I had no idea what I was doing. Neither of us were supposed to be doing this. Maybe that was part of the fun, and it was fun. A lovely young thing was naked below me, her clenching pussy drawing against my hard cock as it slid in and out of her wetness, unending orgasms sweeping over her in succession.
I had met Isabelle through a group I was involved in. It wasn't as much a social group as just something I did. She was the hot, young target of all the guys' intent, not even half my age and fantastically sexy in the most shy and coy way possible.
I had never had any intent in this. The whole thing sort of just happened. She was a latecomer and I had generally ignored her, merely being polite and casual. I did not think that each small action was like a stepping stone towards the forbidden.
In retrospect, casual was probably what started it all. Without meaning to garner any attraction, my stand-off attitude contrasted wildly with all the attention she was getting. The group had slim pickings of women who would be considered attractive. It was known among the men that what was available had mostly been picked over at length.
Then she appeared one day. The injection of a fresh 20-year-old face drove the boys to frenzy, the here-let-me offers and join-me-for propositions. They were all meant to be subtle but telegraphed desire better than an 18-foot-high neon sign. I stood back and chuckled mostly, enjoying the attempts more than her polite refusals.
Unwittingly, I made her work for it. Probably also unwittingly, she took the challenge. Given three explicit options of where to go after a meeting, she always chose the unstated fourth option, following me. I was not looking for company but she always managed to find a way to tag along with me. I always gave her the option to look elsewhere and even recommended it most of the time.
"Where are you going after this," she would ask me.
"I don't know, probably just home."
"I'm really hungry, why don't we get a bite to eat."
My reply was always roughly the same.
"I think Travis and Jack are going out somewhere, you should go with them."
I knew I was crossing the line over politeness. First it was resigned acceptance of the visitor, then a small change in plans.
Then it moved to careful attention to her, knowing it would flatter her. A few innocent touches and some tiny tidbits of shared secrets later, she was rapt. She hung on my every word.
At that point, keeping it from the group was easy. They all probably knew, at least if they were the slightest bit observant. Her body language and the glint in her eye were unmistakable. But they probably gave too much benefit to the doubt.
No one saw the little details, the heavier flirting over text messages and what eventually became only slightly veiled suggestions. They were my suggestions and she never copped to anything. She never protested either, not with me.
Eventually, I started pushing her buttons a little. It was just a game for me.
Mid-life crisis is real but it manifests differently. I had no desire to show off to the world with an expensive car or giant house. This was my path. She was hot and way younger than me. I wanted to see if I could kindle a little fire. I wanted to see if I still had it.
Everything I did was very appropriate for the situation, nothing that could not be explained away if confronted. A light touch here or there, but mostly mind games.
I played the perfect gentleman, not the one in the movies but the bad boy. Charming yet pointed, the game involved mostly making her prove herself. I did not make much effort myself.
It felt easy to me, little things that I knew would stir some attraction, for me, in her. At my age I'd had plenty of experience with women and not just what I had done myself.
Throughout my life, there had been countless stories, comments, suggestions, and the like, from female friends. I had listened and paid attention.
She was finding herself. Armed with my experience, I already knew a lot of what she was going to find.
I would give her the answer I knew she wanted, or pay her a compliment on something I knew she was insecure about. She never let on or reacted. Outwardly, it seemed to mean nothing to her. She played the game well too.
But I knew well that it meant something to her. I could tell that my words and actions were getting through to her. She fought hard and it was obvious she had some internal conflict. It was clear to me that she found herself falling for my game.
I had no goal to bed her. Truly, I was still not trying to make anything happen beyond affirming my desirability, to myself.
That all fell apart during the summer trip.
Maybe it was inevitable. Looking back, there is no doubt that I was lying to myself, either about how long I could remain detached from my game, or the breadth of my intentions from the outset.
It was a simple day trip, a picnic and a float down a river. I knew it would be difficult or impossible to hide the legacy we had already built. It was a spinning whirlwind of hormonal hot mess in which we both flew past each other at breathtaking speed. This was the day we collided.
This was my little game in which she was a somewhat unwitting participant. Now it was going to be broadcast to everyone who had not already figured it out.
She wore a bikini under tiny little cutoff shorts and a t-shirt. All the other girls wore the same shorts and t-shirts, but few if anyone took them off, even in the water. Even most of the guys were too insecure to take their shirts off, except the ones who wanted to show off. Those guys were showing off for Isabelle.
I thought little of it. There was nothing for me to be shy about. I had a long-term girlfriend and I was old enough not to care.
Outwardly, I did not consider myself a sex symbol. I was a man slightly past middle age who had his fair share of action, but rarely turned heads. I was just doing it the way I thought it should be done.
When my shirt came off, so did her cover-ups. Her mimicking me drove the guys wild, but it was natural and easy for me. She clung to me, less than a foot away and nearly bare, while all the others tried to get closer to her.
Our conversation was casual. I helped her stay in her tube a few times, which prompted some touching and grabbing, my hands on her bare skin. There was no need to grope or push it further than what just happened in the normal course of events.
Once my hand could only reach her thigh and we went down a bumbling little rapid. My grip was mere inches from the end of her bikini bottom. Then she went under in a deeper section of the river and I picked her out of the water from behind. My hands were large on her small frame and my fingers swept up against the side of her small breasts.
We were the subject of conversation, first some hushed comments, then more overt cutting in. An hour in, several of the guys had tried to assert themselves, even saying something underhanded about me.
I ignored this too and kept my involvement light. I would let them float away with her alone for a bit. In my head I was getting all that I wanted. There was no need to be possessive.
She always found her way back to me.
When the trip drew to an end, she got the full litany of offers. Even a few of the women tried to captivate her attention and post-event plans. The rest of them scurried off in what seemed like disgraced defeat. Not one male stone was left unturned, each trying at least once to lock her down. Instead, she ended up in my car, getting a ride home.
I do not know what possessed me.
"You want to come to my place for a drink?"
She paused for several long minutes before finally answering.
"I shouldn't. I have a boyfriend," she said.
"Sure," I replied. "Face value."
