Email Reunion - Two Seconds Leeway

Decision –or-Two Seconds' Leeway

It had been a perfectly ordinary school-day: it didn't stay quite that way.

Late afternoon: all students had long since departed for home. Hayley, at 57 the school's most senior fourth-grade teacher, was alone in the main office. She stood at the bank of mail cubbies, idly sorting through her day's receipts, dropping most items into the recycle bin unopened. The last envelope caught her attention by touch – very heavy, expensive paper, lovely on the fingers. She looked at it - dark cream with a tiny touch of lime – elegant stuff! She flipped it over and her eyes widened: it was hand-addressed in exquisite, formal copperplate cursive, narrow italic. No return address. It was addressed to "Mrs Hayley S. S. Sharpe".

There were precious few people who knew her full name with its three esses: those few knew her complete maiden name, Hayley Sonja Semple, but nobody, including Hayley herself, ever used all four. More important, and absolutely definitive, was the unique style of the capital esses, which she instantly recognized -

Jason

had written this! His surname, too, began with an ess and this was HIS script!

Jason - her first-ever lover, back when she was all of seventeen (he claimed she was 17 going on 35), he 28 – she in high-school, him a first-year PhD student. Four years together, head-over-heels, monogamous, then the breakup, initiated by her on the premise that N=1 was an inadequate sample size upon which to base a choice of long-term (permanent?) mate.

She'd often felt it hadn't been her wisest decision. She'd married #2 – George: they were still together, and total N=2 still held. Today they were empty-nesters, 'married-with-three-grown-kids'. All spice and sex had long ago evaporated, it was now a 'companionate marriage', with which state of affairs she was not at all happy.

Hayley shook her head in disbelief. Renewed contact after 37 years! Her heart seemed to skip a beat and her deep belly twisted gently. After all, amidst all the other things they were so well matched in, they HAD been a very hot item, with a wonderfully intense and varied sex-life, so she was entitled to squirm a bit in her chair at certain memories.

She stared at the envelope, fondled it gently – very little in it, one sheet, she guessed- plus something rectangular, small, probably a business card. She studied the address and wondered if, just perhaps, the pen responsible was the one she'd given him when he passed his doctoral qualifying exam? That would be romantic, she thought with a giggle. The pen had been of a quality, certainly, to have lasted this long – it had cost more than a month's allowance.

Then her eye caught the stamp – it was upside down, one of their old code symbols, meaning "seriously private communication in this one, open discreetly!" They had developed the code when she and her family went to England for most of a year: all their communications had been via snail-mail, with far too many busy family eyeballs around for comfort.

She flushed and her heart raced as she took a quick glance around the office – she was still alone. Back to the envelope, thinking 'Surely to god he wouldn't have...?!' She flipped it over again, scanned the back closely, seeking tiny, light-pencil, inconspicuous writing, specifically the number '1369' near an edge. Nothing. Hallelujah! Within their code, that would have signified a second, inner envelope, also sealed, carrying one of their personal pornographic photos. They'd made a LOT of those! It had been quite fun, both taking them and then working together in the darkroom. She still had half a dozen of the very best, those few that had somehow against all odds transcended mere porn and arrived at the artistic.

The surviving photos were sequestered in the lovely wood-and-velvet jewelry box Jason had given her for her eighteenth: they'd wiggled the liner free of the outer container, making it removable but in an invisible, unexpected way. The photos were under the liner. Although she hadn't looked at them for three decades, there they'd lain, not ten feet from hubby George, throughout their entire marriage.

The oddball number '1369' had a private, but fully explainable, etymology. Jason had been a Marine, and once explained to her that every occupational specialty in the Corps had a four-digit code – all Marines were trained as "basic riflemen" – code 0311 – and then as one got additional training, one accumulated codes – he'd become a precision-approach-radar tech, code 4739. The crude joke amongst Jarheads was that the TRUE "basic code" for every Marine was "1369" – standing for "unlucky cocksucker". She'd thought that cute, and had co-opted it as her private nickname (she being utterly enamored of oral sex) but she had insisted on removing the "UN". For years he had used 1369 as his salutation in their private correspondence: she had signed all her love-letters "L:1369" – meaning "I Love You - from your 1369".

Hayley stared at the address again for half a minute, then stepped into her private office, closed the door, sat down, and laid the envelope before her on the desk calendar. A minute more passed. She picked it up, studied the firmly-glued flap, impulsively ran the tip of her tongue along the flap's edge. HIS tongue had been right here, no more than a day or two ago. That infinitely talented, oh-so-energetic tongue.

She shivered slightly at those memories, all of them good. When she'd ended their relationship so cavalierly, she'd had no idea just how much she would miss that gadget and its capabilities: she had the extraordinarily misbegotten, vague idea that all men would be alike in their tastes and techniques – how bloody wrong THAT was!

Hayley picked up her opener, slit the top of the envelope. Good paper, indeed – it actually took effort to cut. She puckered the envelope so she could extract the contents, and generated a tiny gust carrying the faintest ghost of a scent. The odor went straight to her reptilian brain, her insides knotted violently down behind her pubis, and her breath actually stopped whilst her brain spent half a second analyzing, then presented her with the identification.

It was his deodorant! Always and forever, from first date to finale, he'd used the same one, and she loved it – she could see the package, white and green, 'Mennen Speed Stick Regular'. After lovemaking they would shower together, wash and dry one another, and then she would apply the stuff for him. Resulting more than once in the need for a second shower.

'That sly fox!' she thought with a tiny grin – '...he really knows how to play this game!'

Just the fact of his letter coming to her at school said volumes – that he'd already put in considerable effort, and intended to be VERY careful to give her every chance to tell him to go away.

She bit her lip gently – what else might he know, or have intuited, about her? If HE hadn't changed much, then perhaps SHE hadn't either?! Then she caught herself – "Egotist! What game, exactly? You haven't even read it to see what he has to say!"

At that, she mentally snorted at herself, actually mused aloud, whispering to both the envelope and her reflection on the monitor: "Now, let's not pretend to be both dense

and

naïve, girl. You're neither. You know this man thoroughly, or did way back, and I doubt seriously he's changed much. That means you know EXACTLY what his game is! The question is, whether or not you want to play."

"And, Mz Hayley, it isn't as if he's called up you and George and invited us all to go to dinner to get to know one another! Not quite!"

"At any rate, you know full well that if you and he were together in private, by the end of the first ten minutes you'd both be naked, he would have eaten you to at least one orgasm, and you'd be enroute to another, on your back with your legs on his shoulders, his cock up your bottom, and your tongue halfway down his throat! Don't you even DARE to pretend otherwise!"

She squirmed at the very idea, found herself unconsciously pulsing alternately with pussy and anal muscles as she recalled them together on the carpet, him on his back, she in a deep-squat over his loins and cycling up and down on his lovely erect penis, alternating between openings.

Or doing long series of Kegel exercises with his hardon in her ass, the Kegel's something she'd begun during her search for his absolutely favorite activity. She cracked a brief smile over how on more than one occasion she had added slow strokes to the Kegels and managed to bring him off, phenomenally strong orgasms for him, a huge sense of power for her. Even, eventually, orgasmic simultaneity! If it hadn't been so at first, that became his favorite – her invention!

Goose bumps rioted over her arms at the thought.

Memories, detailed and realistic, were fun but didn't help her sudden nervousness. She extracted the contents – one sheet of plain stationery, matching the envelope. A business card fell out, landed on the desk face up. A tiny color photo of Jason in the card's upper corner, then his business information, phone numbers, email.

It had to be a recent photo - it showed him at about the correct age. No longer graced with the glorious red-gold full beard of his grad-student days, but perfectly recognizable. He looked good - still lean, too. She didn't touch the card, just studied it as it lay, then unfolded the letter, looking for any marks of the deodorant stick. She didn't really expect to find a trace, and didn't - he was better than that!

She studied the little patch of writing in its surround of cream. More perfect cursive – she wondered if he'd had to try more than once?

Hello, 1369!

May I send you a copy of a book I've written? If okay, let me know by e-mail. If not okay –for any reason whatever- I will regard no e-mail to mean "Do not contact me." I will honor your wishes, whichever way. –- -J

She read it through several times. It certainly sounded like her Jason: the approach was simultaneously oblique (failsafe communications: no answer = no further contact. Good thinking!) and fabulously blunt (that SCENT! What a killer tactic! At least, she HOPED it was an actual tactic!). In any case, very Jason indeed – subtle, a totally personal sexual advance, understandable only by her, yet a missive in which 30 minutes post-opening all touches of sexuality would have self-destructed without a trace!

More or less on autopilot, she turned on her computer. The initial whine of the hard disc wound upwards to frequencies beyond human hearing-range. It was a functional antique, her machine, and would take minutes to finish booting. No hurry - she had no idea, yet, what she might do. Certainly the easiest and safest thing would be to shred the letter and not respond – she trusted his word.

But – did she WANT to do that? Amazingly enough, after 30+ years of perfect but uneasy fidelity, she found herself seriously considering the idea of playing!

Reminiscing, she stared off into space, focused on the lath behind the wall's plaster: what a history, she and Jason had. Such a team! They had met the summer between her junior and senior years in high-school. Daddy was director of the famous oceanographic school in which Jason was studying, and had finally sent her off to sea to participate in a research cruise, as he'd long-ago promised – each sibling in turn had done the same. On the vessel, she was an official jobless-but-available "gofer", for the 34 day cruise.

She was accompanied by her best friend Vicky, plus Vicky's father, their official chaperone. But he was a full-time marine sciences tech aboard ship, with 18 hours per day of work, and atop that he was a child of the 60s. In short, not the best and most attentive and protective chaperone one might have found. In any case, Vicky - also 17 and physically much more spectacularly developed than Hayley - fell in love (more particularly, into 'virgin's lust'!) with the ship's handsome, mustachioed medical doctor and was therefore off on her own lark (and in bed in his locked cabin) most of the time.

Vicky's Daddy was busy, unworried about his charges, and obliviato.

Before embarking, Hayley had never done any serious dating – it was hard to find boys of her mental and emotional level amongst the pueriles at school. Much less had she gotten into petting. And absolutely for sure no real sex. Not that she hadn't thought about it – a lot!

Hayley and Jason had met early on day one of the cruise, even before sinking the coast: she had instantly volunteered to help him with setting up his lab. That took all of three hours, at the end of which her sex was so wet she was sure her jeans would show a spot!

Only a few more hours into their acquaintance, about early mid-afternoon, they somehow found themselves locked in Jason's tiny private cabin where, on a steel bunk 30 inches wide by 78 long she quickly exchanged all three major virginities for a liberal supply of whole-body kissing and lots of orgasms – orgasms so wildly beyond anything she had ever managed for herself that she was instantly addicted. 'My god,' she thought, '...how READY I was for him!'

Half-way through the afternoon, he'd convinced her to let him shave her pussy – something she'd come to appreciate and which had become a habit, even unto today. "Much better access to lots of important nerves!" he'd said – and correctly so! She shivered again at the memory of the wonderful, detailed oral inspection that always followed (and frequently also preceded!) a shave. And, she never did ask him why he'd set out for a month at sea unaccompanied by –and unattached to- any female, yet carrying two unopened packages of contraceptive foam. But she was certainly happy he'd done so!

Nobody missed them, in all the slowly-subsiding departure confusion. They finally left the cabin well past dinnertime – they were ravenous, the mess-hall was shut tight, but the cooks had left out white bread, peanut butter and jelly for midnight snacks. They built sandwiches and, laughing at themselves, carried them forward to the prow. There in the open "dark-privacy" they leaned over the rail to watch the bioluminescence stirred up by the ship's bow wave, and each fed the other with one hand whilst the non-food hand delved deeply into the partner's jeans.

It was all extraordinarily romantic, with stars and glassy-calm ocean and the ship's noises and motions – although the next day one of the ship's bridge officers did take Jason aside and suggest – bluntly! - that the couple really ought to be a bit more judicious about site-selection.

Judicious they became – and judiciously-chosen sites for full-blown fucking quickly came to include the roof of the flying bridge, several lifeboats, the all-steel 'theoretically-one-person' crow's nest, and the 6-foot hemispherical multi-windowed observation chamber at the base of the ship's stem – a pot-smoker's heaven, with bioluminescence exploding continuously outside.

Returned ashore post-cruise, there was a certain level of hell to pay; explanations; inspections to be passed. But Daddy was a true gentleman, and both parents had raised her and several siblings to be independent, intelligent, self-directing individuals and they couldn't really fault Hayley for her choice of someone who was, they felt, actually at about her emotional and intellectual level.

Besides, Hayley's grades, always good but never perfect, actually improved despite the obvious emotional distractions of the relationship – she was quick to insist that the improvement was due to Jason's help and influence.

The rest of summer passed in a blur of sexual and emotional explorations and discoveries. She was a boarding senior that fall at a private, pseudo-semi-religious, high-walled K-12 school – expensive and very good indeed. The school's outer gate was locked every night at 9 – but there were no bed-checks.

Through that year, at least once per week, Jason literally helped her climb over the wall, always in full school uniform of white blouse and plaid pleated skirt (and always sans panties, for his delectation and amusement) so that she could saunter in unnoticed during the morning's first-period rush to classes at 0800 sharp. He had a large mobile home, perfect for their trysting – and on occasion, with strict time limits, they would lend it to one or another of her close female friends and their boyfriends-du-jour.

It had, in short, been a highly successful relationship, the ten-year age gap notwithstanding. On many occasions over the years she'd had strong regrets about killing it, enough to repeatedly damn herself for a fool. She hadn't had a clue how very good she'd had things sexually and intellectually and emotionally. Not a bloody clue!

Hubby George was a fine provider and overall husband, and excellent as a father, but he had a great deal less sexual energy than she, and had quickly proven himself to be neither adventuresome nor very talented. Nor interested in changing.

When very early on she'd discovered, with deep dismay, the difference between George and Jason, she had convinced herself that she would over time educate George, bring him up to her level of need and experience. That hadn't worked at all, to her everlasting chagrin.

But she'd accepted her lot, particularly inasmuch as it had been self-imposed: she'd never strayed, and had even avoided letting her occasional bouts of reminiscing drive her to looking up Jason on the internet. Always there nagged at her two questions – what would it have been like with Jason, and should she have experimented beyond #2 before settling... say, tried for ten? Or perhaps twenty? And then there was the boredom of the last decade (or even a good deal longer), which she hadn't expected and had handled by slow withdrawal into herself. Not something she liked.

She shrugged, eyed the computer when it beeped its "Online NOW!" tone at her and cycled automatically into e-mail mode. In the upper right corner of her monitor a thumbnail-sized clock began its countdown: it would shut the program down and lock the machine after ten minutes with no keyboard activity – a school policy.

After a minute staring at the screen – during which she returned to unconsciously writhing in her chair for some time before noticing again just how wet she'd become – she sighed, brightened, and Googled him.

She was astounded – twenty, thirty, over forty PAGES of stuff... he'd done a LOT, and not just science. She browsed for some minutes, finally exited Google and re-started e-mail. The timer began its countdown again.

She gathered wool – the biggest object in her mental view slowly resolved itself and crystallized – and it was significantly scary. And VERY intriguing! Six weeks hence she was going to attend, solo, a week-long professional conference in a city a thousand miles away. It was an extremely interesting coincidence. Extremely – to the point of serious wetness, reminiscent of her first hours with Jason aboard the ship so long ago. Inside her bra, her nipples were at full stand, applauding silently. She was both dismayed at and delighted with her body's responses.

The countdown computer beeped: five minutes to go. She shook herself, took a huge breath, set fingers to keyboard, and typed:

I'd like to see the book.

Send it to me at the school, just like the letter.

No autograph or dedication in it, please!

Shall I call you on your cell?

The timer reset to ten, started counting down again. She stared at the screen, then out the window, then re-read his note several times. Picked up and studied the business card. Re-read again, also several times, what she had typed onscreen. And sent her hand down her belly, under her thong, and into the incredible, swollen slickeriness of her pussy.