"Thirty-five," she mused, "is supposed to be a woman's sexual peak."
Not that you could tell from her recent experience. She and her husband were locked in a sexless marriage. Although their love was secure and strong, their physical needs had become quite different. Increasingly, her waking idle moments were spent daydreaming about fucking and being fucked. Her fantasy partners, men and women, younger and older, stronger and weaker would all do the things that her body needed. If only...
Recently, her fantasies focused on a man almost two decades her senior. Their first conversation had been businesslike. Brusque, perhaps. But he had a physical and intellectual presence that suggested a fire within. And, for just a moment, she had sensed that his glance was frankly appraising. She wondered about the thoughts filling his glistening head, and found herself wondering whether his cock and balls were similarly smooth, slick and full...
Catching herself, she willed her thoughts back to more pedestrian topics. Her clit continued to throb, however, and the next time she pleasured herself she thought about his mouth and tongue. What the hell, she thought, I'll send him a note and see what happens...
His replies were surprising, even stunning for their shameless eroticism. His words caressed her, stroked her, and her pussy became wetter with each re-reading. Was it just talk? Was he just another older guy whose thoughts outstripped anything his body could do? Or was there really raw sexual power there? He said he was religious about going to the gym, and she imagined his chest rippling as he pumped the iron up and down, and her thoughts drifted towards sliding up and down on his juice-coated cock...
He agreed to meet her for a drink...in public, just to have a chat with her away from the workplace's prying eyes. Okay she thought, let's keep it proper, this is just a get-to-know-you drink. She chose a brown bra, matching boy-cut panties, and a simple knit dress. A silver necklace drew attention to her ample cleavage. Heels, of course, enough to shape her calf, but not the fuck-me pumps that she yearned to wear for him...
He ordered wine. A Sancerre, with flavors that filled her mouth with lightness and burst with different flavors on different parts of her tongue. All the while, he looked straight at her. Through her. Inside her. She sipped at her Sancerre and smiled at him knowing it was the last thing that was even semi-dry on her side of the table. While they nibbled on crudite (did this man ever pig out?) she squirmed slightly, and felt an exhilarating squish as her pussy was now drenched with desire. Her musky scent wafted up from the table. He sniffed the air, and a smile began to play at the corner of his lips.
Now he knew she was wet with passion, but she did not know if he was similarly turned on. She over-analyzed his every word, his every move, looking for a sign that he would actually do the things he described in his notes to her.
Did he really want to subjugate her body? Would he tame her pussy and train her until she obeyed him, and only him, completely? Or, when he found out about her many sexual exploits, would he push her away in disgust?
As she sat listening to his opinion on the politics at his office, she imagined how deep his cock would explore her re-virginated pussy. She wanted to dispense with the formalities of small talk, but she did not want to insult him. She acted as if she was listening intently, but in reality, she was planning their first fuck. She couldn't decide if she should be gentle or rough. Would he force her head onto his cock or would he dive into her pussy first to taste the wet lips that he smelled.
She decided to follow his lead because he made it clear from his eyes who was in charge. His seeming indifference to her growing arousal only inflamed her more. It was time to see what he was made of. She retired to the ladies' room to freshen up...
She returned, seating herself quietly, demurely crossing her legs. Now or never, she thought. She reached under the table, took his hand, and passed him a mound of soft, moist fabric.
"My panties," she mouthed, "too wet to wear".
He slipped them into his jacket pocket. He withdrew his hand inhaled deeply of her scent and let his fingertips lightly brush his tongue. His cock, already firm, grew rigid with the thought of the hot lava now pouring out of her sex. His pupils dilated with hers.
From the pocket of his tailored sport coat, he drew a card-key bearing the name of a nearby hotel. He slid it across the table. He called for the check, paid the bill and got up to leave.
"Suite 401, ten minutes," he murmured.
Her eyes followed his road shoulders and tight ass as he walked away. Collecting the check and clearing the dishes, the waiter wondered aloud why the man had left this drop-dead gorgeous woman unattended. Snapping out of her reverie, she stared at the waiter, wondering the same thing. Then she realized that the man had paid the cost of a room based on his belief that a simple drink would entitle him to temporary ownership of her pussy. Presumptuous, surely. Prescient, more than she cared to admit. Now thoroughly distracted by hot juice running down her naked cunt onto her thigh, she gulped the rest of the wine and hurried out to the hotel.
When she arrived at the door to Suite 401, she almost knocked. Then she realized that the passage of the card-key was an implicit instruction to enter the room. She slid the key into the reader, saw the LED turn green, turned the knob and entered the room. ...
He was seated at the desk, his fingers flying over a laptop. She imagined them tweaking her nipples. His jacket lay over the back of another chair, and for the first time she saw his silhouette. His shoulders were broader than she expected, his waist narrower. Reflexively, she reached for his jacket, smoothing it with her fingers, and hung it in the hall closet. As she closed the door, she realized that she had instinctively followed another implicit instruction. Coincidence?
"Well done," he said.
From that moment on she understood that her pleasure lay entirely in his hands. She would do whatever he asked of her, confident that he would see to her needs.
"Please, have a seat."
It was half-invitation, half-suggestion and all command. He occupied the room's only chair. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the back of his scalp, again wondering whether his cock and balls were equally smooth and strong, and how long she would wait to find out.
"Why did you come to my room?"
The question was simple enough. But her mouth went as dry as her pussy was drenched. She answered simply, truthfully.
"I need you to fuck me."
He turned to face her. Her red-brown hair framed an alabaster face. Her lips were the color of blood, her teeth shining white. But it was her eyes that captivated, eyes that begged, pleaded for attention. Her need was real, honest, and beginning to consume her. She needed to be pleasured.
She had fixed on his chest where he had unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Curly grey hair curved over strong chest muscles, faintly visible through the translucent fabric. She could see his forearms were thick, powerful and ended in strong expressive hands. She wondered about his cock...
"You're overdressed."
She snapped out of her reverie and shimmied out of her dress. She felt vaguely awkward and crossed her legs to conceal her hairless pussy. He glanced at her breasts, still contained within the bra that she had so carefully selected. She looked at him, questioningly. He nodded, ever so slightly. She reached behind, undid the clasp, and her breasts swayed to freedom.
