Birth of a Cougar

For reasons that don't exist, or at least are beyond my ability to justify (which ability is my superpower), I'm in his town, meeting him at his bar. Which is, not for nothing, a college bar. It's after class for him. I'm older than he is, and by a lot, although I keep trying to tell myself that he's not a puppy, that he's a bit older his classmates - these obvious children at bellied up at the bar - that his time overseas put off college.

Brain: "He's a puppy, you pervert."

But anyhow I look pretty, I think. I'm wearing the sort of little dress he ordered up..."I like'em girly."

My fluttering skirt and easy-access neckline stick out like a sore thumb among these casually dressed twenty-somethings, and the sky high heels and piled up hair only serve to underline how much taller he is than me. How much bigger. He's dressed like a student.

Brain: "Because he's a student, you pervert."

I'm such a weirdo, I touch his nose. Whatever else is true, I just like this guy. "You're handsome."

"You sound surprised. You saw a hundred pictures, and you said I'm handsome. You didn't think I'd look the same?"

"I just mean...you know, pictures."

"Yeah, I do. You're gorgeous. You look just like the chick in the pictures you sent."

"Whew."

"Exactly."

We're in a pub, a beer garden. I don't know if he knows anyone there or not, because he's giving me all his attention as I chatter nervously. He's quite obviously looking me over, eyes wandering from mouth to the tits he'd complimented so profusely online. At some point in my talking jag, he touches my nose. "You didn't come here to talk, Jane. You came here to get fucked." He manages to say that and not sound like an asshole, which is amazing. The teasing note in his voice puts the needle halfway between impish and cocksure. Again with the touching his face, this time his cheek.

Brain: "God. I hope he doesn't hate that."

"You make that remark sound sexy. Which, I mean, impressive." This time touching the back of his hand, resting on the top of his thigh, really close to his dick.

Brain: "He'll probably hate that less."

"Would it kill you to help me perpetuate the polite fiction that we're on a date?"

"That's not fiction. What else is this but a date?" He steps in closer, so close that I can feel his breath teasing the hypersensitive fuzz in my ear, he doesn't quite whisper. "Just because we know it ends with you stuffed full of my cock, does not make it not a date."

How does he do that? I immediately want to lick him like an ice cream cone, ears to ankle, lingering a while in the middle. "You should give a class on how to say shit like that charmingly."

"It helps that it's a defense mechanism, and I'm just as nervous as you are. Maybe more"

"You aren't nervous."

"Lies. I come equipped with a poker face." Tossing back the rest of his pint, reaching for the check. "Fuck it. Let's get out of here, go to my place and take our minds off our nerves. I'll fuck you til you can't see straight, how about that?"

Panic.

Brain: "What if he murders me? Or, and this would be way worse, what if he doesn't like my body?"

"I can't just ... go to your house. I got a hotel so I could spend time with you in person before I decide. I can't put myself alone with you inside four walls, with no safety. Can we be here for a little while?"

"Of course." And gives me that sweet smile from his pictures and takes a half step back. "We can be here a long while, even. But at some point, you have to decide what you think of me." Pause. "You never had a one-night stand? Never got picked up?" This, with a skeptical eye. "That was different." His fingers are spread wide on the small of my back. "No it wasn't." I feel myself get wetter.

"I still can't believe I did this, though. Reasons for this do not exist."

"You did, though. Let's take a walk." He covers his pint with a coaster, and pulls my wine closer to it. To the bartender. "We'll be back."

Then he puts that hand back on my back again. Without making a decision, I arch my back a little, so his hand slips even lower, his middle finger resting a millimeter from the crack of my ass, and we walk outside. It's chilly enough that I hug myself with my arms, and he laughs at me. "This is nothing, are you kidding? This is balmy." But he moves behind and wraps his arms around me, and I can feel the heat of his body from his breath on the top of my head all the way down to my calves. "I was beginning to think you were a fever dream. Which I guess you might be. Have you ever read 'The Queen of the Tambourine'?" He's so warm.

"No, what is it?"

"It's a very odd epistolary novel; a collection of letters from a woman to another woman, except that the other woman doesn't exist. It's a dotty little British woman's descent into madness."

"I swear to god this is weird enough. You really don't have to go out of your way to make it weirder, Jane." But there's a smile in his voice. He takes a step forward, and I have no choice but to advance. In a few steps, we're in some kind of alcove, and I'm facing a wall. His dick, hard under his jeans, is pressing against me, and then I feel it. I'm out of control.

My belly drops and my chest goes hollow from its sudden altitude change. A periphery scan, assures me that it's quite dark, nobody's around, nobody will see. Probably. Maybe. But my heels will be ruined, sinking into the soft grass. I kick them off, and now he's even bigger, almost too big for comfort, but all my bullshit back at the bar has left my head. Breathing him in.

He kisses the back of my neck, fingers traveling from ear to clavicle, nudging my bra strap off my shoulder. Five o'clock shadow against my skin makes me shiver. One hand slips around the side of my body to squeeze my breast, sort of...heft it, his palm stroking the lace. "Nice." I can feel the other one adjust his cock. I raise up high on my toes and arch my back again, brace myself against the wall, push backward into his erection. He steps back one pace and says, "Are your panties lace too?"

"No. But they're meant to go together."

"Lift your skirt for me. Show me." I can't speak. He presses. "Show me." His voice is not loud, but it's insistent. "I want you to do it." I move to obey, but hesitate. He says, in an affable tone, downright friendly, "Jane, if you don't spread your legs, lift your skirt and show me what you came here to show me, I will walk you over to that picnic table, and I will put you over my knee right here, right now."

The boy literally just threatened to give me a spanking.

'You literally just threatened to give me a spanking."

"Mmhmm. I don't threaten."

So I do it.

Outdoors, in public, in a too-cold temperature, barefoot in the dirt of an alley, in a town I don't live in, I put both hands behind me on the cheeks of my ass, and drag my skirt up. Try to make a show of it, be pretty about it. I'm on my toes, legs apart, pushing my ass back at him, my panties are revealed. Cold air flirts with my thighs, chills the patch of fabric between my legs. The lace of my bra is rubbing my nipples to such a hardness that they ache.

He slips two fingers under the lace, catches a nipple between them, and pulls. Lightly. The fingers of his other hand make their way between my legs, petting me lightly on the outside of my panties, which are so wet that they can't keep up; my thighs are wet too.

"If you're afraid to go into my house, you're getting fucked here." And then, with a knee, he nudges my legs a bit further apart. The sound of his zipper is loud in the silence. He's kissing my neck again. I feel his teeth on my earlobe, his whole hand is between my legs now, and fully inside my panties. He's teasing my clit from behind. Long fingers push into me, I can feel his freed cock rubbing against the small of my back. "You're short for this. Might have to bend you over."

I reach blindly behind me, get hold of him. He takes a deep breath and doesn't exhale. In this rare moment of him not asserting authority, I turn around quick. Clasping his cock in my hand, I look at it, and then up at his face. I consider saying something either pornographic or funny, but under his eye, I can't think of anything in either category. In a moment I'm on my knees. He looks down at me, brushes my falling-down hair out of my face. "Mmhmm. You look good on your knees. Gonna look even better with my cock in your mouth."

Jesus Christ, he should bottle that imp-meets-cocksure thing. Make a million bucks, because that does it. Now I'm just straight up sucking him off, outdoors in this strange little town, this college town I've never been to in my life. "What are you doing, sweetie?" My hand is inside my panties, I'm stroking my clit. He says, "You can play with your pussy til I say stop. But no coming." He pushes my head down, but somehow manages to make that playful, too. "No coming. Stop when I say," he says again.

So I do it. I tease myself as I suck him, but I hold myself back, taking my time with him. I want to make it last, tease him, give him the kind of head I sure didn't know how to give when I was a dumbass 20-something. Tease the head of his cock, work my way down, lick the shaft between my fingers, listen to him breathe, take his temperature, looking for what works for him. In some amount of time, he tells me to stop. And I do stop. But he pulls me forward by the back of my head. "I didn't say stop that." I go back to it, swirling my tongue around the head of his cock. Moving to kiss his thigh, "Am I doing it right? Tell me." Still stroking his cock, kissing his balls, licking him there.

"Go further down. Let me feel the back of your throat Take it all, Sweetie." His hands in my hair urge me to go faster. "Harder." I try. I have to hold him off, give some resistance so I don't gag, but his cock hits the back of my throat with increasing frequency. He's starting to think about coming in my mouth.

For my part, I'm so hot for this I'm dizzy. I'm sliding a finger alongside my clit as I work at taking him. I push a finger inside me, and then a second. I can just reach my g-spot with my middle finger, and the pressure makes me groan, which travels from the back of my throat directly into the head of his cock. He makes a wordless sound, and gets serious. Braces one hand on the wall over my head, pushes forward. His fingers are knotted now, tangled in my hair, his breath is rough, he's starting to fuck my mouth. I'm torn between power hungry and hungry sex slave.

But then the door opens. A person is silhouetted in the light from the bar and my heart stops; the adrenaline rush of fear is intense, and I pull away suddenly. He reaches for me. "He can't see us, goddammit." He's beyond caring if that's true or not.

But I come to my feet, fast. "Goddammit, Jane. He can't see us." My face flaming read, I wipe my hands, one wet from my saliva and his pre-come, the other wet from teasing my pussy, on my thighs. "We can go ... anywhere. Your hotel, My car. The bathroom. I don't give a fuck."

"Your house."

"You sure? You want to come to my house and bend over for me?"

"Yes." He looks at me with his endless eyes. "You want to be my toy tonight? You really want to be my fuckdoll?"

How does he make that sound sexy? Even charming? He does, though. "Yes, please."

"You're going to pay for this tease."

"Mike. Someone came out here. Are we trying to get arrested?"

"Neither here nor there." But he puts his cock away, and I put my dress back where it should be, try to put my hair into some kind of order, brush the grass and dirt off my knees, wipe ineffectively at the bottoms of my feet. And he steers me back into the goddamned bar.

I had just gotten my head around going into this strange man's house, alone. But now we have to pay the bill before we can leave? "Oh my god." I hang back from the room full of people, aware of exactly what I look like. My hands are shaking. "I have to hit the ladies, try to get looking normal."

"Ok. I'm going to have another, you want one?"

"Aren't we leaving?" This with an air of desperation. He shoots me a sidelong glance. "Nope, not yet. I'm getting a table."

"But I...aren't we going to your house?"

"Yeaup, eventually. But you have some debt to clear before I give you what you came for."

§§§§§

Thank god the ladies' is at the back door; I don't have to pass people to get to it. Thank god it's a one-holer. If there were three 22-year-olds in here adding mascara and coking up, I'd lose every single bit of my shit. Thank god there's an open window. That cool air is my salvation.

Thank god this dress is black and just above the knee, so it mostly? Didn't get into the dirt, doesn't show the dirt it did get into. I clean up my feet and knees, the heels of my pale pink stilettos.

My hair is destroyed. It looks like it's trying to be porn hair, but on a continuum lands more on mug-shot hair. Early stage meth addict. My hands are too shaky to fix the up-do, so I brush it out long. Ok, my makeup survived, except the lipstick is MIA, and I'm pretty sure I know where I left it. My lips are puffy and swollen. Jesus, it's obvious. Fixing that... no lip gloss. It's gummy and I want him to kiss me. I can smell his cock on my hand; I know I have to wash my hands, but the smell of him is a drug.

Brain: "Wash your hands, slut."

Ok, let's see, two choices... the Lilac perfume will go best with the steam coming off my pussy. I can fucking smell myself, for chrissake. Take a deep breath, let it out. Breathe. Swallow. Relax.

Assessment: I still look exactly like what I've been doing, but the flush is receding. I mean I'm as presentable as I'm going to get. I step back into the room full of jeans'n'hoodie wearing kids where, if it's even possible, I feel more like a sore thumb than before. Are they looking me over? If yes, is it because whoever came outside, did see us?

Passing through an oppressive lack of chatter in the darts area, I'm grateful he's bigger than pretty much everyone. Whatever they think of me, it's unlikely anyone would try him. And extra unlikely they'd try him on a lark; they'd have to decide it was worth it. Which is comforting. I get to relax into that performative thing. I get to enjoy the notion that maybe they're thinking it. Or feel safe because they're not, maybe I'm imagining it, reacting to my guilty conscience. Either way I'm ok.

He sees me and stands up, gestures me to sit on the inside. "I would've met you at the airport, you know."

"You're sweet, but that'd be dumb, I rented a car. I had to drive it from there, anyhow."

I'm sitting nicely, like Mother taught me, ankles crossed, knees primly together. My inner shameless slut, on the other hand, has the palm on his side, flat on the seat. And I'm slanted in his direction, so in addition to pushing my breasts at him, his access to toy with the ruffle on my skirt is unimpeded. He does that, flirting with my skin under the edge.

"So you got in at like two, right? Yeah. What did you do while I was in class?" Blocking the room, he picks up the ruffle and drops it a half inch higher.

Faintly: "Oh, y'know, I checked in, took a scenic drive, went to some cute coffee shop I can't remember where it was - I actually played checkers with a lady there, which was amazing and I have to get out of the City more often. Then I changed, and walked over here."

My thighs, acting unilaterally, open a fraction as his hand insinuates itself higher. "Wait, what? You walked here?"

"Yeah, of course, it's a few blocks down and I'm drinking; why would I drive?" His laugh is a little bigger. "That's funny, city girl. In a dress and heels, no less." He backs off and starts over, tracing figure eights with his finger, making his way from knee to ruffle.

"Would you ask for a glass of water? No ice, if they remember, but don't make them do it over if they don't? Cue talking jag. "I mean I don't want to be drunk, I ... when I drink I have trouble sometimes. Or even if it might be ok, it's not for sure. And y'know I came a long way for this."

He gets the water, which started out with ice, but he does make them do it over. Watching him walk away for it is nice. Watching him walk back, remembering the pictures of the military-guy-tattoos under his sweater, is better. Fucking hell, he is sexy. And fucking hell, he is way younger than me.

"Define 'this.'"

"You know what 'this' is."

"Yeaup. But I like to hear you say it." He picks up the ruffle again, drops it again, another half inch. "Are you still nervous?"

"Some. You?"

"Anxiety level subsiding. Mainly I'm asking myself, Self, what will this nice lady do for us?" The ruffle is very high on my thigh. "What do you mean?"

My own hand is wandering now, drawing fingernail sketches on his. "I mean you told me you want to be teased. Hard. Made to wait, and the longer the better. You also said that you like being controlled." Petting my thigh, the ruffle moves higher. Now a little v of my scarlet satin panties are visible. "You said that you're - and I'm quoting you now - 'maybe a little bit submissive.' So I ask myself what that entails."

I have no idea where the waitress even is, or whether anyone is looking at us. "We'll get get eighty-sixed, if we keep this up."

"Maybe, if you don't get a grip on your breathing. Your tits are about to make a run for it." He's gone back to coaxing my thighs open, nudging my knees open a fraction more.

"You shouldn't have told me about the 'fluke' orgasm when you got your ass spanked once, back when. I'm betting that was no fluke. You'll come if I spank your ass, I bet. Check that - not if. When." His fingers are further to the inside of my thigh, pressing harder.

"Mmhmm, those are goosebumps. Yeah, I could definitely get you to come all over my knee." He turns his body even more, leans on the table, even more certainly blocking the room from seeing, although I have the feeling we're not anonymous at this point. "I like red."

"You said that. I bought them for you." The bulge under this jeans has me thinking about what he tasted like, outside.

"Yeah?" When he touches my panties, pets me with the back of two fingers, the room disappears. "Is this silk?"

"Satin." He's resting his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the table. We're both watching those two fingers slip under the elastic of my panties until he looks at me and grins. "You messed them up."

Listening to the sound of my fingernail lightly scrape down his zipper, remembering how it sounded outside, "You do the sweetly cocky thing really well, puppy."

An eyebrow raises at that, but he lets it go. "Uh huh. So tell me. You want to play?"

I'm trying to focus on not embarrassing myself in this room, but my head is heavy and my breath is shallow. "Yes." He tilts my chin up. "Be specific, please."

"I want to play." I'm sitting up very straight, but my knees definitely have a mind of their own. "Not quite specific enough."

"Holy God, but I want you to fuck me."

"Yeah, you have been giving me the impression you'd really like that." Resting his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the table, he's moved closer to the edge of his seat, giving me access to press his balls lightly, under the denim.

"I never did like them younger than me."

"No?"

"My sister does. I make such fun of her. Does this mean I'm a cougar now?"

"Yeaup."

"But you don't seem that young - not like..." gesturing at the room, "these kids."

"Yeah, well. I spent a few years getting a bunch of chances to die. None of them know shit about shit." He leans in to kiss me just to the side of my ear. "I think it'll take me about a half hour to figure out how you like to be fucked the most, and get you begging for it. I think you'll let me fuck you every single way that I want to, to get another ride how you like it. Shit, not let me. Want me to. Beg for it. Do you think that's true?"