An Emerging Pt. 03

Patrick's immediate reaction was surprise. He'd been expecting some classically picturesque stone-built Yorkshire cottage. He flicked the headlights onto main beam to get a better look. Picturesque, the building certainly was – but instead of something stone built, he'd illuminated a half-timbered tudor building.

"Mrs X, you're full of surprises" he muttered to himself."

There wasn't a great deal of space to park, he noted. Retrieving his overnight bag from the boot, and leaving the car, he walked around the side of the building as instructed. It wasn't large, and it took him only moments to find the front door. Next to it, as promised, there was a plant pot, and under it, he found the key.

Letting himself in, he found himself in a magnificently fitted out modern kitchen, a total contrast to the exterior – apart from its double height, to the exposed beams of the roof. Stairs to his left led up to the main accommodation – a long, spacious room equipped at one end a sitting area and fireplace holding a log stove, and at the other, a magnificent four poster bed. The room was warm, pleasantly so – he noted a number of discrete electric heaters dotted around the place. All were on – someone had obviously been here, and made the place welcoming. Looking for storage, he found a door leading first, to a dressing area, then to an obviously newly fitted and well equipped bathroom. The only incongruity was a door leading off the kitchen, into a bare-brick walled, concrete floored storeroom.

He'd brought little clothing. It was his habit to travel light. Not so with his companion to be – there was a well-filled suit carrier already hanging in the dressing area, as well as a holdall sitting on a low table. He pulled out his wash-bag, and left it on the bathroom shelf.

Returning to the main area, he noticed, for the first time, an envelope propped up on the small dining table. It was addressed "Mr. Y". The note it contained was terse.

"Glad you made it. I've reserved a table at the Crown, next door for 7:30, under the name "Barnes."" It was unsigned.

Just enough time for a quick freshen-up, he thought.

It was about ten minutes before the appointed time that he entered the pub. This was more what he'd imagined – low ceilinged, a little over-heated. At the bar, he ordered a beer, and as it was served, asked about the reservation. He was ushered through to a second, more spacious room.

There seemed to be few other diners out quite so early. He sat, scanning the menu, and sipped his beer. His outward calm concealed an increasing sense of anticipation. Then:

"Well, Mr Y, fancy seeing you here."

Her voice hadn't changed, neither had the bantering tone of most of her conversation. She stood in front of him, dressed in a tight-fitting black wrap dress. Around her neck was a band of square cut, black stones. The only note of colour was her legs, clad in opaque, turquoise-blue hose. She was shod, as he'd expected in a pair of plain black, spike heeled pumps. She looked luscious.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me to sit down?"

Patrick felt obliged to answer in kind.

"I'm sorry, Mrs X. It's a pleasure to see you. Do you come here often?"

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Only when I have to feed one of my young men, before corrupting him"

They were silent for a moment; both transported back just over a year. They'd played this game, during their one-night encounter. After which, Patrick had heard nothing from her for twelve months, until a few weeks ago, a text message suggesting what became this rendezvous. He recalled her as she was that night – in turns; seductive, brazen, and passionate. Then she was insecure, open until more passion, but this time suffused with warmth and gratitude. He was stiffening. He wanted her, very, very badly, and was about to say so, when movement at the doorway heralded the arrival of another party of two. She sat, placing her handbag on the floor at the side of the table.

She seemed to take it entirely in her stride. Picking up the menu, she made polite conversation, asking his opinion of their accommodation. He responded enthusiastically, and she replied:

"Good. It's somewhere I came with Alistair, a couple of years back. They've refurbished it completely since then, of course."

He was discomfited by the mention of that name, but hid the reaction.

She finished her perusal of the menu, and asked if he was ready to order. He was. She gestured to the waiter, who was settling the new arrivals, and on completing that, he attended them. Taking the order – a light fish dish and a glass of white wine for her, pasta for him – the waiter left

Making conversation was difficult. The presence of the other couple inhibited him from saying what he wanted to say – how much he'd thought of her after their previous meeting, of imaginings of ever more uninhibited sex between them, of his joy and anticipation after she'd contacted him. He contented himself with light chat, and in taking in the details of her appearance.

The dress was a lot more discrete than what she'd worn when he first saw her, but it still displayed her slender figure to great effect. He was becoming more certain she was braless beneath hit, watching the gentle shaking, as she moved... She'd admitted her age to him, in the intimacy of their tryst – well into her forties. Despite that, her breasts showed little sign of sagging, despite fullness. Her mouth and eyes were full of vivacity. She'd made-up carefully for this encounter, dark-red lips and subtle shading to her cheekbones making the best of an already striking face.

Rachael seemed content to allow him to observe, at least for a minute or so. Then, she leaned forward across the table. He struggled to avoid his eyes being drawn to the cleft it opened in the neckline of her dress. She whispered.

"I'm very much looking forward to getting you back to the Gatehouse, young man. I've been thinking of all sorts of things I should be doing with you"

Before he could answer, she sat back. Apparently accidentally, she dropped her napkin to the side of the table. She leant to the side to retrieve it, and in doing so placed one hand into the overlap of her dress, shifting it sideways, giving him an almost complete view of her left breast.

She reverted to her sitting position, decorum restored. Fixing him with a smile, she breathed

"And that'll be all that until later, of course."

Her wine arrived, and she drank, toasting him mutely. More inconsequential conversation followed until their food arrived. The ordered another glass each. The waiter lowered the lights. They ate, in near silence.

Either the wine had loosened her self discipline, or the more discrete atmosphere increased he boldness. When they'd finished their food, she called for the bill. Then announced, in a perfectly matter of fact tone:

"Patrick, Darling, could you pass me my handbag? It's ended up under the table".

Sliding from his seat, and kneeling, he lifted the tablecloth. He caught his breath. Beneath it, she'd parted the skirt of the wrap dress, letting it fall to the sides. It exposed the entirety of her thighs, revealing the strip of pale flesh above the welts of the stockings, the skin tone made a strong contrast to the blue-green of the hose. It cost him huge self control to not reach out and touch it. She flexed her legs, rubbing her shin against the back of her calf. It further emphasised the firm muscle tone and form of her limbs. Tearing himself away, he straightened, and handed her the bag.

"We'll pay at the bar" was her only comment. They did. The barman handed her the coat she'd left for safekeeping, and as Patrick helped her into it, she cooed

"Poor Patrick, have I made you very hard?"

He nodded.

"Good. That's just how I want you for the next couple of days".

Outside, the wind was gusty and the rain hard. They dashed the fifty metres to the entrance of the Gatehouse, and he quickly let them in. As soon as they were inside, she was wrapped around him, her tongue probing his mouth. Somehow, without breaking the kiss, they managed to shed their coats. Now, as she pressed herself to him, he was sure that her breasts were unfettered under the dress. Their softness was flattened against his chest.

She stood back. "Head upstairs, sit on one of the armchairs. I won't be a moment". She dashed upstairs, and made for the bathroom. He obeyed.

She re-emerged. Before coming to him, she moved around the room, adjusting lights, creating a soft ambience. He made to help her, but she instructed him to remain seated. Satisfied, she stood in front of him, her feet slightly apart. Her hands moved to her side, and she tugged at the tie holding the dress closed. Releasing it, she slipped the dress from her shoulders. It left her naked but for stockings and jewellery.

She was magnificent. Her nipples were erecting as he watched, emphasising the curves of her breasts. She waited, silently as his eyes ranged up and down her slim form. Her belly curved only slightly as it rose from her soft thicket of pubic hair.

"Pretty much as you remember things, I hope?"

Her words jolted him. He replied

"Even better, you're in pretty good shape, Mrs. X".

She smiled, and began a slow pirouette, displaying herself to him. Her rear was no less alluring. Completing the turn, she was obviously enjoying the badinage.

"I have to keep myself in good shape – otherwise, wouldn't my young men be disappointed?"

"I'm not complaining." He decided to push the joke further. "Have you had many complaints recently?"

Suddenly, more serious in tone, she retorted:

"I've not had enough of anything of late. That's why you're here"

He was stymied for the moment. Best, he thought to let it pass. She pulled over a chair and sat, before gesturing him to stand in front of her.

She began to pull at his belt, and on undoing that, to tug at his zipper. He interjected

"Let me"

"Shut up. I'm doing it"

She was rough, urgent as she pulled his cock free of its confines. She tugged at the waistband of his trousers, pulling them over his hips and leaving them tangled around his shins. Taking the shaft in her left hand, cupping his testicles with her right, she bent down to him. As she did so, she drew his foreskin back over the glans. She extended her tongue to give it a lick, first tentative, then firmly. He shuddered.

Looking up at him, she spoke:

"I've quite literally been dreaming about this. You can't imagine how much I've wanted to have you in my mouth".

Her tone was oddly matter-of fact, and she made good her wish.

There was none of the tentativeness with which she'd fellated him last time. She opened her lips as wide as she could, taking him in as far as possible without gagging, before closing them and starting to suck. She was at first gentle, then becoming more insistent, as she slid her head up and down in the shaft. Patrick was amazed. Then she broke contact, telling him to exchange places. Once he was seated, she resumed, kneeling in front of him. There was huge urgency in her movements, reinforced as she began to move her tongue against the underside. Between the intensity of her actions, and the long-built sense of anticipation, it was just moments before he felt his climax approaching. He felt obliged to gasp out a warning

"Slow down. I'm going to come, if you carry on like that"

She made no move to remove him from her mouth, just gazing up at him, eyes shining.

"Are you sure, are you OK with that"

She nodded at him. Within seconds his semen was spurting into her mouth. Once, twice, three times, with some force, then a fourth and a fifth lesser load. The quantity was even greater than Rachael had expected; nonetheless, she surprised even herself with her determination to waste not a drop.

The concept of Patrick's climaxing in her mouth had been one of the visions that had driven her to re-establish contact. His card had lain concealed in the depths of her handbag for almost a whole year before she'd acted on it. And since she had, this moment had been prominent in her thoughts. She'd not sucked him to completion last time – indeed; no man had ever come in her mouth. That thought had nagged at her. Her fling with Patrick had opened many new horizons, few if any of which she'd explored since, but there were a few more she needed to try.

Now, with her mouth full of the salt tang, she swallowed assiduously; there! That was it! All gone, she'd done it. A small step to being sexually complete, it seemed to her. It did nothing to calm her, though. Rachael had been on a gradually building trajectory for over a week, since their meeting had been finally confirmed. She'd left work at lunchtime for the long drive, finding it hard to concentrate, having to kill time in in the nearby town in order not to arrive ridiculously early. She'd wandered the town in a state of suppressed agitation for an hour or more. By the time she'd arrived at the Gatehouse, she'd struggled to stop her hands from shaking as she opened the door.

It was time, she decided, to take matters to the next stage. She was wanted him in her, soon.

"Come on – to the bed"

"You ARE keen"

"Keen" wasn't the half of it, she thought. Desperate was more the case. She was soaked with anticipation. Patrick stood, and she helped him step out of his trousers, and then stood back as he shed his remaining clothes. Still clad in just the stockings; she led him to the bed, then resumed her oral ministrations. To her relief, he regained hardness rapidly, something on which she had to comment:

"I'm not the only one that's keen. I'm impressed at your powers of recovery."

"It's not my powers; it's the prospect of having you..."

That brought a smile to her face. That a young lover would be enthused at the idea of having her fitted well with the need to be primarily sexual tonight. She didn't just need to fuck – she needed to be someone carnally desirable. That feeling so well established a year earlier was addictive after all.

Even so, she was in no hurry. Unlike earlier, she could now savour the sensations of his cock in her mouth, and his reactions to her caresses, licks and sucks. He was iron-hard against her lips now, hot and fully engorged. Stroking the shaft, she recalled last time, the realisation that she'd been stroking his member with a hand still displaying her wedding and engagement rings. That gave her no less of a perverse kick this second time around.

Giving the tip a last kiss, she announced

"I think you might be just about ready, Mr Y."

"I'm pretty sure I am. A couple of minutes of you, at that, and anyone would be ready"

Rachael mused – not everyone, perhaps. Patrick continued:

"What about you?"

Rachael led his hand to her sodden gash.

"I've been ready since before I arrived in the pub. So, what are you waiting for" she said, rolling onto her back, her legs spread wide. Suddenly, Patrick rolled to the side of the bed.

"Where do you think you're going?" she purred. Patrick glanced back at her, expectantly. Patrick seemed unsure. "Well, I was going to get a condom...unless you've got them to hand?"

This moment was much as she'd expected, rehearsing it in her mind over and over. It was even more thrilling in the reality.

"I wouldn't worry about that. I've taken other precautions, and so unless, you don't trust me..."

Indeed she had. She was wearing a diaphragm, and tucked away in her wash bag were a course of "morning after" pills. "I've got immaculate taste in my young men, so, I'm sure you won't have any problems, and I promise I haven't". He knew enough about the reality of her life to be sure of that, she thought – Mrs X persona aside. He still hesitated. She sat up alongside him, whispering into his ear

"Of course, it's also that I'd really, really like to feel you properly inside me. And you, me, of course. Still, if you'd prefer..."

That seemed to settle his mind. Within a moment, she was supine again, as he prepared to enter her. Her anticipation was excruciating. God, but she felt so overpoweringly wanton – the only time she'd ever felt a bare penis inside her before had been in the few months when her husband and she had been trying for a baby. Other than that, they'd always used condoms, mostly as a result of her fastidious streak. Now, here she was, looking forward to experience the first ever surge of a lover's semen against the bare walls of her cunt, just as he'd spilled it into her mouth minutes earlier. Her hunger for the moment was making it hard for her to breathe. At no time in her life had she felt such intense desire.

The moment seemed to stretch endlessly, and then she felt the first, soft contact of his smooth tip against her slick, lubricated entrance. There could be no resistance, and even that first feather light touch made her suddenly certain that she'd begin to climax as soon as he was in her.

Then, he was in her, and she was transported to a plane of pure delight. Her whole consciousness seemed to shrink into that few inches of moist flesh that surrounded him, as it was gently stretched and probed. She was coming, unable even to verbalise her pleasure other than in a soft mewling. She clutched at his back, needing as much contact with him as possible. As he moved on her, a sheen of sweat rapidly coated her skin, giving their movements a lubricant which stimulated her even more.

This was what she'd waited fourteen months for – had imagined every night for the last two months, become obsessed with for the last couple of weeks. Here she could indulge in pure sensuality, luxuriate in that once unsuspected libertine streak.

There was no conscious control whatsoever in her writhing against him, so it fell entirely to Patrick to attempt to control the pace. And he was in no mood to extend matters. He was no less driven in the imaginings and expectations of recent days. His earlier climax had served to slow matters down, but not by much. Their coupling lasted only minutes, before he roared, and Rachael found the fulfilment she'd foreseen. She felt the hot gush in her depths, intensifying her drawn-out climax even further.

Neither could speak, as he slid off of her to one side. Their breathing was ragged, hers especially so, sobbing for air. Patrick was asleep almost immediately. Rachael forced herself to sit; peeling the stockings from her legs, but could do no more. She flopped back onto the mattress, her awareness ebbing fast.