She was small and thin and soft. She smiled a lot. It was off-putting at first to be sitting across from her, her eyes locked on him as he told his stories. He had to edit the stories. 22 years of marriage meant that the woman that was the main supporting character in any of his stories was his wife... ex-wife? He still wasn't sure what exactly to refer to her. She was not technically an ex-wife. They hadn't even talked about making her an ex-wife in at least two months.
He had planned to wait her out. She would make a decision one way or the other soon enough. He would be patient.
But then the girl had smiled at him. Yes, she was a woman, a buxom, beautiful, twenty-something woman, but at almost twenty years younger than him he thought of her as a girl.
He paid the check. They had eaten seafood and drank wine and talked for hours. He suggested another place just down the block. This was the second time they had gone out. The first had been a journey from one small bar to another walking along the coast until finally exhausted she said she needed to go and he put her gently into a hired car.
He hadn't expected to see her a second time. The first night had been awkward. They were from different worlds. She listened to different music, watched different movies, had different plans and goals, but thoroughly sauced in a light rain she had kissed him before slipping into the back seat of her ride home. She told him to call her.
"We can if you want," she said to his plan to try the Greek place and order ouzo. "Or we could go someplace else."
"I am all yours, where would you like to go?" he had asked.
"Your house?" she said, her voice high and soft and silky smooth.
She rode quietly in the passenger's seat staring at her cell phone. It was the sort of thing his wife had done that drove him nuts. At that moment he didn't mind. He was happy not to have to talk to her. He was not prepared for this.
In his kitchen, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. She sat on the kitchen island, her legs swinging like a little child's. She had kicked off her shoes. Her feet were delicate and perfect; the nails painted a bright red. Her legs were... he tried not to look at them. He wasn't prepared to think about them.
When he handed her the glass, she took a sip and then gripped him by the front of his T-shirt. She kissed him.
She kissed with soft lips. His hand found her bare thigh, and she added her tongue. It was small and moved slowly along her lips. His heart raced, and He swelled uncomfortably in his "skinny jeans,"
She purred a little, and her hands moved up the inside of his Tshirt along his chest. She giggled.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Tell me."
"All the guys I know... You know... shave... or wax... this..." She tugged at the hairs on his chest.
"I guess I'm out of touch," he said. She gripped his shirt at his love handles and tugged. He had to bend down. She buried her face in his chest running her soft cheeks against him.
It was a tender moment. Almost affectionate really, and he laced his fingers through soft short blonde hair.
"I think I am supposed to be the one focussed on your chest," he said, daring a slight joke. His voice so soft it was nearly a whisper.
"Do you want to see my breasts?" she asked. The youthful innocence in her voice caused him actual, physical pain.
"Mmm. Very much."
She pushed him back until he was pressed against the refrigerator. He looked quickly, found his wine glass, and turned his focus back to her.
As he watched she tugged slowly at the spaghetti straps that had held the little romper up, slipped them off her shoulders, and down her arms. The romper fell free from her chest and then she rocked from ass cheek to ass cheek pulling the little outfit off her hips. At her knees, free of the kitchen counter it fell to the floor all on its own. She arched her back. Her bra was one of those little ones that only half covers a woman's breast. One nipple was peeking out from the creamy yellow lace. She reached between her breasts, released the clasp, and shrugged her shoulders shaking herself free.
She smiled at him, leaned back onto the island, and posed.
He smiled back at her and took a sip of his wine.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Wrong? Nothing!"
"You are an awfully long ways away."
"I'm right here."
"Yeah, but it seems like you should be right here," she said. He wasn't sure if the movement of her hand along her perfect thigh was meant to indicate here or not.
"I am... a little intimidated."
Her smile softened. "I can get dressed again."
He thought about it. It would be best if she did. He thought of the woman in San Antonio. He had tried once to call her on a Friday night only to be sent immediately to voicemail. He thought of her out with friends, or worse, out with a friend, and turned his focus back to the creamy soft flesh laid in in front of him.
She leaned forward when he moved to her, and they kissed again as his hands moved over the flawless skin. He explored her hips, her ribs, and finally her breasts. He ran a hand down her spine until he reached the laced waist of tiny panties. Their kisses grew deeper and longer until they were gasping for breath, their tongues touching lightly.
Kissing caused him again to think of his wife. He thought of the times he had approached her, hungering for her, wanting her, wrapping his arms around her. They were married, where could she go. He thought about kissing her. It was always brief, emotionless. "I'm sorry, honey. You are just not a very good kisser. I love you anyway." she had told him decades ago. He moved from the girl's lips to her neck. She cooed. She had leaned back onto her arms, stretched behind her back like a beach chair. He moved slowly down her neck to her collarbone, her chest, and finally a tiny erect nipple. She sighed.
"Oh, Alan." she had moaned over the phone. They didn't talk a lot and when they did it was always of the most practical matters. He didn't remember exactly what she had said to trigger the question, but he had asked her if she was seeing someone. As if she pulled a script from a back pocket she had released a canned speech, probably practiced a thousand times in her head. "You don't need to ask me that. I know why you are asking. You have met someone, or you have fucked someone, and you need to get it off your conscience. No, I haven't. I told you from the start this was never about me wanting to have sex with someone else. I get it. You are a man. You are going to fuck the first little thing that comes along and smiles at you. I'm not going to stop you. It's different for women though. I don't NEED to spread my seed. You are the last man I have slept with." The speech played in his head, and he suddenly felt bad for the girl who had just wrapped her skinny little legs around his hips. He hated to think this was all happening because she was the first little thing to smile back at him.
He needed to stop, back away, let her get dressed, send her on her way, finish the bottle of wine, and pass out in the hammock.
Instead, she gripped him by the back of the neck and pulled his head to her tit. "Yes!" she purred.
He sucked at her tit, taking it firmly in his hand. She sucked air through clenched teeth and pressed her hips against his pulling his jeans against her panties by tightening the grip of her legs laced behind his lower back.
He backed away and looked at her. She didn't smile at him this time. Her face contorted in a different way - a way he didn't understand when he was younger - a way he didn't understand a year ago. He would have interpreted the look of sadness and pain as some sort of regret. He would have backed away, settled her beside her and held her gently never wanting a woman to look frightened or sad he would have played the big brother.
Over the summer, since his wife had told him she needed to move home, since being told he was okay but not worth the effort, he had learned to interpret the look the young girl gave him as something different.
He switched tits, gripped it even more tightly than he had the first one, sucked at it even harder. He even took her nipple in his teeth biting it gently and tugging at it, pulling at it.
She growled, and dry humped his engorged but still hidden cock.
Yes, he had lost weight. Yes, he had gotten in shape. That wasn't why he fucked differently now.
Layed out on his kitchen island like a chocolate cake cut and served he devoured her the way a dog attacks table scraps.
