Devon Horse Show

I couldn't keep my eyes off of the elegant older woman sitting in the top row of the bleachers at the matinee of the ritzy horse fair.

I also couldn't help but notice that she was making a less than subtle production out of lowering her designer sunglasses and looking me up and down, smiling in a cat-that-wants-to-swallow-the-canary way. Younger women, or at least women who were my age, didn't begin to know how to smile like that.

The fact that I guessed our ages to be at least twenty years apart did nothing to diminish the palpable chemistry with the impromptu Mrs. Robinson, even from afar. I was reveling in the fact that she was overtly flirting with me, and behind my girlfriend's back. That made it more wickedly exciting, but I didn't expect it to be anything more than it was, harmless flirting with a lady old enough to be my mother.

But, oh, so fucking sexy, in a classy, though coquettishly slutty way. She seemed to look right through me, and I could feel my loins stir as I became legitimately aroused by her brazen staring.

I was diverted from my surreptitious gazing by a nudge and a question by my twenty-three-year-old college sweetheart, Stephanie, who was standing next to me along the railing of the horse ring in the Main Line section of Pennsylvania, home in every May to one of the longest standing traditions in the equestrian world, the Devon Horse Show.

"I said I'm going to get a cotton candy, do you want anything?" Steph tried to follow the direction of my eyes, to no avail, as I quickly turned back to the show. "And what are you looking at, anyway? The horses are over here."

I smiled at Steph and rubbed that spot on the bottom of her backbone that literally made her purr, like clockwork. "I'm fine, baby, nothing for me. Just enjoying the blue sky. You go on ahead, I'll wait here, OK?"

Out of habit, I gave Stephanie a twenty, even though I was struggling for every dollar and Stephanie was the eldest daughter of a Fortune 500 company's top executives.

Steph never seemed to grasp that every once in a while, it might be nice for her to come out of pocket to pay for an event here, a dinner there, a movie every now and then. She had everything handed to her on a silver platter throughout her life.

Me? I was trying to find a better job than my current gig as a landscaping account representative, after having recently been cut by the Cincinnati Reds organization after two years of playing minor league ball in their organization.

Ya know how some armchair athletes recant their glory days, and chalk up the end of their careers to an injury or some other act outside of their control? Well, my sports demise was much more simplistic. I couldn't hit the curve ball.

So, here I was, at age twenty-four, trying to literally decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I could marry for money, I thought, watching Stephanie disappear into the crowd of fair-goer patrons.

But truth be told, as pretty and aristocratic and wealthy as she was, Steph bored me silly, especially in the bedroom. I was true to her during my brief albeit nomadic baseball career, but had to admit to myself that perhaps that was a mistake.

I sighed inwardly and was still lamenting my fate when I heard the husky though alluring feminine voice just behind me.

Her unmistakable upper-class accent was pure Philly Main Line. To a trained ear like my own, it was an easily recognizable tone of haughty old money, a unique dialect honed over generations in a caste system of the pseudo-elite.

It's hard to describe, exactly, but try to imagine combining the cadence in the voice of Rocky Balboa's wife Adrian with the Duchess of York's. That's old Philly money, trying desperately to outrun its urban roots by pursuing New England-based, Ivy-League educations, but being betrayed every time one opened their mouths to speak.

"That's one of the Cheryl Sanderson's daughters, Stephanie, isn't it? Lovely girl, simply lovely. Is she your little girlfriend, I presume?" The implied arrogance in the question was so pronounced as to be condescending, but then I turned to face the inquisitor and instead, I felt my heart race in tandem with the resumption of the twitching in my shorts. It was Mrs. Robinson, descended from the bleachers. How the fuck did she get down here so fast?

That question was quickly forgotten as the woman invaded my personal space, pressing up next to me along the rail so that her firm breasts pressed into my arm as I peered at her over my half-cocked shoulder, not yet having the chance to turn around fully. Her long, tanned legs bumped into my own as she wrapped an arm under mine, and her sweet scent of expensive European perfume overpowered me, rendering my sense of speech mute.

"Cheryl Sanderson and I are on the board together at Rosemont College." My aggressive mature admirer cooed into my ear as my dick jumped like a show pony in involuntary though discreet mutual admiration. She then changed subjects rather abruptly. "My name is Lynn McDevitt, and you are simply scrumptious. So much cuter than the other young man I saw Little Miss Sanderson with last year at this same event."

While still trying to absorb that blockbuster, I recoiled just a bit and stepped back to take a close-up look at the comely forty-something woman tightly clutching my twenty-four-year-old arm. Though the comparison was not apt at the time, when I look back on the event with the benefit now of twenty-five-plus years hindsight, every time I see Diane Lane today reminds me of how my new friend Lynn McDevitt looked to me on that fateful Spring afternoon of 1985.

Auburn hair with just the hint of gray speckles hung in delightful curls down her bare shoulders. When she finally lowered her shades, her green-brown eyes danced and sparkled in the sunlight with the promise of playful promiscuity. Her tanned and freckled chest was covered just above her proportionate breasts by a white ruffled-collar sleeveless cotton blouse. She wore fashionably pleated khaki shorts with open-toed sandals that perfectly augmented lean yet muscled calves. Main Line chic adorning her tight, athletic mature body. As I said, coquettishly slutty in a high-brow way. Flirty and lusty.

She was......well, flusty. Yeah, that's it. I had invented a word, just for her.

Lynn McDevitt was flusty. Very fucking flusty, indeed.

As much as I was trying to deny my attraction for the overtly ambitious Lynn McDevitt, the fact that she kept pressing her surprisingly firm boobs into my arm caused my personal show pony to keep rearing its precocious head. Down, boy. I was also still trying to come to grips with her statement about Steph at last year's event. Could it be true.....?

My head was spinning from a variety of tactile sensors, when I felt my palm being opened by Lynn's long and persistent fingers and a business card soon filled it. "One o'clock tomorrow. A personal picnic lunch on my veranda." I glanced down at the card with an address scrawled on the back. I not only knew exactly where it was, it was just a few blocks from Stephanie's parents' house. Yes, of course, she still lived with Mommy and Daddy, which meant we had to occasionally get creative for some sexual activity. I harbored no doubts that Lynn McDevitt most definitely did not live with Mommy and Daddy, though the large shining diamond on her left ring finger did give me some ambiguity regarding her relationship status.

Just then, I saw Lynn's face up with contrived glee. "Stephanie, darling! I've just keeping your friend here occupied while you got your candy. He's so yummy, some hungry birdie might try to swoop down and gobble him up. How are you, darling girl?" Stephanie tried to protect herself by waving the stick of cotton candy like a shield, but it was too late. Lynn had planted an overtly insincere bear hug on her.

Then Lynn moved in for the kill, and Stephanie never knew what hit her. She was outnumbered in this battle of feminine wares and guile, one-to-one. Lynn's one was more than Steph's one.

"I just saw your mother last week, and she told me your long-time boyfriend was finally home after playing ball and got a nice job in landscaping." Lynn scrunched her eyes in mock confusion. "But, this isn't the same young man you introduced me to here last year, is it?" Steph's face contorted in a pained grimace. She was busted. She looked as if she wanted to shrink and hide behind the pink fluffy taffy in her hand.

Lynn recognized her jab had hit its intended target flush. Realizing that she had accomplished her goal of both mortifying Stephanie while pissing me off, Lynn now continued her charade and tried cavalierly to brush aside her remarks. "Oh, well, now that's none of my business, is it? Perhaps I'm just mistaken. Mea culpa."

Stephanie's face had turned a hue that approximated that of the cotton candy. I seethed at her as Lynn gripped my arm more tightly. It was only then I noticed that she had never let go of my arm. Lynn turned to me and batted her eyes like a southern belle at a debutante ball. "While I've been so busy protecting you while Stephanie was away, I never did get your name, handsome." She extended an downward turned palm, expecting me to grasp it. Instead, I took two steps back, which resulted in me wrestling away from Lynn's grip, but also distancing my personal space from Stephanie.

"My name is John, Mrs. McDevitt. John Brinkman." I glared at Stephanie, who almost trembled. You could almost hear the file cards in her head, desperately groping for words that would probably start with, "I can explain...." She didn't need to, her eyes rendered her guilty verdict loud and clear.

"If you'll excuse us, Mrs. McDevitt, I think Stephanie and I just remembered we have somewhere else to be. It was nice meeting you." I almost pushed Stephanie towards the exit in that same spot on her backbone that I had been gently caressing just ten minutes ago. She failed to purr this time.

"Well," Lynn said in a sing-song voice. "I do understand. I'm sure you two need to get caught up on a lot of things." The irony was as thick as her disingenuousness. "But, Stephanie, sweetheart, do tell your mother I said hello."

And then, as I guided Steph towards our pending argument, we heard over our shoulders, in a classic double-entendre that left little room for misinterpretation, "Oh, and John, don't forget to stop by my house. I'd love to have a proposal for getting my lawn mowed and having my garden properly attended to."

Not surprisingly, Stephanie used Lynn's blatant 'flustiness' as the best offense for her defense. While she was accusing me of leading on a "old hag dartboard", in Stephanie's words, I was discovering that Stephanie had indeed 'seen' an old high school beau of hers 'a few times' last season when I was playing baseball.

I dropped her off in a huff in her parents' driveway, irrevocable damage done to our relationship. I realized that I had perhaps jeopardized a life of marrying into wealth, yet somehow I was strangely relieved.

That's a story not worth doting on. There is a much better story to tell. This is Literotica, after all. And I had a coming-out party awaiting me beyond my wildest imagination.

So, also not surprisingly, I pulled my rickety Grand Victoria (yup, I really drove one) into the long winding driveway off of Conestoga Road at precisely one o'clock the following afternoon.

It was a gorgeous Sunday in May, and I no longer had my usual date with Stephanie, and I wasn't in the mood for golf. I needed something to fill my afternoon. And Lynn McDevitt obviously had a yearning to have some things filled of her own. It made for a fortuitous clash of needs.

I was somewhat surprised when I rapped on the huge front door and she answered the door herself. I half-expected a French maid or a tuxedoed butler named Jeeves or something. She was dressed in a pink and white flowered button-down sundress that displayed an ample view of those alluring freckle tits. My first thought was of Gene Wilder's line in the movie Young Frankenstein..."What knockers!" They weren't huge, not by any means. They were just,...well,...they were perfect.

"I was hoping you'd show," Lynn greeted me, sounding a bit embarrassed, which threw me off a bit, since her demeanor yesterday walked the tenuous tightrope between ambition and aggression. "I was wondering if perhaps you'd be pissed off at me." This made me at ease, and changed my impression of her instantaneously.

I shrugged, walking into the vestibule that was impressive enough to temporarily divert my gaze from Lynn's cleavage. "I've never been prone to shoot the messenger. Besides, when it all came out in the wash, I have a pretty good inclination that wasn't the only time Steph had entertained someone else."

Lynn's countenance now appeared soft and empathetic in this private setting , a marked contrast to her Catwoman public persona yesterday. "Well, it was not meant to hurt you, that's for sure." She smiled almost bashfully, and that resulted in a rise in my tenting shorts. Then she confessed, "However, I did have an ulterior motive in being a pushy old broad." She stepped towards me, essentially pinning me to the door.

"And what is that?" I asked, assuming I may already know the answer, but figuring it wouldn't hurt to get verification. My hands had almost unconsciously glided to her hips, and I held them lightly, encouraging her advance.

She leaned into me, pressing her leg into my now-bulging crotch. "Let's have lunch later. Kiss me."

Lynn's kiss immediately taught me that whatever I thought I had discovered about a great kiss was now secondary to the way this mature woman massaged my lips and tongue with her own talented, hungry, wet warm mouth. I caressed her hair, wiping it from her face, as my head spun wildly as we were lost in the moment. It wasn't as much sexual as it was sensual, a deep, probing kiss that extracted both passion and emotion, a true connection of deep chemistry unlike anything I had experienced.

The first kiss of a lifetime.

Reluctantly, after about perhaps five minutes or so of escalating embrace that seemed to extend for an eternity, Lynn leaned back, broke the kiss, and exhaled. She brushed the tangled mane of red-gray curls from her face, and her eyes blazed into mine. "How old are you?" she inquired.

"Twenty-four. How old are you?"

She grinned like a little girl. "Forty-eight. Isn't that just symmetrically perfect?" She leaned in again to gently suck on my earlobe. "How many times can twenty-four go into forty-eight. Twice?"

I moaned into her own ear. "At the very least. For starters. This is new math, there will be remainders."

Lynn's hand began to snake down my belly and I felt it stumble for my belt. For some reason, I held her wrist to impede her path. I had to ask this question. I had to know.

"Where is your husband?"

She nodded, as if in acknowledgement that it was indeed a very fair question that we should address before proceeding. "You mean my estranged husband. He's in London, wont be back for several weeks. His firm has an office there." She looked at me almost pleadingly. "But the marriage is in name only, it's been dead for years. But we must keep up appearances, for the sake of social circles, the height of Main Line hypocrisy."

Lynn took me by the hand and we walked in silence to an over-sized couch in one of the rooms just off of the vestibule. I wouldn't call it a living room as much as it was just one of several large foyers. In any event, she gently eased me down onto the couch and began to reach for the top button of her dress. Slowly. "Enough about my marriage, or lack thereof. My turn to ask questions. Agreed?" I nodded my assent.

"One candid question, one honest answer equals one button. Deal?" I felt my cock twitch, threatening to literally burst through my shorts. Since I hadn't felt the need for underwear today, I wondered if Lynn detected the small stain of pre-cum forming next to my zipper. The twinkle in her eye after her glance in that direction told me that she did.

"I'm amenable to your terms. Please proceed."

She twirled the top button between her thumb and index finger teasingly. "What's the age of the oldest woman you've ever been with?"

"Um....twenty-nine. I think." I furrowed my brow in recollection.

"How old were you at the time?"

"Hey, un uh, no dice. That's a separate question. Undo a button, please. No cutting corners."

Lynn smiled and willingly acquiesced. More freckles appeared, and the hint of a pink bra cup became barely visible. "OK, happy? Now then, how old were you at the time?"

"Nineteen, I believe." This time, the dress opened to display both of her bra-encased globes. They were not the shape of most forty-eight year old women, to put it mildly. Lynn began to run her hand over the top of her left breast, almost absent-mindedly. She bit her upper lip in contemplation of the next series in the inquisition.

"How was young Miss Stephanie Sanderson in bed?"

I had to put that in perspective. I pondered for a moment, wondering how forthcoming I should be. "Well...." I hesitated. "She liked to fuck, that's for sure. But I almost always had to initiate everything."

Lynn looked at me with feigned sadness, fidgeting with her half-opened button. I broke all the rules of responding to depositions with the disclosure in my next sentence. "And she hardly every gave me a blow-job. And when she did, she wasn't real good at it."

Lynn seemed to enjoy this revelation tremendously. The dress cascaded off of her shoulders and fell loosely around her mid-section. Even her flat stomach was scattered with adorable light brown freckles. I became harder, if anatomically possible.

"Did she swallow your cum?"

I laughed out loud at this one, sputtering back a cough. "Swallow me? That presumes she sucked me until I came. Wishful thinking."

The next button revealed the tops of Lynn's matching pink bikini panty. (This was long before the days of thongs.) She uttered a bonus question, providing a multiple choice, of sorts. "Would you like to cum in my mouth....?" Before I could eagerly respond enthusiastically, she continued. ".....Or on my face?"

This was a win-win scenario by any stretch of the imagination. I thought of the newly revived game show Jeopardy and its young host who had replaced the legendary Art Fleming. "Um, I'll take 'face' for two hundred, Alex," I smirked, trying to be amusing.

She kicked off the dress as it fell to her ankles. "Hmmm, is that thing as big as it looks?" She stared directly at the pronounced lump in my lap, threatening to burst through the seams.

"Again, no fair, you're out of buttons."

Lynn looked down and grimaced in mock despair. "Well, well, so we are." She reached around her back and I heard a small 'snap'. The brastrap loosened on her shoulder and fell down one forearm, exposing the tan line on one breast, just covering the hardened nipple. "I guess we're onto hooks, now, aren't we?"

She knelt in front of me and pushed my legs apart. This time, rather than discourage her, I watched silently as she undid my own shorts and slid my zipper halfway down. "Have you ever fucked a woman in the ass?"

One hand reached to extract my cock from its Bermuda-shorts prison cell, while the other unhooked the remaining bra snap. She didn't even wait for an answer. She moaned when she saw my cock pop from its hiding place. She stroked the stream of pre-cum from my cockhead and down the base of the whole shaft.

"Yes, once. That twenty-nine-year old." I admitted proudly, while trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice from trembling, but by now, Lynn didn't appear as interested in her abbreviated game of 'strip twenty questions'.

"My God, you're huge!" She inhaled sharply, using a second hand to surround my pole. Then, she spoke almost to herself, softly, as if taking inventory. "Hmmm, I don't know if that will fit back there."