I.
He watched her sleep, her long, plump legs bent at the knees, a pillow between them to straighten her spine. Her breasts and belly sagged to her right side, the skin glowing in the morning sunlight. The hem of his dress shirt rode up her left thigh, exposing dimpled flesh, a thin covering of hair, and the scars and pockmarks of childhood illness and accidents. Her face was expressionless in sleep, the eyelids flickering every now and then the way her cat's eyes did when it was dreaming. He wondered what she was dreaming about.
His eyes roamed over that face, and he felt himself falling deeper. She was beautiful to him, and if she would let him, he would spend the rest of his life showing her he believed it. She hated her second chin, as she called it, and the love handles that she insisted were a size B cup. She deplored her breasts, which hung in what she called "an unattractive decline" above her big belly. She hated her arms that jiggled when she waved. Nothing truly pleased her on her body, except her long legs and her dimples, which were hidden by an all-too-often-serious face. Divorce, an empty nest, and an aging body were the realities she lived with.
He would make her smile more, laugh more, love more. She made his groin ache with need. She made his heart race with desire. She made his spirit sing with love. She turned in her sleep, and lay flat on her back, her hands on her belly, the fingers of one extended as though she would reach for the mound of sweet flesh that he had spent the early morning savoring. He could still taste her, could still hear her sighs and moans and screams of pleasure before he plunged into her hot depths and rode her to more climaxes than she had ever had from being fucked at one time.
He had wanted to give her one of her fantasies, to help her experience the power and pleasure of multiple orgasms. By the time he had fallen over the edge of ecstasy himself, he had lost count of how many times he had made her come with his fingers, his mouth, and his seemingly tireless cock. She had not planned to stay the night. He hoped to persuade her, with those same fingers, mouth, and cock, to spend the entire weekend with him. After that, he would see.
She stirred again, and opened her eyes, looking around her and clearly trying to orient herself. He knew the second she realized where she was. She reached for the sheet to cover her body. His voice stopped her.
"Don't. I like seeing you all disheveled. You make me ache to touch you again, to hear you scream for me when I make you come. Don't hide from me. You're beautiful and sexy, and I want you."
He watched her study his face, her own flaming as she sat up. He knew she did it deliberately, to hide her body without directly disobeying him. He fought to keep the chuckle that bubbled up from sounding. He didn't like the way she denigrated her body, the way she hated it. And he intended to break her of the habit, if he had to keep her in orgasms all weekend. The exhaustion would be worth the effort.
He stood up and walked to where she sat on the edge of his bed. Sitting beside her, he ruffled her short braids, and reached in to sniff her neck. She smelled like sleep and perfume and him. His cock swelled and he took her hand and stroked his wakening flesh while he kissed her deeply, holding her securely to his chest, not letting her move till she opened her mouth and let him in. They groaned together, their lips falling apart at the same moment.
"Good morning, beautiful. Welcome back. Ready for a shower?"
She stared at him, struck dumb, and he pulled her up to stand with him.
"Shower sex is hot," he whispered in her ear, nipping her jawline on his way back to her mouth. "Let me show you."
II.
He was right, of course. Shower sex was better than she had thought, and certainly not like that one failed chocolate syrup experiment of her marriage that had left her feeling slightly sticky, and wholly unaroused. "It's the thought that counts" had been a lame excuse for a sad seduction. But not this time. She had never known there was more than one use for a showerhead, or that she could be wet while she was wet. She had never known giving head while trying to breathe through the water cascading over her face could be so exotic...and it hadn't hurt that she couldn't smell the usual male musk that was normally a total turn-off for her. Nor had it hurt that he had roared when she made him cum hard, though she did not swallow, and he didn't seem to care.
She loved the way he jetted, and didn't mind the sperm on her breasts. She could feel the power of his orgasm in the force with which the jets of semen hit her skin, and she felt powerful. Why that was a turn-on, she couldn't say, but the wild taking up against the shower wall, her legs wrapped around him, his hips shoving her hard against the wall as his cock took full possession of her channel, was the hottest thing she had ever experienced with anyone...and her gone fifty already!
Now, as she lay on his back porch in a leather recliner soaking in the sun, she wondered what he saw in her. She was nothing exciting to look at. True, her face wasn't ugly, her skin was smooth, she had a pleasant smile, but none of those things said 'siren', or 'seductress'. None of them said 'sex kitten'. None said 'fuckable lady lover'. She was supremely ordinary, with a large side of body fat thrown in at the most embarrassingly noticeable spots. And still, as just a moment ago, he looked at her and his eyes smoldered. Still, he could not seem to walk by her without stopping to touch her, to kiss her, to whisper something sweet in her ears.
"What's my beautiful thinking about so earnestly?"
His voice broke into her musings. He was standing before her, at the foot of the recliner, a tray in his hand. He had been calling her that nickname since almost the beginning of their acquaintance, and she had once asked him if that was to be his nickname for her. The look he gave her, coupled with his mysterious smile, had been her only answer. When she asked him why, he said,
"I say what I see."
And that had been that.
She brought her attention back to his question. "Nothing," she answered. She wouldn't begin to know how to explain her confusion about his obvious attraction to her, nor why she seemed to need an explanation, instead of being able to accept and enjoy it.
He set the tray down on the table next to her, and sat on the edge of the recliner. His legs and arms and torso were bare, and her body stirred at the sight of his. He was golden and glowing, and the look in his eyes as he leaned over her told her that if she planned to leave, as she still did, she would need to do so as soon as possible. He made her forget herself, forget where she was, forget who she was. She couldn't afford to forget. Life gave out no gifts to someone like her, and she had already paid the price once, since her divorce, for believing a lie. She wouldn't let that happen ever again.
"If you keep lying to me, I shall have to punish you," he whispered against her lips, before taking them to stop her from responding. He rubbed his own over them, and when she opened her mouth to chide him, he swept into it, uninvited but desired, and suckled her tongue. She couldn't hold back the moan that floated free, nor keep her hands quiet at her side. How was she supposed to break free of his spell if she couldn't even stop herself from returning his kisses, as she was doing now with unabashed fervor? She clenched her hands into fists at her side to stop herself from pulling him closer. This was a madness she could not keep repeating. She was meant to learn from her mistakes, not repeat them. The second time isn't a mistake any longer, and to let him go any further would make this her third time at the starter's gate.
