Tying Up Loose Ends

I grew up in a small farming community in northern Michigan. My husband Alan is originally from Pennsylvania. We met in college, and we married shortly after we both graduated. We're in our early fifties now, and we've been married for thirty-one years. Almost immediately after we were married, Alan's job took us to Atlanta, so we don't get back to Michigan very often.

A few years ago, I got an invitation to my 30th-anniversary high school class reunion. My dad had died a few years previously, and I thought the reunion, besides being fun all by itself, could provide us an opportunity to spend some time with my mom, so we made our plans, and went back to Michigan. We spent a couple weeks with Mom, and the reunion took up the last couple days of our visit.

Alan and I walked into the hall and chose a table to sit at. We stood there, surveying the room, and I found a few of my old school friends to chat with. It was shaping up to be a very enjoyable evening. When they announced that dinner would be served soon, we all found our way back to our tables, and when I took my seat next to Alan, there was Greg, sitting across the table from me.

Greg and I were sweethearts for a couple years in high school, so he was much more to me than just a youthful crush. Looking back, I really did love him; he was a great guy, and I always felt good, and well cared for, when I was with him. In those days, I always sort-of assumed that we would end up marrying each other, but it just never worked out that way. I wanted to go to college, and Greg didn't, so ultimately, we just kind-of drifted apart. Once I met Alan, I don't think I ever saw Greg again.

Until the reunion. As we talked, I found myself having these uncanny 'flashes of recognition', where he'd say something, or smile a certain way, that made me remember why I'd loved him, all those years ago. He was still the same great guy I remembered, and he and Alan seemed to hit it off with each other, too. I was a little saddened to learn that Greg had never married, and lived by himself on his parents' old farm, a mile or so out of town.

I excused myself to visit the ladies' room, and when I returned, Greg stood. Taking me by the hand, he nodded in Alan's direction, saying, "I have your husband's permission to ask if you would do me the honor of this next dance?"

I glanced quickly toward Alan, who nodded, and made a sweeping gesture toward the dance floor. "I would be honored," I replied, feeling a little giddy inside, though I couldn't say exactly why.

As we danced, I felt Greg's strong, muscular shoulders, even stronger from years of farming than they'd been when I'd last known him. His arm around my waist bespoke gentle, confident strength.

"It's good to see you again, Brenda," he said.

"You, too, Greg."

"You really look great. And your husband is a great guy. It seems you've had a good life."

"Yes, I believe I have."

"I am so glad. All I've ever hoped for you is that you've had a happy life."

"Thank you, Greg." For a moment, my mind wandered in thought. He would have every reason to resent me, the 'college girl', or to think that I thought I was better than he was, or somesuch, but he really, truly only wished me well.

And, lord help me, I couldn't help myself from recalling the days we spent together, and even wondering, just a little, what my life might have been like with him.

"How is it, Greg," I wondered, "that you've never married? I mean, you're a successful farmer, and a good man. Any woman should be happy to share her life with you."

Greg just laughed. "I'm flattered," he said, then continued, in a more thoughtful tone. "I can't really say why. I haven't found the right woman yet, I guess. Maybe," he said, with a wink, "I've just never found anyone like you."

In spite of myself, I blushed deeply; I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. When the dance ended, and Greg and I rejoined Alan at the table, I'm sure I was still flushed, and smiling more giddily than might have been entirely fitting for a woman married to someone else.

*****

Alan and I were in the car the next day, driving back to Georgia, reviewing the two weeks of our visit.

"You know, you've never mentioned Greg to me," Alan said, at one point. "Why not? You've told me about all your other old flames."

"Oh," I replied, "I didn't think it was that big a deal. Those other guys I told you about were guys I had sex with in college. Greg and I never had sex."

"Really?" Alan seemed surprised. "You were exclusive with each other for two years in high school. That's a pretty significant relationship. I saw you when you were dancing with him, and when you came back to the table, you were positively glowing. I'm wondering if you're really completely over him."

"Alan," I chided, "it's been thirty years since Greg and I were an item. And even if I once thought I would marry him, I didn't, and you and I have been happily married for twenty-five of those years. I'm as over him as I need to be."

But Alan still pressed me. "Are you? Or do you have regrets about him? You say you thought you would marry him, but you never had sex -- why not?

I sighed. The memories provoked by Alan's question brought a wistful smile to my face. "Pretty much the whole time we were together, he wanted to have sex with me. I always told him I wanted to, but I wasn't ready yet. I let him feel my breasts, and that seemed to make him happy, but it never went any further than that. The summer before I went to college, I actually planned to give him my virginity. But things kept getting in the way, and it never happened. I guess that's my biggest regret -- I loved him enough to have sex with him, at least once, but I never did. And I'd sure rather remember him as my 'first' than the doofus from college who finally did take my cherry. But good heavens, Alan -- I don't remotely regret marrying you."

"Do you ever wonder what he would have been like sexually?"

I was silent in response to my husband's question. He had put his finger exactly on the most sensitive spot in my memories of Greg. I loved Alan more than my own life, and our sex life was rich and fulfilling. Greg couldn't remotely tempt my away from him. But Alan's question nagged at me. "Yes," I finally admitted. "I suppose I do."

Alan sat quietly, as several miles passed on the highway. "I wish I had known," he finally said. I don't want you to live your life wondering what might have been. All I want is for you to be happy, with no regrets."

"We're going back home now, anyway," I finally replied. "And I'm not sure when, or if, we'll ever be back. So it's really nothing to worry about, right?"

Alan smiled softly. "Yeah," he said, "I suppose it isn't."

*****

Two years later, my mother died. Dad had died several years before, so it fell to me to go back to my ancestral home and sell the property. Alan and I took a month off and drove back to Michigan. After much hand-wringing, we finally found a buyer for the house, and we hired an auctioneer to sell the last of Mom's household goods. When the last gavel fell, it might as well have been ringing down the end of my connection to the place I grew up. We had one more day to tie up the last loose ends of Mom's estate, and then we'd be on the road back to Georgia, never to return.

The house was utterly bare, except for an old mattress on the floor, which the buyer was returning for the day of our departure, so Alan and I at least had something semi-comfortable to sleep on.

The next day, all our business was completed by lunchtime, so we had a few hours to kill in the afternoon. "I've been thinking," Alan mused, "that maybe we should pay a visit to your old friend Greg, as long as we're here."

"Greg?" I said, momentarily flustered. "Why do you want to see Greg?" Alan had caught me completely off-guard with his suggestion. The prospect of seeing Greg again was incredibly exciting, but I tried to keep a poker-face, and conceal my emotions from Alan.

"Oh, I thought YOU would want to see him again," Alan said, with a wry grin. I had the feeling that he know exactly how I felt, and that he also knew that I wasn't going to admit it to him, so he was going to force my hand.

"Sure," I said. "Let's go see Greg. We'll probably never come back this way again, after all."

"My thoughts exactly," said my husband, still with the same half-mischievous grin.

I made the call to Greg's house, and he was very pleased to have us over. He had heard of my mother's passing, and he expressed his condolences. And that he was glad we came to see him while we were in town.

He took us on a walking tour of his farm. It really was lovely -- acres of wooded land, with a small pond and a large barn, and pasture for a varied mix of animals -- goats, sheep, chickens, a couple milk cows, even a few llamas. It was a delightful setting. We talked as we walked, and I just felt completely relaxed and comfortable.

When we finished our walking tour, Greg invited us into the house for something to drink, and we sat in his living room reminiscing again about bygone days. Greg got out some old photo albums, and we flipped through them, prompting even more delightful stories and memories from our past. At one point, his hand accidentally brushed against my leg. Lord help me, I flinched, and inhaled sharply in response to his brief touch. I hoped that Alan hadn't noticed it, but he had.

Alan has never been a jealous man. Not even a little bit. I've told him about all of my previous lovers, and he isn't threatened by any of them (not that I had THAT many). And he knew that I wasn't remotely going to leave him for Greg. But he knew, in that uncanny way that long-time married folks know each other, that Greg was a loose end from my past that I deeply needed to take care of.

Alan stood up and stretched, then kissed me on the forehead. "You know," he said, turning to Greg, "I think I'd like to go have another walk in those beautiful woods of yours. I expect I'll be back in an hour or so. You two have fun."

He looked deeply into my eyes, and I returned his gaze intently. Without saying a word, he told me that it was okay, that he was fine with whatever happened between Greg and me. Then he turned, and walked out the back door. I watched him for a minute, as he headed up the trail to the woods at the back of Greg's farm.

Then I turned to face my old boyfriend. "Greg," I began, "I don't even know how to tell you this. . . I have only one regret in my life. . ."

He stood to face me, not quite sure what I was going to say, but probably suspecting where I was heading. "What's that, Brenda?"

"My one regret is. . ." I paused and sighed, trying to think of a 'nicer' way to say it, but not finding one. "My one regret is that you and I never had sex. I know you always wanted to, and I wanted it, too. But I kept putting you off, and we never did. I loved you, Greg, and in some ways, I always have. I wanted to feel you inside me, to join my body to yours, if only one time. I have wanted you to know that I loved you, and that I still cherish the times we spent together. I wanted you to have the memory of us together, of my body given to you. I didn't do it, and I have regretted it ever since."

"Brenda," Greg said, softly, "I have always wondered what my life might have been like with you. I loved you, too. As much as I pestered you for sex, you were never just a conquest to me; I loved you -- deeply -- and I wanted to connect with you at the most intimate possible level. But if you weren't ready, I wasn't going to push you into something you'd regret.

I laughed. "And now, I regret not having done it."

"And please," he went on, "I don't want you to regret anything we might do now. You have a husband, Brenda, and your marriage to him is way more important than any feelings you and I have for each other."

"I know, Greg. I promise you, there will be no regrets. Alan sees -- he knows -- that you and I have unfinished business. And it's as important to him that we finish it, as it is to you and me."

I looked longingly, pleadingly, desirously, at my old boyfriend. "Please, Greg," I implored, "make love to me. Like we should have done years ago."

Greg's face broke into warm, wide smile. "I would be honored to."

Tenderly, Greg took me in his arms -- his powerful, masculine arms -- and the years fell away. Instantly, we weren't fifty years old anymore, we were eighteen again, giving ourselves to each other for the first time. I raised my face toward his, begging him to kiss me, and he did, intensely, passionately. Our mouths locked together, and our tongues probed inside each other's mouths.

We pressed our bodies tightly together, and I could feel the bulge of his erection pressing against my belly. Without even breaking our kiss, I unfastened the buttons on his shirt, and ran my hands across his solid, broad chest, running my hands through the curly, sand-colored hair on his chest. Stripping his shirt off over his shoulders, I wanted to feel my own naked skin against his. Stepping back, I raised my hands over my head, wordlessly inviting him to peel my top off me. When he had removed my shirt, he reached around behind me and fumbled with the clasp of my bra until he managed to unhook it. I shrugged it off my shoulders, at last freeing my breasts to Greg's appreciative gaze.

"Thank you, God. . ." he whispered, as he laid eyes on my naked breasts for the very first time. Even years ago, I had let him feel my breasts, even under my bra, but he had never seen them in all their naked glory. I delighted in the sensations as his hands roamed freely over my breasts, squeezing and caressing them, and rolling my nipples between his fingers. I groaned as he bent down to lick and suckle them eagerly.

"Your breasts are beautiful," he said, and fifty-year-old woman that I was, having exposed my breasts to my husband thousands of times, and a few other men before him, he was utterly melting my heart with his happiness to finally be seeing them, and playing with them again, after so many years. I felt myself blushing at the joy that my old boyfriend was taking from my body as he fondled and caressed the same breasts that he'd felt those many years ago.

I hugged myself tightly against Greg's naked chest, luxuriating in the intoxicating sensation of my naked skin against his, my nipples plowing little furrows through his chest hair, trailing little electric charges between us as I rubbed my breasts sensually against him. Greg's hands stroked eagerly over my back and sides, touching every millimeter of my exposed skin.

He began grinding his hips, almost involuntarily, and I knew that we needed to get naked as soon as possible. I fumbled to unbutton the waistband of his jeans, then unzipped them, and slid his pants down his legs, forming a blue fabric puddle around his ankles. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside, leaving me to gaze eagerly on his erection, poking urgently out against the fabric of his briefs, a wet circle spreading from the tip. It was twitching and bobbing like a living creature.

I couldn't wait any longer. I quickly stripped off my own pants, and my panties along with them. At last, I was standing completely naked in front of Greg, all my secrets open to his eyes. While he gazed adoringly on my nudity, I peeled his undershorts off him. I simply had to see, and touch, his wonderful penis.

I gasped when his erection popped into view. It was simply wonderful. Greg's penis was about the same size as Alan's; possibly slightly thicker. But whereas Alan's cock has a slight upward curve to it when erect, Greg's was ramrod straight. I took it in my hand and purred happily as I stroked along the whole length of it, smearing the pre-cum that was oozing from the tip all along his length.

I pushed him down onto the couch, and knelt between his legs. "Your cock is wonderful," I gushed. "Definitely worth waiting for." I leaned forward and kissed the head of his cock, tenderly, lovingly, savoring his own unique flavor, similar to Alan's, and yet so different. I wrapped my lips around his hard manhood, and swirled my tongue in circles around its head, causing him to groan with pleasure. Soon, I was licking long tongue-strokes all along the length of his shaft, cradling and fondling his heavy balls with my other hand.

With a tender touch on my shoulder, Greg beckoned me up onto his lap. I spread my legs, on either side of his, and sat on his knees, exposing my vagina to him. He gazed straight at my hungry opening. My labia were engorged and tingling with anticipation, and my inner lips opened like the petals of a flower, beckoning in welcome to my old boyfriend, about, at last, to become my lover.

Greg inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of my arousal, causing me to blush deeply yet again. Gently, he stroked my pussy, then probed inside me with one finger, and then two. I clenched my vaginal muscles around his fingers, causing him to break into a wide grin. "You're amazing," he chuckled. He continued slowly finger-fucking me, while I rocked my hips against the in-and-out movements of his fingers inside me.

"Oh god, Greg," I finally breathed. "I want you. I want to feel your wonderful cock inside me, filling me up! Please put it in me!"

"I want you, too, Brenda. I wanted you a long time ago."

I raised myself up on the couch on my knees, and positioned my sex against Greg's cockhead. Placing my hands on his strong shoulders for support, I looked into his eyes. He returned my gaze with deep, loving desire. And slowly, I lowered myself onto his erection.

Greg groaned -- a deep, erotic groan -- as his penis slid into me for the very first time. I felt the walls of my vagina giving way to the relentless advance of his thick manhood into my feminine depths, taking its place inside me as it should have done years before.

"At last!" I groaned. "Oh, Greg -- at last you're inside me, filling me with your beautiful, thick cock! Oh, it feels so good! I wish we had done this years ago!"

"Me, too," echoed Greg. "God, it feels so good inside you!"

When he was finally all the way inside me, we both paused to savor the sensation. I could feel my pubic bone bumping against his, and his pubic hair tangling with mine; I felt his balls nestled against my ass. I clenched my cunt-muscles around his shaft in a sensual vaginal hug, causing him to groan again at the sensation. I leaned forward, offering my breasts to him, and he suckled them with great relish, as we gently rocked together.

Greg's was the first and only penis besides Alan's that I'd had inside myself in 27 years of marriage. And yet, it didn't feel at all like I was being unfaithful. It was more like I'd taken a time machine back to when we were both eighteen, and set something right, corrected an error in both our personal histories. It was like we were having the First Time that we should have had long ago, and with each other, not shadowy memories whose names we had long-since forgotten

I savored the sensations of Greg's thick, stiff pole inside me for a long time, and we lazily rocked on and on in the ancient rhythm of sexual intercourse. I ground him in and out of myself, up and down, back and forth. I felt the tip of his cock probing deep inside myself.

Slowly, inexorably, I began to feel my climax rising within myself. My breathing became ragged and shallow, and a warm buzz spread out from my pussy. Gradually, I increased my tempo, grinding on Greg's cock with increasing urgency. And as I picked up my pace, Greg responded, matching my rhythm, raising his hips up off the couch, driving his cock forcefully up into me.

Soon, my orgasm exploded. Wave after wave of sexual ecstasy crashed over me, and I lost control of my body, twitching and writhing as I climaxed.

"Oh, Greg!" I cried. "Oh, Greg, I'm coming! Oh, baby, you're making me come! Come with me! Please? Shoot your cum into me! I want to feel your cum inside me!"