The Letter and a Lady in Bed

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Something touching his face startles him from sleep. He fights toward consciousness from a dream he’s already forgotten. He finds himself in a dark room. In a bed. After a moment he realizes it’s his bed. The nightstand digital clock says 1:42.

The “something touching his face,” which interrupted a dream he’s already forgotten, turns out to be a pair of woman’s lips. They’re showering him with kisses. On his neck, shoulders, finally covering his mouth. Her perfume inexplicably stiffens his cock.

But he feels irritated, not aroused. He thinks: “I’ve got to ask her to stop waking me in the middle of the night. I hate going around all day feeling sleep deprived.”

At the moment he can’t recall her name.

Is it Sunday morning now? If so, he’s been with her two nights. Picked her up at the singles function in the church social hall, a place he goes only when in between relationships.

What is her name?

She presses against his crotch. Before he can protest, a groan escapes. He wants to tell her to stop, to please let him sleep.

But he doesn’t say anything. He hopes it’s Sunday morning and not Monday. If the latter, he’s done for. He has an important meeting at 10 and then all afternoon with the accountant. It’s got to be Sunday morning.

She runs her tongue around his lips, her hair covers his face and shoulders. Her mouth’s initial unpleasant taste gives way to familiar hints of salty, funky, vestiges of earlier lovemaking.

He met her Friday evening. They fucked all Friday night and Saturday morning. That was yesterday, right? So that makes it Sunday morning now. Not too late to get back to sleep. So he doesn’t feel like crap two days in a row.

His erection grows. He stretches his legs—a reflex that began as a teenager. She presses her thigh against him.

Her tongue in and out of his mouth. He tries to anticipate her thrusts. She swings on top of him, continues her tonguing. He doesn’t care about the saliva running down his chin.

She puckers her lips inches from his face. He remembers it’s a cue to open wide. She releases a string of their liquids into his mouth. He exaggerates swallowing. Forgives her for disrupting his sleep.

She brushes his face—first with her hair, and after scrunching up a bit, her breasts.

When he groans, she pivots, faces his crotch, canlı bahis her pussy pressed against his chin. He gasps at the heat that embraces his shaft and the pressure of her chin against his pubic bone. Her tongue circles his mushroom, sending shivers up his spine.

Her mouth moves swiftly. Soon he’s ready to erupt.

She arches her back to offer him easier access to her pussy. He parts her lips with his index finger and hearing a moan and feeling her slipperiness, inserts two fingers. Her hips thrust against his fingers.

She cries out when he adds a third. Then a fourth. Finally his whole hand. He holds it there, unmoving inside her entrance, lets her acclimate to the pressure. She’ll do the rest of the work now by herself. Soon she resumes the thrusting and then her vaginal wall relaxes and she presses hard against his hand. She cries out. Droplets sprinkle his face and forearm.

Then it’s his turn to cry out as his semen, like mercury in a thermometer, slowly rises up his cock. A few more thrusts into her mouth and he’ll be in heaven.

But she has other plans. He cries in frustration when she releases him entirely. He was so damn close. After a few seconds, she eases him into her pussy, holding him in her without moving.

His breathing begins to return to normal. She rotates her hips side-to-side, then back and forth. Slowly. This time she doesn’t stop.

The clock says 2:02 when he awakens from a post-coital slumber, his legs entwined with hers. She kisses him and they position themselves face to face.

“You’ve got spunk on your cheek,” she says.

“Mine or yours?”

“Does it matter?”

He rubs his face into her breasts. “I’m sharing.”

She giggles. “Thanks.” Examines his hand, then puts his index finger into her mouth. “I can taste myself.”

“No kidding,” he says, leaning closer to place his other index finger at her pussy’s entrance.

She makes a show of performing fellatio on his finger, takes it up to the knuckle.

He’s tired and spent and can’t believe this girl, this young woman, less than half his age, has gotten him aroused again. Even more remarkable, she’s helped him get off twice tonight.

She makes a move toward his cock but he stops her. “I like what you’re doing.”

“And I like what you’re doing,” she says. “If I was a pussy cat bahis siteleri you’d hear me purring.”

They both chortle.

Her hips grind against his finger. He lets her work it into her wetness. He adds another and then another. She cries out when the fourth enters, thrusting her hips up and down. “Fuck,” she cries as she squirts. Shakes uncontrollably. He draws her close, keeping his fingers in her. She cries.

The clock reads 2:31. She’s on top of him, kissing him, pressing her hips against his.

“I’ve never been made love to like this,” she says. “Ever. You are incredible.”

He thinks if she continues along this train of thought they’ll soon be back to fucking and he’s really tired. Even if he can fall asleep he’s going to be feeling like a zombie in the morning.

The clock reads 2:42 and he’s given up on sleep.

“Just a little present,” she murmured two minutes ago before taking him into her mouth.

There’s no way he’s going to make her feel she’s given him a “present.” As it is, he can barely feel her lips. But the sight of her head bobbing up and down!

She stops, hops off the bed. “Be back in a jiffy.”

She returns with a small bag. “Toys,” she says, responding to his puzzled look. Before he can react to what’s happening she’s pressed a small vibrator against the underside of his cock. Between the vibrations and her tongue he’s soon hard as nails. He can’t believe it. He arches his back, thrusting himself into the air as she licks and vibrates.

She stops. “Come inside me.” Without waiting for an answer, she mounts him and grinds herself against him.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s right.”

She yelps, jerks her hips back and forth, then squirts. When she begins to shudder he pulls her face to his, kisses her forehead. Gently moves inside her. She laughs, sticks her tongue in his mouth.

“Sorry. Don’t know where that came from. Your turn. How do you want me?”

He doesn’t stop to think. “Get on your knees.”

He can tell she’s surprised.

The clock reads 2:58 and he’s been fucking her for an hour. It feels like. Actually it’s closer to five minutes. If he can get off, very much in doubt at the moment, it’ll be one of those “thank goodness this is over” ones.

Marilyn is a champ. Ass up, face buried in a pillow. Although her pussy is sore, bahis şirketleri she’s becoming aroused. Each thrust hurts, but she remains quiet.

The clock reads 3:04. Marilyn is on her back, head off the bed, tilted to accommodate his cock. He’s leaning over her, supporting his weight with a hand next to her head, while he fingers her pussy with the other. Marilyn has never felt so vulnerable. She accepts as much of him as she can without gagging while simultaneously feeling the onset of another orgasm.

When it comes, the scream frightens him, it’s so primal. She grasps his hand with both of hers. Presses it to her opening. She shakes with an intensity he’s not seen before.

The clock reads 5:09. He must have slept. Marilyn is manipulating his semi-erect cock in and out of her pussy. It amazes him how his physical response to her differs from what he thinks he’s capable of. He’s sixty-two, she’s twenty-nine. For the past twenty-some years he’s considered himself a “one and done” guy. Meaning not only a single climax, but also a single lovemaking session with a firm pipe. Tonight he’s lost count of the times she’s gotten him erect.

Before he knows it, she wiggles her hips to allow him full entry and she does a Latin number as she straddles him, fingers snapping, head moving back and forth rhythmically to a silent melody. Her pubic mound, trimmed to a narrow curly rectangle, matted with saliva, semen and her own fluid, moves in opposition to her hips, sometimes dipping to touch his own wild white-grey, other times disappearing in shadow as she leans back and her outer lips part to reveal her swollen and glistening hood, the delicate butterfly lips caressing his shaft.

The kitchen clock reads 11:10. He opens the refrigerator for orange juice and yogurt. Marilyn is asleep. He welcomes some time by himself.

Once seated at the kitchen table, he rifles through the mail he retrieved when he first got up. Mostly junk. Hidden inside a throw-away shopper, however, a light-blue envelope.

He sets aside a letter from his mortgage company, pushes the junk to one side and opens the envelope. No return address, his last name misspelled. It often is. Instinctively he brings the envelope to his nose. Lightly perfumed.

Dear Leon,

I can’t begin to tell you how hard it is for me to write this. I’m not sure what “this” is, actually. I’m confused, angry, sad—not desperate. That’s one thing I know for sure. I feel used.

He stops to count the pages. Five. Checks the last one. It’s signed “L.”

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