My name is Paula Watson. I can’t complain about the life I’ve had—it could easily have been far worse. The good part: I’m forty-five years old, a tenured professor of English at a large state university that shall remain nameless; I’ve published a few books in my field, and I’ve been told I’m a pretty good teacher—empathetic without being soft, critical without being nasty. Maybe I have something of a sharp tongue (exhibited more on paper than in person), but I actually think most people are fairly decent deep down. Anyway, my circle of acquaintances doesn’t include many scumbags or rascals or layabouts. The bad part: three years ago my husband of twelve years left me (yes, it was for a younger woman—what else is new?), and ever since then I’ve not been terribly enthusiastic about tying my fate with a man. Even casual dating seems to have fallen by the wayside.
And to any guys out there reading this: I’m rather nice to look at, if I do say so myself. I’m fairly tall for a woman (five foot eight), slender but wiry, with ample curves at bust and bottom that still turn heads every now and then, especially among the old goats in the department.
My story begins with my trip to the Modern Language Association convention. This is a place where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of professors of English (and other languages) meet every year to deliver pompous and learned papers; but there are also heaps of graduate students and other younger folks seeking job interviews with prospective employers. It’s always held over a period of four days between Christmas and New Year’s, and it can be quite a circus. This one—in Philadelphia—was, for me, a bit more of a circus than most.
It appeared that my university reserved a whole block of rooms in the main convention hotel for both the attending faculty and any graduate students who wanted to come along and check it out. I sensed this because I kept seeing the same people going in and out of rooms close to my own at all hours of the day and night. I was, mercifully, in a single room (I don’t do well with roommates), and I of course recognized some of the people in nearby rooms; but, because our department is pretty large, there were others (I mean graduate students) whom I only knew by sight, or not at all.
One guy in particular caught my attention—or, I should say, I caught his.
He was a tall, lanky fellow with unkempt black hair and a sort of shuffling gait, almost as if he was an interloper who didn’t quite belong there. But I’d seen him around the department over the past year or two, even though he’d never taken a class with me. At our first encounter in the hallway, I’d done nothing but nod in his direction; at our second, I gave him a brief smile—more out of recognition than of any genuine fondness. I mean, I really didn’t know the guy!
But the look he gave me on both those occasions was a bit disturbing: it’s as if he couldn’t take his eyes off of me, and when he saw he coming down the hall to my room he stopped what he was doing (which was trying to get into his own room with the little plastic key the hotel had given us) and stared at me from the moment I fished out my own key from my purse, inserted it into the lock, opened the door, and went in.
Let me be clear: he didn’t look at me in anything like a lewd way. I mean, I was nearly twice his age, and I didn’t flatter myself that I was such a beauty that he would find me so fascinating to look at. Truth be told, the expression on his face was not one of desire, but of—fear.
I didn’t give it much thought: it’s not my place to psychoanalyze the traumas of graduate students. But matters took a different turn on the third day—or, I should say, night—of the convention, the last night we’d be staying here before returning to campus the next day.
I’d been involved in a late session, and it was close to 10 p.m. before I was able to pull myself away. Standing in front of the door to my room, tired from all the brainwork I’d had to do all day, I wanted nothing more than to get inside and go to bed.
But that graduate student (I might as well tell you his name—Jerad Sanders—although I didn’t learn that until later) was just coming out of his own room. When he saw me he stood stock-still, as if I was an apparition out of a ghost story.
I smiled weakly at him—the best I could do at the moment—and struggled to stick my room key the correct way into the lock. I finally managed it and opened the door.
But the next thing I knew, Jerad had rushed toward me, forced his way in, and closed the door behind me. He was now standing right in front of me as I found myself with my back to the door, staring up at him.
In fact, he was only an inch or two taller than me; and, as I say, he didn’t exactly have the build of a football player. Even so, his unauthorized entry stunned and unnerved me. What did he mean to do? Did he really intend to—
No, I wouldn’t say that word. I wouldn’t even think it.
I had to get control of the situation. Believe me, I’m no delicate flower, and I usually don’t take guff from men. Maybe that’s partly why my husband left me: aside from my advancing age, I may not have been quite as deferential to him as he hoped. My many years as a professor had given me a sense of my own authority, and I wasn’t about to back down even in this alarming situation.
But I, like most women, had to admit the unwelcome fact that this guy could do pretty much what he wanted with me if he really wanted to. That said, I wasn’t going down without a fight.
“What are you doing here?” I said sharply. “Who are you? What’s the meaning of this?”
“I’m Jerad,” he muttered. The mere fact that he had given me his name surprised me, although of course I could have figured out who he was once we’d gotten back to campus. Then he uttered those words that caused my heart to sink: “I—I want you.”
So that’s how it was going to be. Just what I needed at a time like this! Exhausted and sleepy, I would now have to fight off this randy schoolboy if I could manage it.
And yet, something about him struck me as odd. Incredible as it may sound, there was nothing threatening in his attitude, even though he was standing inches from me and not letting me move away from him. His face didn’t register hostility or anger or arrogance or any of the other emotions I might have expected in this situation. Once again, the predominant emotion he seemed to be exhibiting was a kind of alarm or terror.
And there was more to it than that. As he gazed up and down at me, he looked pained.
“I want you so much,” he whispered.
And then he brought his face close to mine and kissed me on the mouth.
I let him do it. If that was all he was going to do, well, I suppose I could endure it. The kiss wasn’t violent at all; in fact, it was soft and tender, almost hesitant, as if he’d never kissed a woman before and wasn’t quite sure how to do it. His lips felt good against mine. I’ve said that I’ve not lately been putting myself “on the market” as far as men and dating are concerned, and maybe I wasn’t aware of how much I’d missed male companionship—and intimacy. But that didn’t mean that I was going to let this young man—good-looking as he was—take liberties with me.
And yet, the fact that I didn’t resist seemed to encourage him. He pulled me away from the door, wrapped his arms around me, and began showering my face and neck with kisses. All the while, he kept saying things like “I want you,” “You’re incredible,” “You’re so pretty,” and so on. I hardly knew how to react to this outburst of passion, verbal and physical—so I just accepted it.
But then, when he slipped a hand onto my bottom (over my clothes, of course), I knew that he wasn’t going to be satisfied with just words and kisses.
Soon afterward, he took hold of my breasts with both hands. I don’t suppose he could have felt very much, given that my tits were covered with a bra, a blouse, and the thick wool jacket of my business suit. But as he started desperately tugging at the buttons of the jacket, coming close to tearing them off, I said sharply, “Wait, Jerad.”
The tone of my voice must have startled him, for he stopped what he was doing and just stood there staring at me with that same mixture of fear and almost painful desire on his face. I was now facing a decision: what exactly should I do? Should I order him from the room? I didn’t think he was much inclined to go. Should I yield to him? That galled me a bit, even though it could be said that I’d already led him on a little by not objecting to what he’d already done.
Anyway, in a deep corner of my mind and heart I couldn’t help being touched by this young man. There was something so refreshingly honest about him: he seemed to wear his emotions on his sleeve, and he spoke his mind with utter sincerity. If he thought I was beautiful and fabulous and wonderful—well, that’s what he genuinely believed. I don’t want to mention how long it’s been since I was in bed with a man; and, confronted now with the prospect of intimacy with a guy who was far from bad-looking and clearly smitten with me, it became difficult for me to turn him down.
So I said, “Please don’t tear my clothes. I—I’ll take them off.”
I moved toward the center of the room, turned my back to him, and began undressing. This business suit I was wearing really was pretty expensive, and I didn’t want him damaging it! So I carefully unbuttoned the jacket, removed it, then unzipped my skirt and let it slide down to the floor. At the same time, I kicked off my shoes. It took a little more effort to take off my pantyhouse. That left me in only my bra and panties. I still wasn’t absolutely certain I was doing the right thing—but surely I’d now gone beyond the point of no return. So with a sigh, I unclasped my bra, shimmied out of it, and then pulled down my panties and tossed them aside.
I turned around to look at him and display myself in all my nudity. And I gasped.
He had stripped a lot faster than I had: I guess it’s easier for men to do that. And what I couldn’t help noticing—aside from his broad shoulders, the fine coating of hair on his muscular chest, the strong thighs and shapely calves—was his member. It was enlarging as I gazed at it, and I suspected that when at full erection it would be maybe eight or nine inches.
My jaw dropped as I said, “That’s quite some apparatus you have there.”
He didn’t pay the slightest attention to my lewd compliment. His gaze was fixed on my own body. I like to think that I have some impressive assets of my own—at least from the male perspective. Large, shapely breasts (38D), fairly flat stomach, flaring hips, and a thick tuft of hair at my delta. (I knew many young women shaved, but I’ve always felt that the only females who do so are porn actresses.) He had also probably gotten a nice look at my curvy bottom.
He approached me slowly, almost hesitantly, and wrapped his arms around me. He muttered the words, “So pretty,” almost to himself. I have to say it felt really nice to be embraced by a naked man: the contact of skin on skin, even before any actual coitus occurs, is truly thrilling. I knew he could feel the press of my heavy breasts against his chest, and he extended a hand down the length of my back to stroke my bottom, which he seemed to find inordinately fascinating. He gave me light little kisses over my face, neck, and shoulders. This whole episode was now as far from being “non-consensual” as it could possibly be.
I realized I wanted him nearly as much as he wanted me.
It wasn’t merely the rather long sexual drought (much of it self-imposed) that I had undergone. (Trust me: the available men of my age group are in many ways fairly hopeless, burdened down with vengeful wives, unruly or demanding children, money concerns, and a host of other problems that make them pretty unappealing even for a quick toss in the hay—assuming I would even be interested in such a thing.) It was that this virtual stranger’s seeming obsession with me, which in certain circumstances might be creepy and threatening, somehow struck me as infinitely touching and—yes, I’ll say it—flattering. How many women in their mid-forties can gain the attention of a man half their age—a man who could have the pick of all the sexy twentysomethings whose continual presence on college campuses make women like me despair of ever attracting men of any age?
So when this strapping young man exhibited such desire for me, how could I not feel an augmented sense of self-worth?
He led me to the bed, and I lay down on my back, waiting to see what he would do. Would he just plunge right into me? I wouldn’t have minded that—God knows I was already wet enough from the bizarre but exciting scenario of the past few minutes. But instead, he draped himself on my body, his head on my chest; and, after first inhaling deeply as if absorbing the essence of my body-scent, he seized my breasts and began squeezing them, getting a full sense of their shape and contours; then he kissed and licked them, sucking on the nipples (already erect and protruding pertly), and even paying attention to the tender undersides.
Then he slid up my body and, in a single effortless motion, entered me.
I let out a gasp. The long absence of the male organ from my vagina, and the unusual length of his member, made me feel almost like a virgin as he proceeded deeper and deeper into me. Men simply don’t have any idea of what it is to be filled in this way; and I have to say that for a woman there is always just the faintest smidgeon of violation in the act, however much she may want it. The male may feel an exquisite sense of warmth and wetness and enfolding; but the female, in taking a penis into herself, inevitably feels herself to be a recipient, even a sort of victim. It’s the fundamental inequality of the sex act: a man can go into a woman, but a woman can’t go into a man.
But after that initial sensation, all I felt was pleasure. And my body reacted instinctively as it always did in this situation: without thinking I threw my arms around his neck; my legs were raised, my knees were went, and I wrapped them around his hips as he thrust more and more forcefully into me. All the while, he was plastering my face with a multitude of hot kisses, and his hands were eagerly squeezing my breasts and my bottom, at times stroking my back and thighs and anywhere else they could reach. Once he even slipped a hand between our bodies and placed his fingers on either side of his cock as it pumped me, almost as if he was making certain he was actually in me and not experiencing some insane delusion or wish-fulfillment fantasy.
I was a lot more passive than I usually am during copulation: I just couldn’t keep up with the passion he was displaying. I didn’t think he could last very long, and sure enough he didn’t. In under ten minutes his face registered a kind of frustrated surprise; and then, accompanied by guttural moans and gasps, he sent thick streams of his emission deep into me—more of them than I’d had in a long, long time. It seemed to take an eternity for him to empty himself in my womb, and I could actually feel that viscous discharge filling my cavity. He tried to remain in me even after he’d finished, but to his bitter regret he eventually slipped out.
Well, he’d done it. His invasion of my hotel room had led inexorably to this moment. So was he finished? Now that he had fucked a professor in his own department—one whom he scarcely knew except by sight—would he suffer a spasm of embarrassment, hastily put his clothes back on, and get the hell out of here?
No, he did something quite unexpected. Gazing down at me with that pained look I’d already come to recognize, he whispered, “I love you”—and then, sliding back down my body to cradle his head between my breasts, he burst into tears.
Actually, it was more a kind of soft weeping, but there were definitely tears there. And just as the wetness he’d deposited in me was seeping out of my crevice and making the patented wet spot on the bedsheet, so the moisture of his crying was now bedewing my tits as he poured out whatever anguish and heartache he was feeling.
This whole episode was getting too incredible for words. I can say with some assurance that I’d never had a man force his way into my presence, possess me sexually, profess his love for me, and then start crying about it. What could I do? My maternal instincts aren’t exactly robust, but I couldn’t help stroking the back of his head with my hand while cooing silly little phrases (“There, there, it’s all right,” “Take it easy, Jerad, you’ll be fine”) that made me distinctly feel like a mother soothing her little boy after he’d suffered some emotional trauma he couldn’t deal with.
All of a sudden he stopped crying and looked up at me with his tear-stained face. It’s as if he’d suddenly remembered something hugely important. And what he said to me was:
“Did you come?”
I heaved a sigh. That’s what he was so concerned about? Well, it was very touching, but it didn’t exactly seem like the most urgent thing in the world.
But to him it was.
“No, Jerad,” I said wearily.
His crestfallen look really wrung my heart. I felt I had disappointed him in some horrible way.
“I was close—very close. But I didn’t quite get there. I’m sure you know that women don’t come from intercourse very often.”
He scooted up my body again and peered down intently at me.
“I can make you come!” he said eagerly. “This girl taught me how.”
“Jerad, there’s really no need—”
“I wanna make you come!” he cried as if the fate of the world depended on my agreeing with him.
“Okay,” I said, resigned to the inevitable. “You can make me come.”
And he set about the task. Let me just say that, whoever that girl was who had taught him, she did an excellent job.
As he kept his face only inches from my own, as if seeking to follow the smallest fluctuations in my own sensations and emotions, he let his hand drift down to my sex. I think he got a kick out of feeling the mingled moisture of his own seed and my juices as they intermingled in my vagina and continued to leak out of me. He started slowly, getting a feel of the shape and texture of my pussy. Sometimes he stuck his fingers deep into me; other times he stroked my labia with delicate up-and-down motions, both on their outer and their inner edges; but chiefly he focused on my clitoris, which swelled under his touch and seemed to come alive from his caresses.
I felt the waves of pleasure coursing through me as my orgasm approached. I moaned softly, arching my back as I yearned for physical and emotional release; but every time my climax seemed ready to burst over me, he let up on his stroking in a deliberate effort to prolong my anticipatory agony. I had never felt such exquisite torture as I underwent under his attentions. Time and again he brought me to the brink, only to compel me to settle back down. It was like a pot of water that comes infinitesimally close to boiling, but then is taken off the burner, then placed back on it—over and over and over. At one point I was forced to cry out, “Oh, God, Jerad, please let me come!”
At last he took pity on me—and pressed my clitoris against my pelvic bone while continuing to stroke it with circular motions. And then my orgasm did crash over me—one of the most intense I’ve had in my whole life. I let out a strangled cry and stuck my tongue out of my mouth, staring unseeingly at him as he continued to stare back at me. And his ministrations didn’t let up: they kept on minute after minute, as he somehow prolonged my paroxysm beyond all reasonable bounds. I became dizzy and light-headed, gasping for air and clutching the sheets with both hands as if I had to hold on tight while an earthquake was going on under me. I think some tears got squeezed out of my eyes.
He just wouldn’t stop teasing my sex. I wanted to push his hand away—but then, I didn’t. In some dim corner of my mind I thought I might want to keep on climaxing forever. My entire body began to shake, my legs quivering as if electrocuted. I really was crying now, and at last I did turn away from him, crouching into a fetal position as my body continued to tremble. It took minutes for me to calm myself down. I furiously wiped the tears off my face and then looked looked over at him as if he were some kind of god—a Zeus who had just impregnated Danaë with his shower of gold.
Breathing erratically, I said, “That—was unbelievable.”
He smiled genially at me. “I’m glad you liked it.” Then, almost casually: “I love you, you know.”
As I tried to regroup, I had to deal with that ridiculous assertion.
“Jerad, you don’t even know me,” I said. I tried not to be unkind, but there must have been a sense of irritation in my voice.
“I know a lot about you,” he said with a touch of resentment. “I’ve been on campus two years, and I’ve paid a lot of attention to you. I’ve talked with people who’ve taken classes with you. You’re smart and beautiful and kind and tender-hearted, but you don’t take bull from anyone, and you’re just a little bit sassy. I like all that—I love it, in fact.”
I admit this was an uncannily accurate summation of my personality. It unnerved me that he’d “paid a lot of attention” to me when I was entirely unaware of the fact; but I guess that’s what obsessed people do. But that still made the idea of any sort of “relationship” between us implausible, even grotesque.
“How old are you?” I said.
“Twenty-four.”
“Well, I’m forty-five. Do you really think we can—”
“Why not?”
“Jerad, you need to find women of your own age. What about that girl you mentioned?” The one who had instructed you so well about female sexual response.
“That was a long time ago—when I was an undergraduate.”
“There must have been others.”
“No,” he said in a small voice.
I was dumbstruck. “You’re telling me you’ve been intimate with only one woman? And I’m the second?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, good Lord. I don’t know what to say about that.”
But our conversation was interrupted by another factor—namely, his getting hard again. Of course, I hadn’t helped matters by casually fondling his cock as he lay on his side next to me. Remember, it had been a long time since I’d had access to the male organ! I guess I’d missed it more than I realized. For his part, he had been alternately squeezing one breast and then the other in an almost absentminded way.
I looked over at him and said, “I guess you want another round.”
He didn’t answer immediately. While continuing to massage a breast, he said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
But then he lapsed into a brooding silence.
“What is it, Jerad?” I almost snapped. “Tell me.”
In a nearly inaudible whisper, he finally said, “Can I go into your bottom?”
I stared daggers at him. “You gotta be kidding me.”
Again that crestfallen little-boy look. “You don’t like it?”
“I did it a long time ago,” I said, “and no, I didn’t like it then.”
“How long ago?”
That question irked me a bit. “Before you were born, if you really want to know!” I shot back at him.
He ignored my outrage. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, for one thing, it hurts. You haven’t done it, so you don’t know what it’s like to have a guy shove his cock—especially a big one like yours—into that tight place. And for another thing—”
“You’re supposed to use lube!” he said eagerly.
I closed my eyes for a moment. “I know you’re supposed to use lube. That doesn’t always help.”
But he wasn’t paying much attention to what I was saying. Clumsily leaping over me in his haste to get to the bathroom, he came back in seconds holding in triumph a little tube of hand lotion that was evidently placed in all the hotel rooms.
“How about this?” he said.
“Jerad, I haven’t agreed to this,” I reminded him.
Once again he gave me that crestfallen, little-lost-boy look that I’d already come to recognize.
I sighed. “Oh, all right, we’ll try it. But if it hurts too much, you have to stop.”
He gave me a big grin, and I very much doubted whether he’d obey my warning—not out of malice or male dominance or lack of concern for my welfare, but because he was so excited about the prospect that nothing was going to deter him. In fact, I heard him mutter to himself, “That girl wouldn’t let me . . .”—which was all I needed to know to understand why he was so eager for this procedure.
I actually felt a little weird having him lube me up: here was a guy who, although I may have seen him around campus for the past two years, I really didn’t know at all—and now, all apart from his invasion of my vagina, was sticking his fingers in a spot that I myself had almost never probed. He made sure to coat the inside of my anus as well as the area all around it, and I felt as protected as I was going to be.
I thought he would want me on all fours, but he tosssed the tube away carelessly and plumped himself right down on my supine body, from head to toe, as if he was some large, living blanket covering me. He nuzzled my neck and brushed his face against my hair before guiding his member into my cavity. Getting the head in was the most difficult part; but after some moments it popped in unexpectedly, and we both let out gasps—for different reasons.
He, no doubt, felt the exquisitely tight sensation that comes from anal penetration; I felt that very different sense of filling from what I felt when a cock enters my pussy. I have to say it was kind of like a thick rod or pestle being forced into me. My anus unwillingly yielded to this rod, and it was almost as if it was trying to expel it. That may have been because of my own unconscious tightening of my sphincter, even though I knew that would only augment my pain.
Perhaps pain is something of an exaggeration; discomfort would be a more accurate term. As he began his slow in-and-out motion, my body yielded only grudgingly to this invasion. I tried to go limp, lapsing into a passivity and submissiveness entirely foreign to my nature; and I wasn’t entirely successful. But Jerad gradually took complete control of the proceedings, bringing his hands around my chest and seizing my breasts while pasting kisses on whatever parts of my face and neck and shoulders he could reach. I felt totally helpless.
It could have been worse. I fell into a kind of dream state where time seemed to stand still and nothing existed except this man’s relentless pummeling of my bottom. I was expelling little sighs or grunts with every one of his thrusts, and every now and then my legs gave a spasmodic kick all apart from any consious volition on my part. It seemed that I was nothing but a kind of live sex doll, serving my owner’s pleasure as long as he wanted to enjoy me.
But no—that’s not fair. Once he got into a working rhythm, he moved one of his hands down from my breast to my sex. At first I felt even more helpless than before: now he was completely in possession of all my sexual organs. But as he began stroking me, I felt the beginnings of another round of pleasure for myself. I couldn’t even believe it was happening: that massive orgasm he’d just given me was, I thought, surely the height of ecstasy, and everything afterwards would be downhill from there. And while I didn’t expect a second climax to come close to that earlier pinnacle, I was amazed that my body was able to respond at all. But those magic fingers did the trick.
He seemed curiously intent on a simultaneous orgasm for him and for me—and he managed it. Just as I heard him groaning heavily right into my ear, and then felt another cascade of his seed pouring into my rectum, his own fondling of me became more and more frenetic—until he suddenly induced my own paroxysm in a way that seemed to cause a slow explosion that proceeded from my clitoris through my entire frame and into my mind. We were both gasping and moaning and writhing with utter abandon, my body again twitching uncontrollably as the orgasm continued to spread all over me.
I was utterly spent, and so was he. He just lay there, a dead weight on me, his cock still buried firmly into my anus. He seemed in no mood to detach himself from me; it was as if this connection—even more intimate in its way than the last one—was one he wished to prolong forever.
But at last, as I finally came down from my high and became aware of my surroundings and feelings, I said to him:
“Jerad, can you please . . . come out of me? You’re done, aren’t you?”
He let out a kind of low growl that said, Yeah, I’m done—but I wish I wasn’t. With extreme reluctance he did pull out—but that very act, especially the final emergence of the knobby head of his cock, caused me one final twinge that made me cry out.
Almost immediately he shuffled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Evidently he was keen on washing his member. I silently thanked him for his consideration, since I didn’t want to be anywhere near that object if it was dirty. I of course couldn’t imagine any further bouts of lovemaking. Most men can’t even do it twice in one session, so I didn’t expect Jerad to be able to get it up a third time.
I was wrong. As he returned and unceremoniously dumped me on top of his recumbent body, kissing and massaging me all over, I felt what I couldn’t believe I was feeling—he was in fact getting hard again.
I had buried my head in the crook of his neck, and now I looked up at him in amazement, even in alarm. “Oh, Jerad,” I said, “you’re not seriously wanting to—”
His expression of plangent yearning told me all I needed to know.
Almost apologetically, he rolled me onto my back and slipped into my vagina effortlessly. He was not quite as hard as he had been on the first two rounds, but he was hard enough. And although he was a lot gentler this time, he still seemed to want to be in total control as he peered down at my face with a strangely blank expression, almost as if he had forgotten who I was and was mildly puzzled as to what he was doing here.
I swear to you, he was in me for nearly an hour. I have never, ever had a man fill my pussy so long. Sometimes he didn’t even thrust; he just stopped, remaining motionless for more than a minute, as if just relishing the fusion of our bodies. He continued to kiss me, but those kisses were light, quick, almost perfunctory. He seemed to want to plant kisses wherever his mouth could reach, from the space between my breasts to the top of my head. Once or twice he actually kissed me (or, more precisely, licked me) in my armpit. That sent a little tremor of surprise and pleasure through me, as did the time when he inserted his hot tongue into my ear as far as it would go.
I began to sense something about Jerad Sanders during this interminable (but, let me be honest, quite stimulating) copulation. He was one of those guys (and there may be many of them) who find everything about a woman inexpressibly fascinating. In other words, it wasn’t just my own special charms that incited his insatiable appetite; it was my mere existence as a female. There was far more to this than the usual array of body parts—breasts, pussy, bottom. It was all the other areas, from the curve of my neck leading to my shoulders to the swell of my hips to the back of my knees. And beyond all physicality, it was my mind and emotions that seemed to hypnotize him, merely because they belonged to a woman. I never felt more feminine than I did with him at that moment.
As he continued to pump me gently, I wondered if he was even capable of—or interested in—coming a third time. Maybe the melding of our bodies (and, inevitably, our hearts) was enough for him. I myself came twice during his possession of my body—and I thought that that second climax—during which I distinctly felt my vagina tightening around his member—might make him come too. It didn’t; but quite a bit later, a look of surprise came over his face, and then he shot his third emission into me. It was as copious as the others had been, and he gazed down at me with wide-open eyes as those streams of come flowed out of him.
When at last he was drained, his face crumpled into a kind of grimace as he said, “I love you.”
I felt truly touched—and was more than half inclined to return his feelings. But I couldn’t quite get the words out. So I said, “I know you do, dear.” I hoped that silly little endearment mollified him a bit.
It seemed to. He gave me a broken smile, pasted a quick but hard kiss on my mouth, and then rolled off of me, sighing with immense satisfaction as he gazed at the ceiling.
I myself felt as if I’d been through a tornado. I was utterly exhausted and hardly able to think or see straight. It was well past midnight, and the room was eerily silent aside from some heavy, irregular breathing from both of us.
“Jerad,” I said, “I need some sleep. I have a nine o’clock panel discussion tomorrow. So are we done now?”
He fell into something of a sulk as he said, “I guess so.”
“Good.” I gave him one last kiss on the cheek to show him my appreciation. “You’re—quite something.”
And then I turned my back to him and almost immediately fell asleep.