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The Jobhunter. (He said/she said)


The Jobhunter : Both Sides of the Story a Marie McPeak/Muttley conglomerate work of fiction.
Marie and Muttley have never met in person. She has no idea what he really looks like even. They got to discussing the writing of erotica, male viewpoint vs. female, and she wrote the first part of her story, and sent it to him. He then wrote the male viewpoint, to contrast, and sent it back. And so on.
This is also just Part One: they still haven’t figured out what happens next! And to those of you who think or wish that everything written here Really Happened, our apologies. That just is not the case. Go read the FAQ again. Anyone who wants it to happen to them will have to find someone else to do it with, as well. Well, Muttley might be available.
 Marie McPeak

(Gee, can you tell that she didn’t let me take any part in writing the
disclaimer? Is it really that obvious?)

And so it begins. The scene is set, the lights are low, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the show.

Frustrated. In a word, I was frustrated.
I hadn’t had sex in ages; the past couple attempts had been abortive at best. I thought men weren’t supposed to get impotent until they were old; thirtysomething is not old.
I was working like crazy, at two jobs, and barely making ends meet. Meanwhile the TV told me every night of single moms on welfare who had it a lot better than me. Too bad I have a sense of pride....
The bills were due, I had no social life (between the kid and the lack of money, what could I do?), and it was hot and I was tired.
I contemplated this as I drove to the airport. No, not to go anywhere, to pick up a friend from the Net, if that’s what you can call it, who was going to be in town job hunting for a few days. Sure, he can sleep on the couch. He sure won’t be disturbing my boyfriends; what boyfriends?
It is a point of my desperation that I was actually wondering what might happen with him, as I drove. He was a lot younger than me. I had once determined that I lost my virginity just before his fourth birthday, and I hadn’t done that until I went away to college. On the other hand, he was of legal age, and as I recalled, men of that age had a certain stamina that seemed to fade over time. Could be interesting....
But he was probably like most CS majors: spending all the time in the computer labs, eating out of vending machines, majoring in the four major food groups: sugar, starch, chocolate and caffeine, he probably was 5’6” and weighed 250, with a face like a pepperoni pizza behind Coke bottles. I was not optimistic. Besides, he probably had never spoken to a woman he was attracted to, let alone made love to one. Sorry, I reached my quota of virgins about the time he entered kindergarten.
My son babbled in the backseat, and I realized that he would find me about as attractive. Single mom, thirty-plus, fairly well preserved, but let’s be serious. Anyway, I ignored that and continued to daydream.
Soon enough, we got to the airport. In order to avoid exorbitant parking fees, we had agreed on a particular entrance to meet at, and that I would time it very tight. On this occasion, the traffic and airlines cooperated, and he was coming through the door as I arrived. Of course, I didn’t know that yet, but he did. He spotted the car and walked right over, opened the passenger door, tossed his overnight bag and briefcase in back, and settled in.
“Hi, Marie, how’ve you been?” he commented breezily, as though he were just coming home like always.
My jaw was in my lap. The audacity! And he was pretty good to look at, too. Okay, Hollywood is not missing out on the next Robert Redford, but he wouldn’t scare small children either. Sitting down, he was taller than me, dark, dark eyes, probably Italian or something in heritage. Okay, so the Coke bottle glasses were there, but they’d been present on every man I’d dated seriously since the eighth grade. They seem to go hand in hand with brains, which were really my major criteria.
“You must be Mark?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly.
He grinned. “Don’t do that. You look just like my sister. Yeah, I’m Mark.”
“Fine. Have a nice flight?” I pulled out into traffic. He babbled away. I paid little attention; traffic this time of day would send an Indy car driver into the pits. But me, I was plunging ahead.
Half an hour later, I pulled into my assigned spot, we unloaded the car, and had arrived at home. By now I knew that he was the much later child of older parents, that he identified with his siblings a lot (who were all my age or older), that he liked all kinds of music (mostly groups I had never hear of from the mid-80s), that he not only studied CS but wrote music and stories, and that he could make my son laugh non-stop for over fifteen minutes, while sitting in a car while I drove through city traffic in my usual style which normally leaves passengers wishing they’d taken a cab.
He was refreshing, in other words.
I showed him the living room, and the closet with enough space for his stuff, and the rest of the house. I fixed dinner while he unpacked (that is, I put a frozen pizza in the oven and set the table). My son assisted us each in turn.
We ate.
After dinner, I cleaned up, and the boys played. I put Jacob in the tub; they played Naval Battles with the rubber ducks. Then I got Jake ready for bed; Mark watched. I became very conscious of him watching, but ignored it. Fine, watch me put pajamas on a two-year-old. How exciting.
Then Jake was in bed, and I was ready to sit down and relax. I got a soda from the refrigerator, offered one to Mark, and retired to the living room to watch TV.
Of course, nothing was on. It was a Saturday night in the summer; the only thing vaguely interesting was a baseball game. But the Cubs were already ahead 12 to 3 in the fourth inning, and if they managed to blow that, I didn’t want to watch. So I turned the TV off.
He was watching me.
No, he was looking at me. Like a biology major at an ameba. Like Diane Fossey at a gorilla. Like a horny young man in the presence of something female. How to proceed....??
I digested this in about twelve seconds. Certain parts of my brain (the sexually frustrated ones) sprang into action. They could tell me what I should do, if I had any doubts. Other parts groaned in disgust. Something about cradle robbing, and people young enough to be my children....
We looked at each other. We looked at each other looking at each other. Neither of us said a word. My brain was now seriously at war with itself. “Just do it.” “You’ve got to be kidding. Even you aren’t this desperate.” “Calm down, it will be nothing, mean nothing, in another three days he’ll be back in Cleveland or Seattle or wherever he came from, and you’ll be a lot less trouble to deal with.” “You mean you’ll be a lot less trouble to deal with, and since when has she been able to have sex with anyone that didn’t mean anything?! Never, it’s never happened. And it won’t happen now either.” “Aw, c’mon, look at how cute he is. I’ll bet he stays hard for hours. I’ll bet he can wiggle that tongue like a trumpet player.” “Yeah, and I’ll bet he vanishes and then she gets all bent out of shape over that.”
Meanwhile, he was sitting there, and I imagine a similar debate was raging in his brain.
I stood up. Good, I was moving. No decision had been made, my brain raged onward, but I had stood up.
“How does this work anyway?” He had stood up too, and was looking at the couch. He meant, I thought, how does it fold out into a bed. I took off the cushions, and opened it up. He was staring at me. That wasn’t what he had meant. Oh, well, too late now.
In a flash of brilliance, I stated, “Let me get you some sheets.” I moved to the hall, to the linen closet. My brain was elsewhere, having a philosophical debate on the propriety of seducing one’s houseguests, especially young, unattached, heterosexual ones with good job prospects in town. Somehow, I got the sheets, and moved back to the living room, where I put them on the bed. He helped.
Then he was standing beside me, and I looked at him. He was slightly taller than me, with eyes like Hershey kisses. I opened my mouth to say something, I’ll never know what, and kissed him instead.
He kissed me back, warmly, with soft practiced lips and a quivering tongue. “I told you so!” screamed one side of my brain, returning the favor.
Somehow we wound up on the bed that the couch had turned into. Did I push him? Did he push me? Did we jump together? Maybe he knows. Since we were both clad only in T-shirts and shorts, pretty soon we weren’t clad in anything at all. My tongue was tickling one of his ears; his mouth was teasing one of my nipples.
I paused. I pulled back.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, looking up. His hands continued to explore, all the while.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I mean, ...” I was at a loss for words.
“You’re kidding.” He paused. “You’re not kidding. Why am I doing this. Because you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. Because you manage to do all that you do, raising Jacob, holding your jobs, keeping the house going, and still look like a model or something, and you gave me half a chance, and I haven’t had sex in months and neither have you.”
Which was true. A lot of our email correspondence was about how little each of us was getting.
“Oh, okay,” I said brightly, and pulled his head to mine and kissed him, then reversed direction, and kissed his other head, which sent him to gasping as he worked to return the favor.
We lay there in 69 position for a while. I took his cock in my mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder. I let my teeth scrape against the underside, finding the spots that made him gasp nicely. I found that he liked to have the head rubbed against the ridge on my upper palate, and that I couldn’t suck too hard, and also that he liked it a lot when I forced his cock all the way into my mouth, to where it was starting down my throat. So I did all of that some, in turns.
He was performing explorations of his own, his tongue dancing on my clit and in my cunt, wiggling, gyrating, finding just how to make me gasp most deliciously. I began rocking my pelvis into him, all the while sucking like a vacuum cleaner. And I was rewarded: he began fucking my mouth with gusto, driving into it, as he forced me over the edge into my first orgasm of the evening. I had to withdraw: my teeth chatter uncontrollably when I orgasm, like a naked person in an ice storm, and that can be unpleasant....
After I had calmed down, he flipped around, and kissed me. I like this, tasting myself on a man’s mouth. Yum. Meanwhile, condom appeared from thin air, rolled down his shaft, and he sank between my thighs, and slid quietly inside. I was soaking wet from saliva and coming; he was fully inside with no fuss whatsoever.
“Ahhhhhhhh.......” he sighed. Then he lay atop me, and rolled over, so that I was on top of him. I rose up and began rocking gently, squeezing my muscles to make him gasp (another of my favorite things).
He was middling thick, middling long. My pussy enveloped him, and I could somehow feel every ridge as it slid through me, up and back. Mmmmm...
I leaned forward, dragging my nipples against his chest, tickling them in the fur there, finding his nipples. Ooh, he liked this! His back arched, he was driving into me with gusto. I brought a hand up and gently rolled his nipple between my thumb and forefinger. More good noises flowed forward.
I could feel myself beginning to lose control, getting closer, closer to the edge. I lifted my chin to find his mouth; he found my breasts, pressing his thumbs into the nipples, squeezing them like oranges, the fingernails digging in. My hands clenched involuntarily, scratching him in the process, which sent him screaming into orgasm and me way, way over the edge, shuddering, shaking, whimpering. Tears were coming from my eyes as I lay my head down on his chest, trying to calm down, as he shrank and fell from me.
We sounded like the finish line of a marathon.
I lay atop him, spent. His heart pounded; I could feel his pulse in my back from his arms tight around me. I brought a hand up to touch his hair, his ears, to trace his jaw, just to learn the shape of him.
He turned his head to mine, to find my mouth, to rub his lips on mine, to bump noses like Eskimos, to make me giggle.
I realized that we smelled like the finish line of a marathon as well.
I raised up on one elbow. “Want a shower before bed?” I asked.
His eyes widened. “Sounds good to me.” He kissed me again. We moved to the bathroom, collecting towels on the way, groping each other. Nuzzling, tickling, somehow we managed to get to the bathroom and get the water running, and into the tub.
Odd, he wasn’t seeming like a little college kid anymore. Somehow, we both seemed to be about 28 or so, the same age at any rate. It helped that his body wasn’t a kid’s body in any sense of the word. He had filled out; his shoulders were broad and strong, if not muscled; there was fur in all the right places. He was fun, to boot.
So I pointed the shower head into his face, and we were off. I have a hand held unit; pretty soon the water was everywhere in and out of the tub. I was beginning to be thankful that my upstairs neighbors were gone for the weekend; we sounded like the beach at a summer camp.
I poured shampoo on his head, about twice the recommended amount; he responded with bath oil. In seconds we were as slippery as eels, which gave us other thoughts, and our mouths met as the various bottles fell to the floor. His fingers, ultra-slippery from the oil, found my cunt and started wiggling; my hands transferred the soap from his hair to his chest, to his belly, to his cock and his balls. His cock was hard again, sticking straight out; I pulled it up flat against his belly and smashed my body against his. Ooh, a groan, he liked that! So I did it again.
He tackled me.
Well, not really, he couldn’t, not safely. But he pushed me back, against the wall, and lifted me up (he was strong), and shoved his cock up inside me, roughly. And yanked himself out just as fast, as he realized that a certain important piece of latex was missing. Being in the bathroom, this took only seconds to correct. Only, I had time to prepare myself, and we were a lot more stable as he surged up from below, my legs wrapped around his waist, one hand gripping the curtain rod (just in case), the other scraping the skin off his back (ooh, he liked that, too!).
He had come shortly before, so he somehow manipulated me through a pair of shuddering orgasms. I thought I would force him out of me, my cunt was squeezing down so tight. It was hard to maintain any connection, with the water splashing in my face, my heels in his back, and his moans urging me on. So I stopped, and the world went away in explosions.
What happens when I orgasm, really good? I don’t know. I go away. I feel like I’m floating, and I forget where I am, and what I’m doing, and if whoever I’m with enjoys it, fine, and if not, fine; I don’t care. It’s very pleasant, to lose all my worries and aches and pains for those few (seconds? minutes? eternities?) moments. Which is why I keep having sex with people, even after my years of atrocious luck with romantic relationships.
I opened my eyes. The Cheshire Cat grins no better than he was at this point. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked. Smirking. Smart ass. I stuck out my tongue at him. He bit it. Ooohhh... I shuddered again: aftershock.
I put my legs down. I pulled away from him, smirking (he’s not the only one who can do that). I grabbed a towel, and headed for my bedroom.
I can only imagine his expression; I didn’t look back. Disbelief?
Anger? Silly grin? all of the above? Ask him.
I reached the bedroom, and heard the water shut off. Feet left the tub.
Pause for towel. Continue to the bedroom.
“Boo!” I jumped out at him.
He went two feet in the air. Hee hee hee hee hee. I got another condom out while he was calming down, and deciding whether to attack me or go sulk in the living room. He still hadn’t decided, so I pulled him down on the bed, and sat on him. Was he ticklish? Oh, yes, big time. Oohh... This wasn’t going to be fair; I talked myself out of ticklishness back in high school. He wriggled, he giggled, he fought until he was on top, and then collapsed.
“You’re not supposed to have this much energy,” he complained. I grinned at him.
“Okay,” I said, “What would you like? Since I’ve abused you so terribly, tired you out...” He was sitting on my legs, kind of lying down on me. He bit my nose, gently. His cock throbbed against my belly. Was there really any doubt...? I slid the condom down the length, and began stroking him again. What had he liked? Oh, yeah. I lifted my hands to the back of his neck, and played with it, sending shivers through him. Then I pulled my nails down his back, hard, scraping.
His back arched; he cried out; he forced himself into my pussy, wriggling from side to side. So I did it again; his reaction was fabulous. I thought I was going to see his cock emerge from my belly, he drove in so deep. Screaming.
He pulled back, looking at me, wild eyed. “How did you know I liked that?” he asked.
“Come on,” I said. “You’ve only included it in every erotic story you’ve ever written. Besides, it’s pretty standard. It’s something to check, all the time.” I began scratching his chest, lightly, then harder and harder. He liked this too. He pulled us over, so that I was on top. This protected his back, but not his front, and I continued my efforts, causing welts to rise so that soon he looked like a map of the interstate highway system, and then just like a lobster fresh out of the pot.
Then he exploded.
I have seen few men come so violently. His head swung back and forth from side to side; his hips thrust such that I was lifted off the bed. He screamed a deep, throaty scream, an animal in full rut. I was taken aback, and deeply satisfied, at the same time. I forced myself up and down his cock, forcing it in as far as it would go, as it spasmed within me.
Then I lay atop him, kissing him lightly on the face, neck and ears, as his breathing calmed, and his heartbeat returned to a measurable level. His arms folded around me, and his mouth came looking for mine. We lay there in contented satiety for a long while.
When his breathing had calmed to the point of sleep, I got up, closed up the couch, threw the sweaty sheets in the hamper, dried off the floor of the bathroom, checked on my sleeping son, then crawled into bed beside my new lover. Contented, I settled in and dropped off to sleep.
Mmmmm.... this could be an interesting three days....

I sat staring out the window, smacking the side of my head against it. I was nervous, understandably, but that’s not why the self-abuse. No, I was trying to get a recurring thought out of my mind and there just weren’t any Long Island Iced Teas served on a one hour flight. (Dammit.)
But she did put me on a plane to bring me to Chicago, now didn’t she. And she did write a story about a person who was staying over at her house while job hunting, and that person sure did sound a lot like me, didn’t it. And both of us were, shall we say, not in possession of a regular lay.
“Stop it.”, I said, hoping that my brain would respond to a verbal command. All that accomplished was getting a strange look from my seatmate. (Oh, and he was an annoying fucker. 5 minutes into the flight, he fell asleep, and leaned his head on my shoulder. I wasn’t about to let some stranger drool all over me, (although I sure let that girl on the bus lean on me whenever she wanted coming home from Mississippi...but that was different. I like women...I do not like men. This person was definitely male.), so I not-too-carefully shouldered his head back over near the rest of his body. He was not pleased.)
My brain kept chattering to itself. “After all, why would she write that story if not to seduce you. May I quote her? ‘The best way to seduce someone is to write a story about them, take your shirt off, and wait for a backrub.’” I really hate when my brain refers to me in the second person, and it had been chattering since the plans were made. “And anyway, you’re an attractive young man, good body, and you’re visiting a 35 year old woman, (need I remind you of when they hit their sexual peak?), who leaves no illusion that she’s one of the sexiest women she knows to exist. C’mon, read those stories again. Tell me that she isn’t thinking how great a nice young stud would be.”
I decided that a lobotomy might be in order, if I were to survive the next three days. Failing that, a nice gin and tonic would help. Naturally, there was none to be found on the plane. So, I sat, staring out over the great lakes, (I think that we’re still over Erie. That’s the only thing to like about Cleveland, it’s right on Lake Erie, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold. No beach, but a nice lake.), smacking my head against the Plexiglas.
“Can I offer you a pillow, sir?”, the stewardess (Oh, sorry. Flight attendant. I say if she works on the plane, doesn’t fly the damn thing, and passes out drinks and pillows, she’s a stewardess. She’s not attending the flight, she’s attending the passengers.) said sweetly. (Don’t they just make you want to puke? Anyone can tell that the smile is forced, and the teeth are clenched together to keep from punching out the letch that she’s leaning across to pass you your drink. And yet, they sound so sweet.)
I took a momentary break from my head-flattening activities to fix her with an evil glare. “No, no thank you. The window is just fine.” She sallied off, glad to not have to lean over my seatmate.
I was just about to start chewing on my tie for nutrients when the pilot announced that we were over Chicago, and we’d be touching down at O’Hare International Airfield in 5 minutes. Now, I’m not an idiot, and I’ve flown into Chicago more times than I care to think, and I know that when the pilot gives that announcement, it means that we’re in a holding pattern and we’ll be down just after we run out of fuel. I begin conceptualizing the ramifications of cannibalizing my seatmate, and decide to bounce the idea off him. He certainly didn’t take it well, and began fidgeting at his seatbelt. Hee hee hee. Boy is it fun to fuck with people’s minds.
Ah, landing. I’m only running 15 minutes late. I can handle that. I know Marie is going to be running up a hell of a parking fee, so I start fumbling for some money from my bag to help defray the cost. God, it’s nice to be out of that plane. Sure would be nice of them to park near a, no. We get to walk across the airfield to the terminal. Just once, I’d like to be on a plane that got the neat vacuum hose looking deal leading into the gate. I look around. “It could be worse”, I said, remembering my last flight. “I could be this far from the terminal, landing in Detroit, in a snowstorm.” I recall vowing never to get on another flight that routed me through Detroit. The person behind me doesn’t particularly care to wait for me to have a nostalgia break, and pushes me forward.
After claiming my bags, and accosting someone for directions to, say, the parking lot, I finally stagger (I don’t pack lightly. I take everything I own, everywhere I go.) to the door. I see the car she described to me, and head towards it. I’m almost afraid to look into the car, for fear that she’s like some of the other net.people I know, a 350lb gelatinous mass that shouldn’t drive a small car. I was more than pleasantly surprised when I walked over and knocked on her window.
Ah, she was beautiful. If I had met her before we had started chatting, and she tried to tell me she was 35, I’d have called her a liar. Hell, I’d card this girl for an R rated movie. She rolled down her window. “Are you Mike?”, she asked? I decided to leave my sarcasm mode off for a minute, and responded in the affirmative. “Hop in. I’m being timed here.”
“Sorry I’m late, Marie.” I said, with what I would consider to be all the sincerity necessary for apologizing to circumstances beyond my control.
“Don’t worry, I just got here.”
Ah, good. I started chatting her up, trying to make friendly conversation. From my vantage point, things weren’t going well. Aloof is a good I started talking to her son. (Well, she wasn’t paying any attention. What’s a guy to think?) He son laughed at me for a while, and in my state of mind it was more a chilling, evil laugh than one of enjoyment, even though he actually was enjoying my antics. I was getting more and more paranoid by the second. I was about to spend three days on the couch of a person who took one look at me and instantly hated me. (I tend to overreact. My mind has trouble believing that sometimes, people just have other things on their minds.) I started leafing through my planner to remind myself of the names of people I had to meet with while I was here. No good. My mind was gone. (Of course, all the neat little fantasies I was having on the plane were gone, too. I almost wished that I’d let them play out, because they certainly weren’t going to. How little money I’d make predicting the future....)
Finally, the car trip ends. (I hate being in cars. I hate being in planes, on boats, etc. I think that travel time is an infinite annoyance. I could have a lot more fun places if I didn’t have to waste time getting there or worry about getting back.) We take the elevator to her apartment, and she showed me in. She seemed much friendlier once we got out of the car, almost like she hates city driving as much as I do. (I didn’t know until later that I was right.) I unpacked a little, some of the things that I needed right away. I gave Jake the Cleveland Indians souvenir that I had bought him in my wait at Cleveland-Hopkins Airport (Nice airport. Much nicer than Pittsburgh, Mecca compared to Detroit, nothing compared to Heathrow in London. That and Paris are my favorites.), and got a pair of shorts and a tee shirt to change into. (It sure was nice to be out of that suit. I’ve always made it a practice to look as professional as possible whenever I go into an airport. I’ve gotten a lot of good leads from conversations with fellow travelers, and like the fact that they’re usually desperate for someone to talk to. Even if it is a salesman.) I emerged from the bathroom, praying to God that she wouldn’t comment on the fact that my legs reflect more light than do those of President Clinton. (Bill, not Hillary. We’ve never seen her legs. Particularly not during breakfast.) She didn’t comment on them. Not that I’d have minded - any excuse to hear her voice. If there’s one person who could make a killing at phone sex, it’s Marie.
She doesn’t seem to share my idea.
We sat on the couch, almost afraid to talk to one another. There was the usual smalltalk, but nothing really of consequence. She seemed seriously preoccupied with something else. So, I decided that I might as well get comfortable, and I asked how to unfold the couch. If nothing else, it was an excuse not to watch the cubs. (For the first time in history, Cleveland was first in the league. That much I knew. Baseball has never held much interest for me.)
I will never have any idea what went on in her mind. She sprang out of the room, and made a mad dash to get me some sheets. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I was watching her closely, as she was incredibly sexy, but the looks she was giving me were making me feel guilty for even noticing my hostess. After we spread the sheets out on the bed, I looked into her eyes for a moment. She looked as if to say something, and all in a sudden, next thing I know, I’m on the couch, locked in an embrace with her, our mouths exploring one another like two eels wrestling for territory.
Wow. Never before have I encountered a woman more experienced with her tongue. As we kissed, she was peeling off our clothes, practically tearing them at the seams. Not that I minded, mind you, I’m just not used to working that quickly. I’m normally not even one to kiss on the first date, much less hit the couch on the first meeting. I quite liked it. It was a refreshing change to not have to make the first move. (I guess she’s read enough of my stories to know that if the first move is left up to me, it just won’t happen.)
She started tickling my ears with her tongue, and I moved down and started teasing her nipples with mine.
Then, for some reason, she just stops and pulls away.
“Why are you doing this?”, she asks. “I mean...” She stared blankly at me, confused.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I responded. It’s not every day that your idea of a sex symbol asks you why you’re about to make wild passionate love to her. I was at a loss for words. “Ok, you’re not kidding. I’m doing this because you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know of anyone who can handle multiple jobs, raise her child, keep a neat home, and still look as great as you do. ‘sides, both of us are horny as hell, and you were willing to take a chance.”
She seemed to think that it was an appropriate answer, which was great, because it was the Gospel. She reversed position on me, and started licking my shaft. I was more than eager to return the favor, and within moments, we were both lost in the delicious ecstasy of a 69 session. (Which is great. I’ve never been to fond of 68 (you do me and I’ll owe you one).) As I nuzzled her sweet little hole, I savored the sounds of her gasps, the musky odor of her sex, and the incredible talent with which she worked on my cock. I didn’t know that I even had that many nerve endings until she did that. (Read : Zowie!!!!)
She took my cock into her throat, and I damn near lost consciousness. Oh, my God, did that feel great. I decided to do the best I could with what I had..I slid a finger into each of her holes and worked them around, while lapping up the precious juices in and around her slit. (There really is nothing in the world that tastes like that. If I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing but eating pussy, I’d be a happy camper, let me tell you.) Soon, she began grinding her pelvis into my face, moaning, gasping, making all those sounds that make your heart leap into your throat and your hormones take over your brain. And then it happened, her first orgasm of the evening. God I love to watch that. Nothing like watching someone cum. Her teeth started to chatter - I was glad that she had let me out of her mouth before that started to happen.
When she started to regain some of her composure, I flipped her around, and kissed her. (I had read in her story that she likes to taste herself on a man, so I was more than willing to oblige. I like a woman with taste in tastes.)
She reached under the couch, (had she planned this whole thing?) and grabbed a condom, and I unrolled it onto myself. (The only time that I let someone unroll one on me, she ended up ripping every hair out near the base of my cock. I wasn’t about to let that happen again.)
Ah, and she was soaked. (Oh, goodie. I love to think that I’ve had some part in that condition. It really is the meaning of life.) I slid in easily. I pulled her atop of me, and we began a slow, gentle series of strokes, just getting used to the warm, fantastic sensation of finally having sex again. (It had been more than a little while for both of us.) She started squeezing all those wonderful muscles, and I damn near forgot to breathe. When I did get enough sense to inhale again, it was in gasps of utter rapture and pleasure - she saw this and smiled. I wasn’t the only one there who got off more on what the other person was feeling.
She leaned forward, just barely dragging her nipples over my chest. That has gone into my top three list of things that will make me lose any and all control. I started driving myself into her with all the force I could muster. She started playing with my nipples, so, thinking that I shouldn’t be having all the fun, I wrapped my hands around her breasts, savoring the sensation of her nipples on my palms, squeezing her swollen flesh, lightly digging my fingernails into her nipples. Wow. I’m going to have to remember to do that more often- she clawed the shit out of me. (That sits in the top slot of the aforementioned list.) I came so hard that I thought I was going to start crying, (and think that I may have...), and through the dim haze that reality had become for the time being, I could see that she, too, was shuddering in orgasm, wailing with its force. We lay collapsed in a heap, as my member shrank back to normal size.
When thoughts could re-enter my brain, I began to wonder if her son had heard all that, and would be wandering into the living room to investigate. Thankfully, that never happened.
I held her tightly, almost as if to keep this angel from leaving me, as has been the case in the past. I could feel the pounding of her heart, I could smell the sweet scent of her sweat and her sex. (I could also smell the foul odor of semen, and that sort of put me off.) I lay staring at her, totally enrapt, wondering what deity I had pleased lately.
We nuzzled each other for a while, (I love cuddling after sex.
It makes up for all the lonely time when there’s no-one to be with.) I bumped my nose against hers, like two dogs getting to know one another, (hell, whaddya expect from a man named after a mutt?), and she giggled. She seemed so much closer to my age at that moment. For the first time in many years, I felt the age I am, too. I had been feeling far too old, and she cured me of that. For once, I felt like a twenty year old.
She sniffed at the air, and kept exhaling through her nostrils, as if to get some foul stench from her nose. She invited me in for a shower. Only a fool would say no to an offer like that, and, not being a fool, (don’t say it!) I gingerly moved to follow her. Somehow, through all the mutual fondling of each other on the way there, we managed to get some towels, and in the tub.
In the fluorescent light, I got a much more clear view of her body. It would be impossible to convince me that she was 15 years my senior...even after having a child, she managed to keep a perfect figure for a woman in her mid twenties. My own body looked old and horrid by comparison. I pondered this for a moment, until she pointed the showerhead in my face. Water went everywhere, and we were thoroughly soaked.
She dumped a bottle of Johnson & Johnson’s on my head - thank God it was that no more tears stuff, as a dollop of it fell into my eye. I grabbed the first bottle I saw (felt, I’m blind with or without shampoo in my eyes.), which happened to be baby oil. Neat. I’ve always liked the feel of well oiled skin, and she definitely was getting that. I rubbed it all over her body, what I couldn’t reach the shower took care of on its own.
We kissed each other, hard, and I let my fingers walk down to her cunt. My hands were pretty well lubed from the oil, and she was more than slightly excited, so my fingers moved around the velvety soft flesh with little or no resistance. Between gasps, she started moving the shampoo all around my body...neat...and she started rubbing her hand up and down my cock. Very nice. She’s great at that. Then she pressed me against her - That’s #2 on my hallowed list, and I attacked her.
For once, all the countless hours I’ve spent on the golf course helped me. (No, not using a shaft to guide something into a hole at a distance. Get your mind out of the gutter.) It’s great for the shoulders. I picked her up, and rammed myself inside of her. For some reason unbeknownst to me, my brain kicked in at that moment. I pulled back out of her, and asked, nicely, where to find a condom. (The last thing that this world needs is a miniature version of me running around. Bad enough my brothers are just like me, my father has been encouraging us to undergo vasectomies just to prevent little Mikes and Michelles. Wise man, he is.) We got one onto me, and got her onto me. She wrapped her legs around my waist, grasped the curtain rod, (like it would do any good if we fell over. My weight alone would send it crashing down, much less the one and ¾ my weight the two of us made. (I was guessing her at 115 - 120. Very, very nice...)), and began to try digging the bones out from under the skin on my back with her fingernails. I’m surprised that alone didn’t make me blow a wad clear up into her fallopian tubes...fingernails touching my skin, particularly on my back, is the single greatest physical pleasure I can experience.
When I did come, fortunately it wasn’t as violent as the first time, or I would have sent us both to the hospital. She hadn’t come yet (cardinal sin, in my book), so I kept plodding on, also using my fingertips from one hand, until she shook with the force of a couple orgasms.
If there’s one part of my nature that I’d just as soon do away with, it’s my arrogant, sarcastic side. I smirked at her, like Captain Kirk after exploiting some lesser civilization for his own ends, and said, “Did you enjoy that?” She suck her tongue out at me, so I bit it. She sort of spaced out again, shook, and then started to let herself down off my body. She smirked back at me and wandered off into the bedroom.
I stood there dumbfounded. I may not like my arrogant side, but I’m not used to it being outdone, and she had just killed that record. I shut the water off, toweled off, and followed her.
Being as highly strung as I am, it’s a damn good thing I don’t have a weak heart. She came out of nowhere, and yelled, “Boo!” at me.
Bad enough that she scared me so damn bad that I was shaking, but then she pushed me down on the bed and started ticking me. So now, on top of trying to get my heart rate down to reasonable, I can’t breathe. And, naturally, she’s not ticklish. Fortunately, I outweigh her, and could outwrestle her, and fought my way to the top.
I thought that I was supposed to be the one with all the energy. After all, I’m 20, she’s 34. “Ok. What would you like?”, she said, seething with sarcasm. “Since I’ve abused you so terribly, tired you out.” I’ve learned a lot from my dog. If someone says something you don’t seem to agree with, (in his case, it’s, “You’re in the way, dog.”, bite them on the nose and lick their face. I felt my cock getting hard again against her stomach. (Oooh...there’s a neat feeling, that’s a keeper. Definitely Top 10....) She unrolled another condom on it, (Yes, I took off the others, you sick little monkey.), and I dropped between her legs.
I had been planning to tease her a bit, as I love to do. She made damn sure that I wouldn’t. She started playing with the back of my neck, and then scraped her nails down my back. (I can’t even read the phrase without shivering uncontrollably.) I involuntarily arched my back (involuntarily because I didn’t want any distance between my back and those nails), and impaled her on my throbbing cock, almost screaming with the exquisite pleasure she was giving me. So, she did it again. I knew that if she kept that up, when I came, it would blow the top of her head clean off, so I rolled her over on top of me.
“How did you know what that does to me.”, I asked.
She said something about it being in every erotic story I ever wrote and it being pretty standard, and started doing the same thing to my chest. I was feeling all around her, trying to cause a couple scratches on her back, to no avail. (I figured she might like it almost as much as I do...) She started lightly, but then kept digging deeper and deeper until I thought my heart was going to get a scratch on it, and that was all it took to send me over the edge.
I remember nothing of what happened. I remember screaming, I remember thinking that both nuts and my brain had just shot out of my cock, but the next thing that I actually saw was her kissing me lightly all over my head and neck. She had the satiated look of a woman who has just had a major orgasm of her own, and I closed my eyes, satisfied. There would have been no way for me to do anything for her if she hadn’t come that last time, and I’d have never forgiven myself. I wrapped my arms around her, and let my lips press against hers to tell her what was on my mind - there was no chance at words. (Even if there were, I wouldn’t have used them. As a writer, I know the value of words, but I also know that words come very very easily. I wanted to try to radiate the nirvana I was in to her through the gentle caresses of my lips.)
I didn’t want to, but I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning, Marie tucked safely in my arms, and watched her sleeping form, as her chest lightly rose and fall in her slumber. These next three days looked to be the best I’d ever had.

And thus concludes the end of Part One.

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Marie McPeak & Muttley

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