They Sparkled

She acts as if she hasn’t been touched in years.

Maybe she hasn’t.

I wouldn’t know.

I don’t know anything about her.

I know there’s Legos on the floor. I know a Thomas the Train sipey cup is turned over on its side on the coffee table. So, I assume there’s a kid. Which means she’s a mother. Since there’s no wedding ring and she was alone, I assume that makes her a single mother.

She’s older, but pretty. Hell, I wouldn’t have left the bar with her if she wasn’t. When I offered to buy her a drink, the tiny laugh lines around her eyes crinkled, and her blue eyes sparkled with surprise and pleasure.

I didn’t know eyes could do that, you know?


Beneath me on the floor, she’s quite a sight to behold:

Black skirt hiked up to the waist.

Heavy tits with silver dollar-sized nipples heaving and spilling out over a turquoise, sort-of frayed-with-age bra.

Mismatched peach panties haphazardly dangling from one ankle.

And her thighs spread so wide, I can see everything.

I mean, everything.

I’m fingering her cunt, and I’ve got to admit, I’m mesmerized. I’ve never felt a woman this wet. Above me, she’s moaning and pushing into my finger like we’re already fucking. It’s hot as hell, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.

As if momentarily coming to her senses, I hear her self-consciously try to explain. “I’m sorry it’s not shaved . . . it’s not normally this . . . hairy . . . It’s just I didn’t expect . . . I didn’t plan . . .” but fades off into a gasp when I part her full, silky bush with my tongue.

“Oh baby,” she moans.

I’ve never cared much for pet names of endearment. Especially from women who I barely know. But for some reason, it sounds really sexy coming from her. Like she didn’t mean to say it. Like it was ripped from her throat, and she couldn’t help it.

I fuck her clit with my tongue. As I do, she gasps and pushes into my face. I slide one finger inside that perfect, wet pussy and add another. When I do, I actually feel the muscles clench and bare down.

Briefly, I think of Sandy.

Hot, perfect Sandy with her firm little tummy and perfect round ass. She was my last girlfriend—and God—was she was beautiful. I remember her laying before me when I’d go down on her like this. Above, posed like a Playboy centerfold, she’d moan and eventually whimper, “Oh God, Ronny! I’m coming!” But she never responded like this. She never quivered and melted on my tongue. She never lost herself so much that she rode my face.

In fact, she never seemed to lose herself at all.

And the light bulb goes off: Sandy. You Bitch.

Thoughts of Sandy evaporate, as this girl—no, this woman—begins to beg me: “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I’ll die if you stop. Please . . .”

Lady, I wouldn’t stop if your seven-foot-five wrestler husband bust in and started punching me in the back of the head.

Her musty scent envelops me—becoming thicker and stronger somehow—and makes me feel drunk; sort of high. Picking up the pace, I flick my tongue over the hard bead of her clit as fast as I can. Her thighs spread wider, begin to shake, and then freeze. Her finger nails dig into my scalp, and she screams.

I didn’t know women came like this. I didn’t know women could come like this.

It’s while she’s still quivering in my mouth that I hear it.

She farts.

For a while, there’s nothing but awkward silence and the sound of her unsteady breathing as she comes down. When I feel her thighs, which are now gripping my head, begin to shake, I wonder, Oh wow. Is she coming again?

But no. It’s not that . . .

She’s laughing.

She’s actually laughing.

“Sorry,” she giggles self-consciously. “It’s been a while. I sort of lost control.”

When I look up, she’s smiling, and her eyes are sparkling.

And I didn’t know eyes could do that, you know?



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