Loading...I am at the wheel of my rusted, two-decades old Chevy pickup. We have pulled off the road since we’re in sort of a rain white-out, a blinding storm with whipping winds that are beginning to rock the truck itself.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Storms like this, coming in from the Atlantic, are not infrequent on Hatteras, part of the Outer Banks island chain along the North Carolina coast.
It is just after Labor Day. Summer tourists have departed and fall fishing has yet to begin. Which means the two-lane road running the length of the island is pretty much deserted — except for us.
Me and Mrs. Anna Ainsworth. We’ve pulled into a parking lot. She’s sitting on the passenger side by the door. I turn off the wipers and cut the engine. The rain is so hard we can no longer see out the windshield — our world reduced to the door-to-door bench seat we are sitting on in the cab.
The otherwise deserted little parking lot — only about 10 spaces — is one of several up and down the island, meant for beachgoers. You park, take a wooden walkway up and over a sand ridge filled with waist-high sea oats, then you’re in front of an endless beach — and the deep blue sea.
And nothing nearby. No houses, stores, no civilization at all for another few miles ahead of and behind us. Mostly just sand and the road. We are alone. And we will have to wait it out in the truck.
“I’m sorry I dragged you out here, Benjamin,” she says. “How long do these storms last?”
Not to worry, I tell her. We may see blue sky in 30 minutes. Though sometimes storms hover all afternoon and late into the night. I’m not going to bring that up.
That I’m frustrated is an understatement. If I’m going to be stranded, couldn’t it be with a 19-year-old with flimsy shorts and eye-catching breasts? Maybe platinum blonde hair? I’m 18 and would relish that kind of company. Actually, just about any girl my age would do. I’m pretty desperate. Luck has not come my way much with dating.
And I’m having no luck this day, either. Mrs. Ainsworth has to be in her early 50s, though she in no way resembles my plumpish mother. Tall and slender, loose khaki shorts, black t-shirt and an old, worn baseball cap. Her hair, not quite shoulder-length, is an unusually bright gray that glistens in the sunlight. It is heavily wind-blown from our traipsing around. Quite striking, actually. Surprising to see that in a woman as old as her.
“So, I guess we just wait? Is that it?” she asks. She opens the glove box in front of her, just exploring. Finds a deck of cards. Pulls it out.
“Well, we could play a game. You up for strip poker?” she asks with an innocent smile.
I’m startled by that. She’s middle-aged for God’s sake. And I’ve known her for only two days.
“I guess not,” she says, putting the cards back, looking away now and out the side door window at the rain.
“I can understand, Benjamin. Especially after seeing me naked this morning,” she says, looking back at me.
Thankfully, she’s still smiling, though this time not so innocently.
I was hoping we’d never have to have this conversation. She had not mentioned it all day. But here we were. So I begin my apologies.
“I’m sorry about this morning, Mrs. Ainsworth. I’m not perverted. I’m no peeping tom. It was an accident. I know I should have turned around and walked away.”
“But you didn’t.”
She was right about that. I didn’t.
* * *
Of course, you need to know the back story. My folks own a four-unit apartment building on Hatteras, fronting the beach. Simple, two-bedroom apartments for vacationers, each with a deck overlooking the ocean. Two upstairs units, two down. Nothing fancy. Now that the season is over, I’ve come down from college for a three-day weekend. I’m staying in one of the upstairs apartments to do some painting on the building. Mrs. Ainsworth showed up two days ago, renting the other upstairs unit. No one else is here. Just us.
She spent the first day driving herself around the island. When she pulled her car back into the apartments’ driveway, I was cooking freshly caught flounder and deep-frying hush puppies. We chatted. I invited her to eat. She helped with the cooking. We drank cold beer on a warm night. Talked.
This morning, sunrise and low tide were both just before 7 a.m. For some reason, I woke up, couldn’t go back to sleep. Grabbed my shorts, a cup of coffee and headed barefoot out on the wooden deck. No one was on the beach. Mrs. Ainsworth wasn’t up either.
So I’m trying to explain this now to her, but I know she thinks the worst of me.
“You see, I just walked over to the railing to look over at your front door to see if you were up,” I say. “The door and window were open. I had no idea you were sleeping on the sofa in the living room.”
“It’s okay, Benjamin,” she says, a little gloom now on her face. “I’m quite sure young guys don’t get their kinks looking at someone naked who’s as old as their mother. Age spots aren’t exactly erotic.”
“I didn’t see any age spots,” I say, trying to repair the damage.
“That’s because you saw my good side,” she says, giving me a quiet laugh, but now a little forced. She’s being polite, trying to make light of me having seen her nude. It makes me like her. She’s letting me keep some dignity.
She had been lying face down on the sofa. Early morning sunlight filtering through the window and screen door. Her back was long and smooth, freckles across her shoulders, her back bone very pronounced all the way down. Slight rib indentions. Middle-aged or not, I have to admit my blood rose when my eyes moved down to her buttocks. No bubble butt like young girls on campus. Hers was slightly longish with a perfectly sculpted curve. The cleavage between them dark, forbidden. Her legs, crossed at her ankles, were long, slender, graceful.
I could see her hips moving slowly up and down, ever so slightly, lifting only an inch or so off the sofa, in a rhythm. Her right arm was down by her side, her hand up under her, right at her sex. She was masturbating.
“Anyway, I’m sorry,” I say as we are sitting two feet apart in the truck. “I embarrassed you and myself. I wish it had never happened.”
“Oh, so I wasn’t even worth looking at?” Mrs. Ainsworth asks, teasingly.
“Now you’re toying with me,” I say, feeling my face turn warm. I’m guessing it’s also bright red.
I wondered if she was also toying with me this morning when I saw her naked. After I had looked at her a few seconds, her eyes opened. She turned her head back slightly and saw me. Said nothing. Did nothing. No expression. Made no attempt to cover herself, even as I finally backed away, retreating to my apartment.
“You’re right. I am teasing you, Benjamin. I’ll quit,” she says.
Of course, the question I want to pose is why she was lying naked in the living room with the windows and door open, especially if she was doing herself. I opted not to pursue it. Nor did I ask why she didn’t try to cover up.
* * *
The rain is still pounding us hard, though the wind has died down. No more swaying the truck. Still, we can see less than 10 feet in front of us. Can barely make out the highway.
“Since we have all this time, tell me something about yourself,” she says. “Are you dating anyone?”
I tell her no.
“OK, tell me about the last girl you dated.”
So I bring up Ramona Babcock. “What did she look like? Come on. Out with it,” says Mrs. Ainsworth.
“Well, long black hair. Blue eyes. A little shorter than me. More popular than me. It was my first semester at college. We didn’t date very long, a few months. Not much else to say.”
“And what attracted you to her?”
“Her looks. And we both liked movies, seeing them, talking about them.”
“How did it end?”
I laugh, a sarcastic laugh.
“We were at this fraternity party off campus. Big house, big crowd. She goes off with a girlfriend. I head upstairs with a guy I know to see some friends. I come back down a half hour later and she’s sitting on a couch, one guy on each side of her. They both have their hands up her skirt, all the way up. She sees me and just winks. Like it’s all good fun.”
“What did you do?”
“I stood by and watched. Got sick to my stomach. She got mad later, said I was a wallflower. She called me a boring little mouse.”
“The ‘mouse’ part hurt,” I tell Mrs. Ainsworth. “That pretty much ended it.”
“Believe me, Benjamin. You’re not boring at all. I’ve had a lot of fun today. Actually, one of the best days for me in a long while,” she says.
It has been fun. You see, Mrs. Ainsworth is an amateur photographer. She drove down to Hatteras, by herself, to spend a few days capturing the wildlife and lifestyle of the island. I agreed to drive her around, show her the best places. That was last night while we were eating, before I saw her bare-assed. But I couldn’t back out.
So this morning we took my rusty Chevy — all trucks on the Outer Banks eventually rust out from the salt air — and headed to what’s called the Pea Island refuge. She trained her lens on the heron, Snowy Egrets and red throated loons, but as much as anything, was awed by the solitude and beauty of the place.
Afterward, we drove to isolated beaches, tromped around, photographing sand crabs at our feet and terns hovering in mid-air. I carried her gear, following along while she took photos. Even in those baggy shorts, I couldn’t help but again notice her long legs. When she kneeled down to examine a colorful shell, I noticed the smoothness of her calves, the curve of her hip. Though fair-skinned, her legs had an ivory look, rather than a pastiness about them.
The morning sun was out in force, the sky a brilliant blue, the ocean pure turquoise, the wide beaches smooth as glass from the receding tide. A few pelicans were nose-diving into the waves, zeroing in on a late breakfast. A flock of 50 or so gray and white gulls strolled slowly, lazily down the beach on pencil-thin legs, as if they owned the place. Actually, they kinda do.
She was thrilled when we later stopped at an old bait shop, something out of the 1940s. Good photos there. If only for the old, weathered men who hang out, literally, around a pot-bellied stove. All of that, followed by long-lens views of the huge Hatteras Lighthouse in the distance and ferries churning back and forth farther south to Ocracoke, the southernmost island, the only one without a bridge to it.
That was just before the storm hit. Just before I pulled over into the parking area.
* * *
“Hey,” I tell her. “I just remembered something.” I reach into the narrow space behind my seat and pull out an unopened bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s a cheap bottle, grocery store variety. But at least it’s red wine. I had bought it last week and left it in the truck. Forgot about it.
“Hot damn, Benjamin. It’s a party,” she says. She is mocking me with phony excitement. But at least she’s smiling as she does.
“It’s the little things in life, Mrs. Ainsworth,” I tell her as a comeback. She likes that.
I decide I like her personality. Quiet but aggressive. Confident. Funny and nice. Not wanting to embarrass me.
“So just one thing. How do we open it?” she asks. I reach into my pocket. “All good islanders have a pocket knife handy.” I whittle the cork out, pass the bottle between us.
“Is this too crass for you?” I ask, since we’re both swigging the bottle.
“No. I would never pass up a chance to drink wine in the rain,” she says. “I’ve always thought it romantic.” We laugh at that, considering our circumstances.
We sit quietly, watching the storm all around us. She cranks down her door window just an inch. “I just want to smell the rain,” she says.
It doesn’t take long for the wine’s buzz to hit me. Makes me more brazen than I am normally. I break the silence.
“Anyway,” I tell her, “It wasn’t much of a relationship with Ramona Babcock. Certainly nothing to brag about.”
I know the buzz has gotten to her, too, because she asks: “Did you sleep with her?” Her voice more serious now. No laughter.
“Yeah, for awhile,” I say. “It was pretty hot, that is until the night of that party.”
“I shouldn’t have asked, Benjamin. It is none of my business. It just started me thinking about my own life. I didn’t sleep with a guy until I was 19, and that was with my husband. My boyfriend then, but we eventually married.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with waiting,” I say. “I’ll bet you two made up for all your lost years. I sometimes try to imagine what it would be like to have a permanent girlfriend, or wife, all the time. Just roll over in bed and she’s there.”
“It is fabulous,” she says. “To be so in love — or at least in lust — that you’re unable to keep your hands off each other. We screwed like bunny rabbits.”
“So, your husband was your first?” I ask.
“I suppose,” she said. “But it depends on what you mean by ‘first.’ I made do before him. One of my girlfriends in high school, her name was Claire, would invite me to her home after school. We’d lock ourselves in her bedroom, tell her mom we were doing homework. But really, we would kiss and make out. It was practice for when we had real boyfriends. Then we both went to the same college. We’d sleep together in my dorm room on weekends and explore a little more.”
“Sounds like sex to me, Mrs. Ainsworth.”
“I guess you’re right. Did I just admit that my first sexual experience was lesbian? Isn’t that funny. But we didn’t think of it that way. And we never, ever talked about it with anyone. I can’t believe I just told you that Benjamin. I’ve never told anyone, not even my husband. We just did it and pretended it didn’t happen.”
“You know,” she said. “There’s a poet, Marie Howe, who once wrote a piece called “Practicing,” about the same thing. Girls trying out sex with each other before they start dating. It’s beautiful. It spoke to me. Told me that maybe I’m not so sick in the head.”
* * *
We drink more wine, pass the bottle back and forth. She watches the rain. I begin watching her.
She takes off her baseball cap, I notice her hair, now even more windblown, seems wild. It really captures my attention. There are vivid streaks of dark grays, dark blacks, whites, even silver. Her hair looks rich, it practically glows. So different from the drab, gray-haired women who come to my mother’s book club. Makes me think she’s offbeat, a loner. I could be wrong. I like loners, probably because I am one. And her hair continues to fascinate me. As wild as it is, I see a certain seductiveness there. Which, I think, is so odd for a woman her age.
And now I’m drawn to her face. Narrow, high cheekbones, large eyes set apart, long neck, patrician nose. Why had I not seen those features in her earlier? She could have been a runway model in years past. Her breasts, under that black t-shirt, seem small. But they’re very noticeable, weighty. They fit her slender frame. She has a fairly small waist but from there her hips have a nice, gentle flowing out.
And then I realize — I’m checking her out. It’s the first time I’ve paid attention to a woman over 30. Even worse. I have a full-blown erection in my shorts. Over Mrs. Ainsworth.
She picks up her camera. Leans back against the door on the passenger side and shoots several photos of me at the wheel in my white t-shirt and shorts. She props her feet up on the seat, facing me. Pulls her knees up. Trains the camera on me for more shots. I glance down and see halfway up the legs of her loose khaki shorts. I see the underside of her thighs. And I’m wondering if she’s aware that I can. No attempt to cover up. She takes several pictures of me.
She drops her right leg down on the floorboard, keeps her left leg propped up on the seat. That causes the legs of her shorts to shift to the side a little. Now, I see even farther up her leg on the seat. A flash of white panties. She sees me look. I know she does. She must have. But she keeps shooting photos. Then lifts her butt up just slightly and moves it sideways about an inch. Maybe she’s uncomfortable. But the shorts themselves remain where they are, stuck to the seat by sweat, I guess, which means an even greater view of her panties. I see dark pubic hair beneath the fabric, just a little of it.
Her panties are damp, maybe also from sweat, and that forms an indentation at her slit, which I can see quite clearly now. Even see a little puffiness on the edge of the slit. My God. They’re the lips to her vagina. I lift my eyes up to her. She has moved the camera away from her face and is just holding it, looking at me. No smile. Just studying me. She knows I’m looking between her legs. There’s no doubt now. Is she exposing herself on purpose? Does she want me to see? She’s not calling me out. My erection is already aching. And now I’m the one sweating.
“With that white t-shirt, that tan and all that hair, Benjamin, you remind me of James Dean,” she says with no mention at all of what I’m doing.
She grows quiet. I believe she still is trying to figure me out. I grow quiet too, trying to figure out why I’m liking her so much now. Trying to come to terms with the realization that she arouses me. I’ve never felt this way about girls my own age. It’s not just the hot desire. It’s something else. A weakness in my stomach, from sensations that this is so decadent, so taboo. Something terribly naughty.
To my surprise, she scoots over beside me, puts her left arm around my shoulder, holds the camera at length with her other arm and takes a few snapshots of the two of us against the backdrop of the now fogged-up windows. Our faces are close together.
“These are going to be great pictures, I can tell already,” she says, putting her hand on my right thigh as she talks. “You are so photogenic,” she says. She squeezes my leg a little, a sign of affection. We are becoming friends. She slides her hand up my thigh an inch or so, squeezes again. This time the finger tips are ever so slightly against my erection, throbbing from the underside of my shorts. She realizes it, pulls her hand away. All of this takes place in less than 10 seconds. Still, there is no way she can not have known that she was touching me. She scoots over to her side of the truck.
She doesn’t look at me. Stares out the window. Have I totally alienated her?
Then her first words. “Such a fun day, isn’t it. I wish we could have a dozen more like this.” She speaks quietly. Hard to hear with all the rain, which now is picking up, getting hard again.
“Let’s face it, we’re just fun together,” I say. It’s my first attempt at flirtation. I think it falls flat. Instead, she smiles, and for a second or two nudges my hip with her foot that is still up on the seat. Tacitly agreeing with me.
Then, just as suddenly, she grows serious. Looks out at the torrent of rain. The smile gone. She’s quiet, in her own thoughts. It’s perplexing to me.
* * *
I decide to come clean.
“I lied to you, Mrs. Ainsworth.” I give an audible sigh. “I never slept with Ramona Babcock. It never got that far. She let the two guys feel her up, but she wouldn’t let me, her date, touch her.”
“The truth is I’ve never slept with anyone. I’m probably the only 18 year old on the planet that hasn’t had sex.”
“You and me, Benjamin, we are quite a pair,” Mrs. Ainsworth says.
“What do you mean?”
“You lied. And I’ve lied,” she said slowly. “The only hot sex I’ve ever had was with my imagination. And maybe with my high school girlfriend. With my husband, it’s always been laborious, absolutely unfulfilling. I dread when it happens.”
“We both have our secrets, don’t we, Benjamin.”
We each give the other a weak smile. Long silence. I can see her eyes are watery. Then this:
“I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life, Benjamin. A part of me just wants to run away.”
It catches me by surprise. I know nothing of her life, other than she’s been married 30 years, has two grown daughters, is an accountant. She told me that last night.
The wine is getting to her.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m outside of my skin, Benjamin, observing my own life, comparing it to others. I want to know what another life might be like. What would my marriage be like if it was with someone else? What would another kind of love life be like?”
“I guess that’s why I wanted to know about your love life,” she says.
“Well, now you know. I don’t have a love life,” I tell her.
She looks at me with a tenderness in her face. It both melts my heart and makes me harder than ever. I am beguiled by her.
“Benjamin,” she says after a few more moments of quiet, “Why did you keep looking at me this morning? Did you like seeing me naked? Even if all your friends would see me as little more than an old woman?”
I’m embarrassed again. Not sure what to say. I stare out the windshield, not at her.
“I kept looking because I had never seen a naked woman before. Not in real life. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
From there, I can’t find the right words. In exasperation I just say, “I couldn’t believe how beautiful you were lying there.” I stammer a little. “Your husband must be the luckiest guy in the world.”
“He doesn’t think that,” she says. “I don’t think he ever did. At one time I suppose I was his trophy wife. But now, I feel alone in my marriage.” She avoids my eyes. Won’t look at me.
“If I were your husband, I wouldn’t give you the chance to feel alone.” How stupid, I realize immediately. An 18-year-old saying that to her. When will I ever learn.
She wipes a tear from one eye. Then she smiles. Her voice turns upbeat, she strikes a playful note.
“So, what would the two of us do all the time if we were married?” Even her eyes are smiling at me now.
“We’d travel a lot,” I say, surprised at myself so readily joining in her game. “We’d talk a lot. Go to the movies constantly. I’d be your assistant, carry your gear for you on photo shoots. And we’d cook flounder and deep fry hush puppies.”
“And drink cold beer on a warm night, of course,” she adds.
“Definitely,” I say. “And I’d do whatever else you wanted to do.”
I love this playfulness between us.
“And would we fuck a lot?” she asks.
That, of course, stops everything. Had we not just finished off the entire bottle of wine, we wouldn’t be saying these things. But that bottle is empty now. No going back.
It was a rhetorical question, anyway. She isn’t waiting for an answer. She knows.
“I think I shock your sensibilities, Benjamin.”
“No. No. Not at all. I’m okay. I’m fine. Not a problem.”
With that, she nudges my hip again with her foot that’s still up on the seat. “It’s fun to tease you, Benjamin.”
But this time, before she can pull her foot away, I’m compelled to do something. Anything. I have to. My desire is at the boiling point. Mrs. Ainsworth has aroused in me a dark lust. And my heart is about to burst for her. I’m feeling sensations I don’t understand. I am hot for this middle-aged woman with silvery hair. There is insanity in this. But I don’t care. There is only the now. And I want her. I feel like a savage ready to jump on its prey. Do something, I tell myself. Anything.
So, my hand gently picks up her foot from the seat. I slowly begin caressing it, rubbing the heel, gently stroking, pulling, massaging her toes. I say nothing. I don’t know what else to do. It’s so awkward.
She doesn’t pull away. Leans her head back on the window of her door. Looks not at me, but out the front windshield at the rain. I rub her ankle, then back down to her foot, caressing her flesh. My feelings of ineptness begin to fade.
She moves her other foot up to the seat. I take it with my other hand. Begin caressing both feet. She is quiet, closes her eyes. Rain pelts the truck’s roof and hood, making a continuous loud metallic popping noise. It’s warm in the cab, almost steamy. The windows are fogged. Wind whips up again. Can barely hear the surf on the other side of the sea oates.
“Rain is so sensual,” she says, her eyes still closed. “The sound of it, the smell, the taste of raindrops.”
She opens her eyes, looks out the window again.
“You knew I was masturbating when you saw me this morning, didn’t you Benjamin?”
“That’s none of my business,” I say.
“I’m not ashamed of it,” she tells me.
“It would surprise you to know,” she says as my caressing continues, her eyes still avoiding me, “that I fantasize about sex probably as much as you do. I bring myself off at least three times a week. I thought I would have stopped that when I got married. But here it is 30 years later and I’m still doing it. I’ve had sex a thousand times with my husband — the same old way, or variations thereof. There’s so much I want that I’ve never had. My own imagination embarrasses me sometimes. And I’m beginning to feel like the clock is running out on me.”
“What is it you want?” I muster the courage to ask. Each of us looking everywhere but at each other.
I begin caressing my way up her legs to her calves. One hand on each leg. Massaging the muscles a little. I didn’t have any idea that a woman’s legs could be so soft. She begins wetting her lips with her tongue.
“Do you really want to know?” she asks as she turns her head to look at me. “I’ve never told anyone.”
“Not even your husband?”
“Especially not him.”
“I want to know,” I say.
“You know we’re both drunk, don’t you,” she says.
“All the better,” I say. “People are more honest when they’re drunk.”
My hands are at her knees now, my fingers lightly brushing the skin, then massaging it. I slide fingers behind her knee, tickling. She pauses, I think to feel my caressing. She closes her eyes, begins talking, sweat now in beads on her brow. A wet spot at the top of her black t-shirt. It’s sweat too. And for the first time, I see her nipples pushing out from under the t-shirt, though she has a bra on underneath it.
“You know what I really want, Benjamin. I want a husband to explore my body with his hands, just have me lie on the bed and him sitting beside me, caressing my skin, my muscles, toes. Every single part of me I’d want him to know. Every inch.”
She opens her eyes, but won’t look at me. Peers out the window, focusing on something seemingly far away.
“You know what else? I want to be taken from behind. I think I have a pretty good ass. I’ve always liked it. Been pleased when I look at it in the mirror. I want to bend over and show it to my lover, unashamedly. Have him fawn over my butt and love it, then ram himself into me from behind, wildly and taking me for all he’s worth. Really fucking me hard, as if nothing else in life mattered at that moment. I want him to lose himself in me. Hasn’t happened once in my marriage. I can’t count the number of times I’ve daydreamed about that.”
“I want to be on my back with my knees pushed up against my chest so my lover could go into me as deep as possible. The deeper, the better. The more we’d become one soul, or one body, or something. Something I’m searching for. I don’t know what it is, but something.”
I don’t speak. Move my hand now to her thighs, rubbing gently, then caressing. The outside of her leg, then the inside, delicately, moving my fingers in little circles over the skin. She is even more soft here. Silken. I don’t really know what I am doing. And I’m terrified all the while. But I won’t stop unless she tells me to.
The rain has slackened. In its place a thick fog and heavy mist envelops the truck, shrouding everything.
“Does it seem repugnant that I’m being this nasty?” she asks. “Well, I can go you one better. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
“I want a man who wants to watch me pee in the bathroom, who doesn’t think it’s vulgar, like my pent-up husband does. Yes, Benjamin, that’s my kink.
She is in full confession mode now.
“And, no,” she says. “It’s not really a turn-on. I just love the intimacy of it. For a man to have such desire for me that he would relish me taking a leak in front of him and not be repulsed. That he would want that kind of intimacy. I have a thing about wanting to be close. I watch young couples in bars, in restaurants, on the street. I wonder just how intimate are they with each other. I would kill to be in one of those relationships.”
“I want to take a bath with a lover. A long, hot bath. Have him wash my back, maybe shampoo my hair. Wash my ass. Yes, definitely have him wash my ass. Maybe afterward we’d make love. But maybe not. Maybe sometimes we’d just satisfy ourselves with the intimacy of those moments.”
“I should have married a man who would do all those things, Benjamin. Shouldn’t I.”
“Mrs. Ainsworth, any man in his right mind would trade his soul to have that with you.”
When I slide my hands into the legs of her shorts and to the top part of her thighs, she closes her eyes again, lets her head drop back, against the window of the door. She sighs.
My fingers work their way to within an inch of her panties. I can’t believe what I’m doing. Her thighs quiver. I hear her say “Oh God,” under her breath, barely a whisper. Not meant for anyone but herself to hear.
Opens her eyes. Looks back out the windshield.
“I’m 53 years old and never had a man really truly ache for me, Benjamin. Never desire me so much that his heart ached. But you do ache for me, don’t you, Benjamin?” She turns her head, looks at me. “I can see it in your eyes. When you were watching me naked this morning. And now when you have your hands up my shorts.”
I start to speak.
“No, don’t,” she says. “You have, at least for this moment, so much passion for me. I don’t know why you do. But that’s the greatest gift you could give me. Thank you for that.”
She sits up, my hands fall from her. She scoots over to me. Runs both her hands through my hair. I’m astonished. Frozen. Her fingers cup my face. She kisses me gently. Slips her tongue against mine. Lets it play with mine. She tastes of wine, smells of suntan lotion and the sea. It feels warmer, softer than any kiss I’ve ever had. I know, with this single kiss, that we have bonded. She turns her face, lightly rubs it against my cheeks, my lips, my ears, over my nose. Turning her head from side to side as she rubs her skin against mine. She brings her face in front of mine, looks at me. Our eyes only inches apart. Her eyes smile at me.
She scoots back to her place by the door.
“Benjamin,” she says in that still quite voice of hers, speaking slowly. “Do you know who Neil Armstrong was? Of course you do. The first man on the moon. One small step for man . . .”
At this point, I think I may be in shock. No way to answer.
“He had another quote that seemed more important to me. He once said the human heart has only a finite number of beats to it before it dies, and he didn’t want to waste any of his.”
“Neither do I, Benjamin. Not any more.”
With that, she opens her passenger door, steps out into the warm mist and thick fog. With the door still open, she keeps her eyes on me as she pulls her black t-shirt over her head, throwing it on the truck seat. Reaches around her back, unclasps her bra, throws it on the seat too. There is no time for more than a glimpse of her breasts before she bends, unbuttons her shorts and quickly pulls them and her panties off. She stands for a minute to let me look.
Her breasts are small, but heavy. They suit her. Slope a little. The nipples dark brown and stiff. Her areolas larger than I would have expected. Her breasts jiggle deliciously with every move, every breath she takes. She has dark hair between her legs, but only a little, and not shaved, just naturally a little above and around her slit. The mist settles on her skin, forming little droplets over her entire body, in her hair. I have never been so aroused.
My viewing is over in a hurry as she steps around to my side of the truck, opening the door, pulling me out, and taking my clothes off too, there in the parking lot. Since I am now naked, misty droplets cover me too. She stands back, takes me and my very hard dick in with her eyes, says:
“You’re gorgeous, Benjamin.”
* * *
Is there a towel in the truck or something to sit on, she asks. I grab a folded up plastic tarp I keep behind the seat. “Perfect,” she says. Takes my hand and leads me through the mist and fog onto the wooden walkway leading over the sandy ridge. It’s quite hard to see. She drops the tarp on the beach, walks me down to the water. No one else is on the beach. Who could possibly be out here in this weather anyway?
We wade in. But only knee deep. The waves are white capped, rough and pounding. Very loud. Storm waves. A killer surf.
She moves behind me, against my back, wraps her arms around my shoulders. She is almost as tall as me, so the side of her face is against the side of mine. She nibbles on my neck, licks my ears. I reach my hands back to the sides of her hips. It’s funny how just touching her there gives me such a feeling of her nakedness. She is right up against my back. The whole time, the warm spray from the waves showers us every other moment.
She reaches up, slowly caresses my face, moves her hands down to my chest, scraping my nipples. Still lower and her fingers circle softly across my abs. She slides her fingers into the hair around my cock. I am still hard, thick, her touch takes away my breath. She runs her index finger from the top base of my cock out to the head. My cock jerks up. I almost cum. She does it again. Strokes me for a few moments, caresses the head of my dick, cups my balls, massaging them gently. I’d never even contemplated the idea of a woman holding my balls. She squeezes gently, runs her fingers around and over the skin, then down my thighs, lightly scraping them, now back up to my cock.
She draws her face even closer. The sound of the pounding surf overwhelms my left ear. Her lips up against my right ear. “Can you feel my nipples against your back, Benjamin?” I say yes. “My nipples have always gotten very, very hard when I’m excited.”
“Can you feel the hair between my legs against you, Benjamin? Can you? Tell me.” I say yes again. “I don’t have a lot,” she says. “But sometime today I want you to run your fingers through it. Kiss my hair down there. Will you do that for me?”
I shake my head, yes.
“Holding your dick in my hand makes me so wet. But you can’t tell, can you Benjamin?” “I don’t know,” I answer.
“Let’s find out, Benjamin. Reach your hand behind and feel me. Feel how hot my cunt is for you. Put your finger in me. But just one finger.”
“That feels so good,” she says. It was slick, warm, almost hot, her opening larger than I expected. But at the moment that joy was being compounded by the sudden feeling — she was still slowly pumping my dick, and squeezing it — that I was going to cum, and hard.
“Mrs. Ainsworth, you’ve got to stop. I can’t hold on much longer.”
“Do I excite you that much, Benjamin? Which do you like best. My squeezing your dick or your finger inside me? Which is it, Benjamin?”
“I love both, Mrs. Ainsworth.”
“Not good enough, Benjamin,” she says, her lips right against my ear, her breath, with each word she speaks, tickling the inside of my ear. “Which is it? Tell me.”
“It’s my finger in you.”
“So, Benjamin. You like my pussy. Would you like to lick it? I can teach you how, you know. But you’ll have to do exactly as I say. You see, in my own fantasies, Benjamin, my cunt to me is a work of art. And it takes someone very special to appreciate it fully. You think you’re ready?”
“Mrs. Ainsworth, you’ve got to stop.”
“No, Benjamin, I’m not going to stop. No woman’s ever held your balls before, have they? No one has ever stroked your dick like this, have they now? You’ve never cum in front of a woman before. But you will for me. I’m your first and you’ll remember me always, won’t you? You desperately want this middle-aged body of mine. You’re going to cum for me. I want to see it spurt into the air. If anyone else sees, then it’s their good fortune. Just let go.”
“That’s right, let it all out,” she says as my sperm arcs out, one shooting stream after another, probably a good three or four feet out into the air. Streams of white disappearing into the ocean froth.
She keeps stroking, softer now, more gently, stopping to massage my balls. She turns me around, meets my lips. I expect a gentle kiss. Not hardly. She forces her tongue wildly into me. Her hunger is as strong as mine. Maybe stronger.
“Benjamin,” she says. “I don’t want to waste any more heart beats.”
She leads me back to the tarp, spreads it out on the sand, pulls me down. Lies on top of me, moves down my body slowly. Kissing, biting all the way. Sniffing, scratching with her teeth. She licks my limp penis, takes it in her mouth, begins lightly sucking. The feel of her soft lips surrounding my shaft is something I never imagined could be this good. I’m looking straight up into the fog. It surrounds us. I wonder if the torrential rains are about to begin again. I get hard quickly. She knew I would.
She turns around, away from me, on all fours. Her ass — which makes me weak to see how beautiful it is — is up in the air above my face. I see for the first time the lips of her vagina. And the small dark shadowy area that hides her anus. All right above me. Her beautiful silvery hair falling everywhere, small breasts hanging down, the nipples hard and long. I watch as she, one hand at a time, pinches them. Groaning each time. I reach up, with my middle finger, touch the top of her ass, then let my finger follow the cleft between her cheeks. All the way down. She moans. The is the greatest moment of my life.
She licks my balls, takes them one, then the other, in her mouth. Sucking, licking, kissing. I began to smell her sweat, her skin, the juices in her pussy. I try to inhale it all. I feel as if every pore in my skin is electrified. Ready to erupt.
She swivels back around to face me, grabs my dick, holds it straight up, impales herself on it, quickly, sitting on top of me. She begins talking. “Can you tell, Benjamin, that you and I fit together well, so tight in me.”
My eyes begin to bulge. “You felt that didn’t you. I can squeeze you with the muscles in my pussy. Tell me you like it and I’ll do it again.” I tell her. She does it again. I tell her again. She does it again. And again. And again. Never knew a woman could do that. Drives me into that white heat of desire. She leans forward, braces her hands, one on each of my shoulders, slides up and down on my dick, slowly.
She raises up, pulls off, moves forward, sits on my stomach. Uses her fingers to spread the lips of her pussy open to show me. She points out the parts, everything a bright pink. I can see the liquid lubricating her entrance. She touches her clit. She starts to explain it to me. “I know about the clitoris,” I tell her.
“Good. Then take your finger and touch it. That’s right. Now move it slightly in circles, very lightly. A little bit lighter. Yes, like that. Make the circle a little smaller.”
She looks into my eyes. “That’s it, Benjamin. Now don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
She lowers herself back on my cock, bends back, far back, using her arms to brace herself on my legs. It’s to give me easier access to her clit with my fingers. She closes her eyes.
“Oh yes,” she says, giving a quiet little gurgling laugh. The laughter of pure pleasure.
She begins swaying her hips back and forth, just slightly. Just a few inches. Her breathing deepens, then more so. The moments pass. I don’t let up. She gives this long, low guttural groan, her whole abdomen quakes, her breasts shake. She is a woman on fire. She throws herself down on my chest, which is now a river of sweat and mist. Juices run down my dick from her pussy and into my pubic hair, onto the tarp. I reach my own crescendo, raise my hips, trying to slam them into her bottom. I squeeze her hips hard. I come. My first time with a woman. The sweetest orgasm I could possibly have. The one I will always remember. Every smell. Every touch. Every taste.
* * *
We walk back to the truck, throw the tarp in the back bed, get inside. But we don’t put our clothes back on. I’m more confident now. I tell her to lie down, the length of the seat, her head at the passenger door side. Her knees are lifted up since there’s not enough room to stretch out. I get on my knees on the floorboard on her side. She is face up, hands behind her head. Relaxed. Beads of water all over her from the weather. I lick them off. From her face to her toes.
I close my eyes, run my fingers over her forehead, onto her high cheekbones, lightly skimming the curvature of her ears, feeling behind them, then on to her lips, following my fingers slowly up and around them, feeling her breath as I do, smelling her skin.
I open my eyes, move down until I reach her breasts, lay the side of my face on her chest. Feel her heart beating. Use my fingers to feel the smoothness of her areolas, the stiffness of her nipples. I pull on them a little, open my hand and run my palm over the top of them, barely touching. Her eyes are open and on me. Her breasts have flattened out since she is on her back. But still they are soft and cushy. As gently as possible, I hold them, squeeze them just to feel their thickness. Kiss her nipples. Suck them. She says nothing. Lets me play as long as I want. But her breathing tells me this is what she is starved for.
At her stomach, instead of using my fingers, I lean down to her, again turn my face sideways and graze my cheek across her skin. As I get closer to her sex, I begin to smell her. I do as she had asked: caress her pubic hair, sifting my fingers through the dark black soft curls on her mound, still glistening from the moisture we have both just created. I play with this little gathering of hair around her opening. I cup her mound with my hand. Press in lightly. She presses back.
My fingers glide down her slit. She opens her legs wider for me to look and touch. I slide the tips of my fingers around the opening. Feels velvety. I put two fingers in her, then three. Push as far in as I can, pull back, do it again slowly. She is so wet, my fingers are really slipping in and out. My thumb finds her clit again.
Her breathing picks up. I pull my hand out and move down to her legs. I don’t want her to cum — not yet. I may be new to all of this. But I’m a quick study. There’s a slight wickedness in the smile she gives me. We both know. We want our hunger to build. It’s a good thing the fog is surrounding us, protecting us. Because we are animals in heat.
I slide both hands down her thighs. I touch all around. I work down to her feet. Even her toes fascinate me.
I turn her over, face down now, her legs bent back at the knee since space is so tight. Move my fingers down her back, then back up, feel the ribs. I kiss the freckles on her shoulders. It’s all in ever-so-slow motion.
Then to her butt. I knead her wet skin, kiss it, stroke it. Spread her hips apart, touching the wrinkled opening of her small anus, using my index finger to encircle it dozens of times. She’s warm and moist. After a few minutes it seems effortless to slide my little finger inside her ass. Just barely at first. I move it back and forth, slowly, going deeper each time. Replace my little finger with my index finger.
“You like that, don’t you, Benjamin.” she says, breaking her silence. You like putting your finger in the most personal part of my body, don’t you. You are just like me.”
“If you want me to, I’ll quit,” I say.
“No Benjamin. I like it as much as you do. You may not have any idea how much I like your finger in my ass. You just don’t have any idea. Deeper. Push deeper.”
So, I do. Until long moments later when she pulls my finger out, turns over, gets on her knees, raises her ass up as an invitation, then looks back at me.
“Benjamin, it’s time to fuck me hard. Don’t hold back. I’m your ten-dollar whore and you want your money’s worth.” She lays her head down on the seat.
I get on my knees on the seat. As the tip of my cock touches her opening, it feels like home. As I push in, her muscles grab my dick, tighten around it. This is where I belong.
I manage to stay in her 20 minutes at least. Never imagined I could last that long, especially doing it from behind where I could grab her butt to my heart’s content. My fondest fantasy for all those years of masturbation. But I do last, somehow, pounding her maybe 50 times, going in as deep as I can. Pressing hard to find the back walls of her vagina.
We rest, me still inside her, then pick up again. I stop, turn her over on her back, get on my knees on the floorboard and lick her slit and her clit until she comes. It takes no more than a few minutes. She is so desperately wanting it. Coming all over my face, grabbing my head, pressing hard against me. I push her legs back against her chest. Then quickly enter her. In one long and hard stroke, going as deep as I can. I cum myself. We collapse, unable to even speak.
I lie on top of her. We kiss and kiss. She wraps her legs around my butt. No talking. Just rest.
* * *
After a while, we sit up, survey the damage.
We’re a sweaty mess. Her beautiful silvery hair looks like the aftermath of sticking her finger in an electric socket. Wet sand covers us. We ache. Have scratches that we don’t remember getting. We probably smell.
“I don’t know about you, but I feel better,” she says. We both laugh uncontrollably at that.
The rain has stopped altogether. The fog begins to lift. We climb out of the truck. Both need to take a leak. We pee simultaneously on the sand beside the parking lot, her squatting down, each watching the other. Being this intimate with her is freeing. I begin to understand her desire for it.
I open the door, reach for my shorts. She tells me no.
“Benjamin. Let’s drive back naked. Do you think anyone will see us?”
“We’ll get arrested,” I say.
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” she says. She kisses me. Says, “Let’s do it.”
As we pull out of the parking lot — and we are au naturel — she says, “When we get back to our apartments, we’ll need a bath, Benjamin.”
“Isn’t that one of your fantasies, Mrs. Ainsworth?” I ask. “You are so perceptive,” she says.
“By the way, Benjamin, it feels good not to waste heartbeats. Don’t you think?”
end