Rites of Spring Ch. 1

Author's Note:

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Disclaimer:

This story is a work fiction. None of the characters or events herein are based on real people, either living or dead. It was produced for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or if reading stories of a sexual nature upsets you, do not read any further! By reading further, you certify that you have accessed/requested access to this material willfully, and that you are an adult 21 years of age or older. You also certify that you are NOT a city, county, state, or federal law enforcement officer, official of the United States Postal Service, acting in the capacity of a representative of a telecommunications firm, and that, to your knowledge, this material does not offend the standards in your area, nor is it in violation of any of local, state, or federal law.

No animals were harmed in the manufacture of this product.

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Karen stretched lazily, arching her back to work out the sleep-induced stiffness, while she listened to Charles putter around downstairs. From the sound of things, he was washing dishes, which was as much a part of the ritual as everything else. She couldn't remember when it had started, only that he'd done it at the other house, and was pretty sure he'd done it at the townhouse as well. If nothing else, Charles was a creature of habit. It was a trait that served him well in his position at the bank, but made him an absolute bore at home.

Take the ritual. Each April, on the third Saturday, Charles rose at exactly 6:00am, pulled on his college sweatshirt (the one he'd gotten his sophomore year), along with the same faded pair of jeans and beat up sneakers, went downstairs and made a breakfast of pancakes and sausage. While he ate, her read the paper, and stared out at the grass in the backyard, confirming that it was healthy and that, in fact, it was finally time for the first cut of the season. Several years ago, Karen had risen and joined him at breakfast; this deviated from the ritual, and Charles made no secret of the fact that he felt she was intruding.

Outside, Charles would spend a few minutes testing his equipment and doing any last minute fine-tuning, although he'd already had each piece serviced and/or replaced two weeks ago. He had a collection of garden tools that would make a professional jealous, always the best and most innovative that they could afford. Karen rolled over and looked at the bedside clock: it read 8:17 am. At precisely 8:30 am, Charles would fire up lawnmower.

When she heard the roar of the engine she hopped out of bed and shucked off her nightgown. Standing in front of the mirror she gave her body the once over and was pleased by what she saw. No supermodel, she still thought she looked good for a 42 year-old woman. Never one for fad diets or crazy exercise plans, she did watch what she ate and tried to get to the gym at least twice a week. Her skin was still smooth and relatively wrinkle free, the color of caramel, with a rich, healthy glow. Her legs were thin (but not skinny) and joined by a dusty brown patch of pubic hair that she kept closely cropped, so that if you looked hard enough you could see the pout of her labia underneath.

Her belly was firm (not the artificial tightness reserved for world class athletes and those that prayed at the alter of liposuction), above which sat full curvy breasts, the size of baseballs, sagging slightly against her ribcage and capped by dark almost black nipples that grabbed your attention, especially from below sheer light colored material or peeking out of a blouse or bikini top. Her mouth was full and generous, and the creases in the corners of her eyes gave her the ability to switch from jovial to severe in a twinkle depending on what the occasion called for.

She quickly brushed her hair back into a tight bun (her preferred hairstyle), and ran a hand over her body, enjoying the smoothness of her skin and the warm touch of her fingers. The lawnmower stopped and she snapped her head around to look at the clock, fearful that she'd wasted valuable time. It was too early for Charles to be done; he must be adjusting something.

Not wanting to miss her opportunity, she pushed the easy chair over to the picture window that overlooked the backyard, went into her closet and pulled out the locked file box that had her toys (she'd told Charles it was client materials). Inside was: several egg shaped vibrators, ranging in size from 3" long and 1" in diameter to 7" long and 2" in diameter; a flesh colored vibrator, six inches long and lifelike; a tube of water based lubricant; and a cordless speakerphone. She walked over to the nightstand and swapped out the speakerphone for the regular, corded extension that normally sat there, punched the button to engage the speaker, dialed a series of numbers, and walked back over to the chair facing the window.

"Hello?" a male voice answered tentatively.

"Michael, it's Karen." Her tone was conversational. The telephone was a good one, and had no trouble picking up her voice, even from this distance.

"Hello, Mrs. Thompson," Michael said. He sounded anxious, and Karen smiled at the fact that he still addressed her so formally.

She took two deep breaths. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here!"

"No dear, where are you physically." She'd long since accepted the fact that he wasn't the sharpest tool in the kit.

"Oh. I'm in my parents' bedroom. It has the best line of sight." He sounded proud of himself, as if he'd accomplished some awe-inspiring goal.

Michael Gibson lived with his parents in a townhouse community adjacent to the Thompsons' subdivision. The Gibsons' townhouse was part of a set that actually bordered the back of the Thompsons' property. The way they were configured, the back of the Gibsons' home faced the back of the Thompsons' home, with a four foot high fence marking the boundary between the Thompsons' property and a large grassy common area shared by the townhomes. Michael was infamous in the Thompsons' community, the local "problem child". When the Thompsons first moved in eight years ago, he was only fifteen and had already been a guest at Juvenile Hall for a variety of offenses ranging from mailbox polo to sugar in the gas tank of people who had "done him wrong". His parents were older (now in their mid fifties), and Michael was an only child, a combination that greatly contributed to his disposition. Despite their difference in ages, the Thompsons grew to be close friends with the Gibsons, and consequently spent a good deal of time around Michael.

Karen discovered that Michael had a crush on her his senior year of high school. She was exotic to him; there were not a lot of black people in their neighborhood, and almost none in the section that she and Charles lived in, where homes started at $450,000 and continued into the seven figures. Also, she was 37 at the time; older and wiser than the girls he fooled around with but younger than his parents. She had a nice body, drove a fast sports car, and always tried to be nice to him despite his reputation, placing a hand on his arm when she talked to him and speaking to him like the adult he thought he was.

He was lucky enough to get accepted to a small private college in Oregon, nowhere near Ivy League caliber, but far better than either he or his parents had expected. Still, it had taken him a full five years to earn his degree. The fact that he even graduated at all was due in no small part to the fact that he discovered football during his second year.

In high school he'd never displayed any focus or talent for anything more organized than mayhem, and a lot of that had carried through to the beginning of his college career. In the gym one day a coach noticed three things: he was very agile, very competitive, and most importantly, he was a shitload stronger than most people around him. Playing to his ego, the coach convinced him to come to tryouts, and Michael soon found himself a member of the varsity football team. He excelled; not enough to go pro, but enough to distinguish himself in the conference and get all the pussy he wanted on campus.

Karen hadn't even known he was home until she bumped into him three weeks ago in the lobby of her building. She was in charge of the consumer products division of a marketing research firm downtown, anything from fabric softener to film developing. Unlike a telemarketing firm, her company paid people to attend focus groups in its offices so that people could collect feedback. She'd been on her way to lunch when she collided with him getting off the elevator.

"Mrs. Thompson!" Michael called excitedly as she brushed past him without recognizing him.

Karen turned around annoyed, then smiled when she registered who it was. "Hello Michael. What are you doing here?"

"Apparently getting rejected for a job," he grumbled good-naturedly. "I had an interview with a consulting firm down here and barely said two words before they let me know that they didn't think there was a 'fit'. Hardly time to tell, if you ask me."

"I'm sorry, Michael," she said sincerely. "Look, I'm not having so hot a day myself. I was just on my way to lunch; why don't you join me?"

You would have thought she'd just told him she was giving him a million dollars. A grin broke out on his face from ear to ear as he ran to catch up with her. At the restaurant, it was clear that both of them were uncomfortable with Michael's elevation to "adult" status. To cut the tension, Karen ordered a glass of white wine and insisted that Michael order a beer. By the time the waiter took their lunch orders, they'd each had two drinks and were considerably more relaxed. While they ate she studied him, impressed with how much he'd changed. His red hair was cut in the casual tousled style of the unemployed, but he'd been smart enough not to grow the sideburns or goatee that were popular among the college set these days. His pale blue eyes were wide and a little too close together, but they were alert and unguarded, as only someone just starting out in life can manage. Freckles dotted a nose that had been broken a few times, and his cheekbones were almost too prominent for a man. His lips were thin, barely visible unless he smiled, and his jaw line was model perfect. His suit was cut well, and Karen found herself wondering what he looked like under it. That had to be the wine talking.

After lunch Karen paid the check, waving off Michael's protests, then slipped her arm through his and led him out of the restaurant. She felt his well muscled arm tremble slightly and was pleased that she could have that effect on him. During the walk back to her office building she "accidentally" stumbled a few times, falling against him and pressing her body against him. Each time he inhaled sharply, especially when her breasts rubbed against him.

To Be Continued...