezes the very tip of the glans to get more fluid out of the opening. After a while she bends her head to take the glans in her mouth, sucking it hard as she continues stroking the shaft firmly with her hand. Before long I'm getting close and I warn her about it. She immediately pulls her lips off the glans with a slurping sound and her closed fist strokes the shaft more rapidly. "Come," she says. "Let it go." I groan as the orgasm arrives. My hips heave off the bed as I start spurting. Her hand continues pumping my cock until the ejaculation is finished and I beg her to stop. She smiles, wipes her hand on my belly, kisses me, then leaves the bed as I close my eyes. She goes into the bathroom, and in a few moments she returns with a small towel. Without a word, she gives me the towel and she sits on the edge of the bed and watches me as I wipe my belly and genitals.

She asks me if I enjoyed it, and she smiles when I assure her the pleasure was exquisite. "Good," she says, "I enjoyed it also." After that she stretches out on the bed with her knees raised and apart, and I take the hint and crawl between her legs to suck her. She has a meaty cunt, the dark hair trimmed around the full lips, the clitoris firm and prominent. I hold her thighs with my hands as I dig my face into her and start working her sex with my mouth and nose. When she pulls her knees further back to her breasts to roll her bottom upward, I know what she wants. I extend the licking to her anus and she murmurs her approval. "Yes, I love that," she says. "But suck my clit now, I'm going to come." So I move back to her clitoris and suck it hard until she has her orgasm. Her legs tremble, her body vibrates, but she doesn't cry out. She's almost quiet when she comes; her pleasure is obvious but the orgasm is on the quiet side. After a few moments, she leaves the bed and she goes to the bathroom again.

When she returns, she has a small bottle in her hand, a scented oil of some kind. She kneels on the bed again, but this time between my legs. She urges me to raise my knees and open them, and when I do that, she gently pushes my knees toward my chest. "Don't be bashful," she says with a smile. My ass is exposed to her now. I know what's happening and it excites me. My cock is spent, flaccid, but I'm just as excited as I was before I ejaculated. She toys with my balls awhile, probing my testicles, fondling each one, tapping them, tugging at the sac. Then she lifts them and she gazes at my anus. "Knees all the way back," she says. "Let me see it." So I show myself to her. Is her excitement as great as mine? My ex-wife was never as direct as this. Margaret strokes the ring of my anus with a fingertip and her fingernail. Then she unscrews the cap of the small bottle, pours some oil on her finger, moves the finger to my anus and slowly penetrates me.

Her eyes are fixed on her finger, on the stretching of my anus as she twists her finger inside me. When she adds another finger, it slides inside without difficulty. "Good," she says. She finally looks at my face. "It's good, isn't it?"

And that's how it is. One finger. Two fingers. Then she extracts a small silver vibrator from a night table drawer and she uses that. The vibrator makes a buzzing sound. She's extremely skillful. She knows everything. She watches me intently, watches my penis as it grows erect, watches my face as I finally ejaculate again without my penis being touched. "That's lovely," she says. "I like the way you come."

It's the beginning of things between us, but already I think I'm in love with her.

End