Sarah & M

Sarah Jansen wasn't very happy with her life.

At least it's a temporary thing,

she thought to herself, and was often reassured, even if only for a short while. Her husband, Robert, was away on business far too often, and treated her with undeserving nonchalance when he was home—but at least she got to take care of the children. Another woman might have seen it as a chore, but being with them made her feel truly blessed every single day, because they always made her proud, and because they needed her, even though the youngest among them was twelve.

Sarah was 46. Her smile was as radiant as ever, but her eyes told a different story, even if the rest of her hadn't grown middle-aged enough to lump her in with the rest of the "Over the Hill" club. Every morning she took a good look at herself in the mirror and on some mornings she'd smile with semi-satisfaction at her own reflection. Usually, though, she shook her head with disdain, even as she imagined her own face within the pages of

People

magazine, wondering if all the plastic surgery and makeup of Hollywood could make her happy with what she saw. When Robert slept in their bed with his back to her, as he always did, she could hardly bear to even face herself the morning after.

But it was, after all, only temporary. Sooner or later, rational thought would set in; in her mind she'd rail against Robert as she always did, knowing her displeasure would fade by the time he returned home (as it always did).

It's not my fault I've gotten older. Why does he have to be so thoughtless? When he looks at me I don't feel like a woman anymore. I don't feel anything.

It was nine-thirty. The children were all off to school; her grapefruit lay before her in its bowl, still undisturbed. She shook her head and wrapped it in plastic;

I didn't really want it anyway,

she thought to herself. She had enough food for thought to delay her appetite another day or two.

------

She sorted through the day's email, tossing the spam and saving the rest for later, until she came to it. She had received another email from her online friend, her confidant of sorts. He lived only a half hour's drive away, yet seemed most comfortable talking to her online—they never communicated any other way. His words had always marked him as a gentle man, a caring man, someone who didn't mind listening to her; and when he wrote to her he always seemed to know, if not how to say exactly what she wanted to hear, then how to confront her fears without hurting her. She loved hearing from him.

What he wrote today surprised her:

Sarah,

The more I read of your letters, the more I am convinced that your loneliness really is dangerous to you. You need someone to love you, to make you feel like a woman and satisfy the desires of your body.

I am coming to see you today. I should be arriving at eleven a.m., so I hope that you will read this before then.

-M.

She looked at her watch. It was eleven o'clock. Sure enough, there was a knock on the door just a moment later.

She froze.

He's here? I'm going to meet him? There's so much I don't know about him; how old is he? Is he really male? I really hope he's not a transvestite…

She shook her head and chuckled at herself, then decided to answer the door, silencing her mind's paranoia.

Oftentimes when writing to "M" she had wondered what she'd say to him if she ever met him in person. She always envisioned them meeting under different circumstances, with her having something wonderfully witty and/or romantic to say to him upon first meeting.

"Uh… how old are you anyway?" she said to the man now standing at her door.

* * * * *

"Why didn't you tell me you were only 22?" she said, handing him a glass of iced tea where he sat on the couch, comfortable already as a guest in her home. He was much younger than she had expected, from the way he wrote, from the things he said, and from the interest he showed in her; it had surprised her, but she wasn't entirely sure that the surprise was unpleasant.

He nodded his thanks for the icea tea and took a sip, then set the glass down on the side table. "Twenty-two years," he said, "really, that's not so young. I've already finished college; I have a real-world career now. I being as much younger than you as I am doesn't make me a child, or immature. I hope you'll look at me with an open mind, as I look at you."

She sat down next to him on the couch. He slipped his arm around her waist and she smiled; she wasn't afraid to admit that she liked his touch. She could sense his affection for her, undiluted by having met her in person; and she knew he was a gentle and loving man. What he said was right—she had been his age once, and though she knew more about life now than she did then, it wasn't so great a gap that she could think of this man as beneath her in any way.

He moved, turning to face her, wrapping his arms around her, shifting to allow her body to rest comfortably against his as his arms circled around her back. When he lay back on the couch, she went along with him, lying on top of him, her head comfortably on his chest. She felt his fingers running through her hair, softly stroking her, comforting her, caressing the warm skin of her neck; smiling, she shifted to press herself against him, her breasts cushioning his stomach. Gently, she kissed his chest, grateful for this closeness with him.

She knew that she should feel excited, should feel that this was wrong somehow, this man she'd never met before today suddenly taking her into his arms, but she didn't. With him, it felt right; it felt soft and peaceful, as it should, and she liked it more than she was willing to admit to herself.

If he wants me,

she thought,

then he can have me.

She suddenly realized how badly she wanted him right now, and it surprised her. But the thought of acting on her desires seemed oddly natural to her.

She moved up, her breasts against his chest, her legs moving apart to straddle his waist. She gazed down into his face, smiling down at him, loving him for what she saw in his eyes then, and when he arched his hips and his lap pressed into her, she knew that she wanted to give her body to him, and that he would be grateful for it, despite her age.

He smiled, sensing that he had won her. "Let's go to the bedroom," he whispered. She nodded.

* * * * *

They said nothing else to one another, her smile refusing to waver, his sparkling eyes giving her comfort as he removed her clothes. She raised her arms for him as he slid her shirt up and off of her, then helped him with her jeans, stepping out of them as he slid them down her legs, down to her ankles. As she moved to remove her bra, he gently laid his hand on her arm, shaking his head.

Not yet,

his eyes said to her, his gentle touch said to her, and she understood, though no words came from his mouth.

She moved in and kissed him, her mouth parting to allow his tongue as he savored the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her warm breath filling his mouth. She felt his gentle touch on the back of her neck, his fingers like warm, gentle rain as they glided down her back, touching her everywhere, exploring her back, down around her lower back, down to her waist, now… He drew her tongue into his mouth, and she gladly surrendered to him, letting the pleasure flow through her body as he began to suckle softly.

As he kissed her, she let her hands slide up underneath his shirt, wanting to touch him, to feel his skin under her fingertips. He drew back, just for a moment, and removed his shirt, then took her again, her mouth yielding as easily as before; and as she closed her eyes and sank into the ecstasy of his wonderful mouth, she caressed his chest, her fingers drinking him in like water to a woman dying of thirst.

When he took her to the bed, laying her down gently on her back, she didn't feel the scared excitement she had expected, or even the cool reserved-ness she felt in her fantasies. No, she was crazy with want, with

need,

for him, for his touch, for his mouth, for his manhood; she had to have him, had to feel his touch on her breasts, and so almost before she even realized it she had undone her bra strap, pulling the fabric from her body and letting it fall to the floor. Soon enough he began to sate her need, her nipple firm and moist in his mouth as he suckled, his tongue bathing her even as his fingers stroked her other nipple to its taut peak.

She lay back on the bed and let him suckle. The feeling was incredible—each movement of his mouth pulling at her as if pulling at every nerve in her body, her spine shaking with each suckle, her breasts rising and falling with her shallow breathing. She could feel sweat beginning to form on her back, on her breasts, and she exulted in it. She felt as if all the heat in her body was concentrated between her thighs then.

He finished with one breast and turned to the other, reaching up, his fingertip gently tracing her lips as he began to suckle. Her lips parted, and her eyes fluttered shut, the tip of her tongue gently stroking his fingertip as it circled her lips. When he slid his finger in her mouth, she took it, tasting it, moaning softly, letting her lips slide along it, up and down, moving slowly but suggestively as he drank from her.

Finishing with her breast, he moved down, and she felt his tongue caressing her belly. She stretched her limbs, enjoying the gentle tickling sensation on her stomach, her smile stronger now than before; and when she stretched her legs, she felt his hand on her lap, stroking her through her panties. His fingers spread over her lap, his palm against the front of her panties, and she arched her hips, pressing into his palm, letting him feel her heat through the silky fabric. He knew how badly she needed him—but he wouldn't take her yet.

Instead, she found herself on her stomach, as he rolled her over. She smiled and folded her arms underneath her chin, curious as to what he was after now; and when she heard him remove his jeans, she grinned outright. She looked back—and saw that he was no longer wearing clothing of any kind. Ordinarily she would have felt embarrassed, but now she simply admired his firm manhood, the base surrounded by a field of soft, dark hair. He smiled at her.

His hands rested on the small of her back, then began to press in, kneading her flesh slowly but firmly. She groaned with pleasure, feeling her muscles unknot, what tension there was in her body sliding away, and stretched out her body before him to make herself more comfortable while he massaged her back. He knelt between her spread legs, resting his firm cock on her bottom.

The sensation was driving her crazy, having him so close, feeling him on her bottom and yet he would not take her yet. But even as her want for him grew and grew, her tension lessened more and more as his hands traveled up her body, working her everywhere, around her spine, up between her shoulder blades, on her neck, on her shoulders… His hands were strong, and his touch warm against her skin; the feeling was wonderful—and yet, to feel him on her bottom, she wanted him so…

She raised her hips and pressed her bottom against his cock, feeling his hard length pressing into her through the fabric of her panties. She wanted them off, wanted his cock inside her, wanted it so badly that she groaned loudly at the thought; and he, understanding, calmly removed her panties. Then he was in her, his full cock sliding slowly into her bottom.

She gasped and pressed back against him, feeling him slide all the way into her, feeling his cock filling her, her bottom curving into his abdomen. His hands circled around her waist, and held her securely; and when he lowered his upper body and she felt his stomach against her back, she surrendered herself to him, spreading her legs wider, and he took her, riding her, his cock sliding in and out of her with each movement of his body. The pleasure surprised her; at her age she had thought that to be mounted like this would have hurt her now, whereas it didn't when she was younger, but instead it felt wonderful to have this man's warm cock inside her, to be so fully conquered by him. She let him ride her, her head swimming, faintly hearing her own loud cries of pleasure as if from outside her body, all her sensations trapped on his cock, on his fingers as they caressed the folds of her clit. Her vision blurred, and then she seemed to see all colors at once, feeling nothing but the intense pleasure of orgasm, her essence ebbing through his fingers.

When her breath returned to her, when feeling returned to her body, she knew that his mouth was on her, felt his tongue sliding through her inner folds, and the pleasure was intense. She spread her legs wider, letting him enjoy her, and he took her invitation, using his tongue to draw her clitoris out. She gasped as he began to suckle at it, working it with his tongue, gently grazing it with his teeth, each motion like a bolt of lightning striking her, filling her with electricity.

His hands circled around beneath her and she felt them cup her buttocks, her skin wonderfully hot and sweaty against his palms. She was surprised—the pleasure was more intense now than anything she'd ever felt, but more surprising was that this man seemed to know how best to please her. Robert had never before touched her clitoris, never made the effort or even asked her what would please her; he simply fumbled through the motions until he came in her, and that was that. But this man, he knew her body, and he loved it, and he made it come alive; and she knew that if he did something that did not give her pleasure, that all she had to do was tell him what she wanted and she would have it. She trusted him, and that's part of what made this so wonderful with him.

When her orgasm came, he took it in his mouth, enjoying the sensation of her clit pulsating against his tongue; and she let him swallow, continuing to pump out into his mouth, comfortable that she was pleasing him by giving him her essence. She gave him all that was in her, and he took it all; and when she was spent, she collapsed back onto the bed and then felt his arms circling her body. Smiling, she snuggled up against him and slept.

* * * * *

When she awoke, she was fully dressed, and he was gone. There was a note on the pillow next to her, one that read simply:

Don't worry, I won't be a stranger.

She smiled. She trusted him. She knew he'd keep in contact, and that they'd still be friends, just as ever. And if she ever needed him again, she knew that he'd understand somehow, and he'd be there for her.

The clock read 3:14 p.m. Her timing was excellent—the children would be home at four o'clock, and she had just enough time to freshen up to face the rest of the day. But it was different today, because something inside of her had been awakened, a weight lifted from her body, and she felt much better about herself.