Beds and Breakfast Ch. 01

This will be the first of an eight-part series dedicated to the sexual reawakening of a mature man and the explorations of a willing young woman. Enjoy, and as always, your feedback is welcomed and encouraged. Don't hold back. Mandy and John won't.

John Griffin watched from his office window as the Jeep pulled up the long winding driveway of his quaint Griffin's Bed and Breakfast establishment nestled high in the Catoctin mountain range of Western Maryland. The snow had started to fall at a rate of over one inch per hour, and this brave soul in the vehicle was going to be the only person to not have canceled their weekend reservation due to the forecast for an impending blizzard, prognosticators calling for it to be one of the worst in decades.

He looked down at the name on the reservation on his computer screen. Mandy Sinclair. He didn't recognize the name, but in and of itself that was not unusual. However, he looked at the birth date which accompanied the reservation form. July 29, 1987. This guest was only twenty-two years old, which was a bit unique for a solo guest at a secluded Bed and Breakfast. Especially so since the reservation was just made yesterday, about the same time when the remainder of the scheduled guests for the weekend were cancelling due to the forecast.

John had opened the B and B about two and half years ago, investing what was left of his pension after the divorce that had depleted his most of his life's savings. Since that time, he had essentially disassociated himself from the hubbub and chaos and general deceit of society. His former life on the outskirts of the nation's capital, where he had worked as a defense contractor in the Pentagon for a quarter-century, seemed like a distant memory, lost forever in the fog of the foothills. He had only been with a few women in these last few lonely years, a regular roll in the proverbial hay with the busty florist from the nearest local town for a few months. And, of course, there was that unforgettable two nights when a pair of recently divorced sisters made him their impromptu chew-toy during their weekend stay, but he no longer actively sought carnal possibilities. That WAS fun, though, he reminisced.

John was a well-preserved man of fifty years old, graying at the temples and a few more pounds around the midriff than he would like, perhaps, but he was content with his newly chosen 'after-life', as he called it. He took great pride in the immaculate presentation of his Bed and Breakfast, and it was quickly becoming a popular weekend getaway for the 'Beltway Beasts', as he called the young professionals that made the barely 100-mile sojourn to his place for a weekend of fucking. You can use any pseudonym that you want to, John mused to himself, but couples came to a Bed and Breakfast primarily to fuck, and he estimated that maybe forty percent of his registered guests used an alias, primarily to hide the fact that they were fucking someone who was not their spouse.

That's what made this particular visitor so intriguing. A twenty-two-year-old woman, braving a blizzard, to spend a weekend in quiet unaccompanied solitude. It would only be himself and this mysterious Mandy Sinclair this entire weekend, as the other guests had canceled due to the weather, and John had instructed his housekeepers and cooks not to report to work until the roads would be clear, which could take days. He had to admit to himself that he was more than curious to find out more about this Miss Mandy Sinclair, and he wondered for only a split second why he was experiencing a long dormant twitching within his impressive cock. It had been far too long between trysts, he'd decided.

John walked to the porch to greet his guest, squinting his eyes in the blowing snow, and when she stepped from the Jeep in her tight plum-colored sweater, spandex leggings, and thigh-high patent leather brown boots, he wasn't sure which jumped farther, his heart or his cock.

Mandy Sinclair was a fucking knockout, a petite beauty with tits that couldn't be concealed by any canvas bag, never mind a tight sweater. Was it his imagination, or when Mandy greeted him with a smile of her own, did her glance linger at his bulging crotch?

From Mandy's perspective, the long and treacherous ride from Northern Virginia had been more than worth it when she first set her eyes on the ruggedly handsome proprietor. The customer service aspect of this mountain getaway destination had come highly recommended to Mandy from two people whom she trusted as mentors, and it was immediately apparent that her needs could more than sufficiently be attended to this weekend. And, yes, her gaze did indeed linger longer than it should have at John's crotch. Accidentally on purpose. She smiled more broadly when she heard John's deep, friendly voice.

"Miss Sinclair, I don't know if you are truly a brave and adventurous woman, or a bit reckless. You had me worried that you were safe. I'm John Griffin, welcome to my inn."

Mandy extended her hand to her approaching caretaker for the next several days. "Please call me Mandy, Mr. Griffin." She batted her sparkling hazel eyes at him provocatively. Despite the nearly three decade difference in ages, the primal chemistry was instantaneous and undeniable. John wanted to bend her cute ass over a snow drift right then and there, and Mandy envisioned herself falling to her boot-clad knees and engulfing him within her warm mouth.

"Adventurous or reckless, hmmmmm?" Mandy pondered the choice. "Well, perhaps a bit of both, is that so bad?"

He smiled at Mandy, their eyes locking, as he reached into her trunk, mildly surprised to find only one piece of luggage. After all, she had booked herself for three nights, and with the roads threatening to be impassable beyond even that timeframe, who knew how long they might be sequestered?

"It's John, Mandy. Please, call me John." He grinned a boyish smile that made Mandy's crotch as moist as the cascading snowflakes. "Don't make me feel older than I am."

Mandy smiled back at him, making sure that he knew that her eyes once again dropped to his belt line, for no apparent reason. "Oh, I don't know, Mr. Grif.....er, John." She blushed on cue at her deliberate faux pas. "You look pretty well preserved to me." John eyed her pensively, his facial features unmoved, taking emotional inventory of this seductive young visitor, but his below-the-waist betrayal caused him to shuffle his feet in the snow. Mandy broke the sexually charged momentary silence as their eyes seared into each others.

"So, do you actually have rooms inside, or is the reason your rates are so good is that I have to sleep in the blizzard?"

John felt his own cheeks blush for what felt like the first time in many years. "Of course, forgive me, please come, come with me." He slung her travel bag over his own broad shoulders and gestured towards the porch stairs. He watched as the sweater rose higher on her waist as she navigated the stairs in front of him, revealing a firm, perfectly rounded bubble butt, like that of a gymnast.

Mandy was acutely aware that her panty-less butt cheeks were directly in front of John's face as she climbed onto the porch. "Oh, I'd love to come, come with you," she mused to herself. "All weekend, in fact."

John admired the view and felt his impetuous third leg growing by the minute. His curiosity was piqued almost as much as his libido, yet he resisted the urge to barrage his precocious, sexy guest with a litany of questions, and instead began a cheery little diatribe to introduce Mandy to the history and nuances of his pride and joy. (No, no, not his penis. The inn.)

She looked around, impressed by the charm of the stately old Victorian inn. Mandy loved these type of old houses, having grown up in a seaside town herself, and it was so rare to see them in this rural setting. She barely focused on his words.

"So, we have seven guest rooms, and of course, this weekend you have your pick." He smiled at her, trying to regain her attention as she continued to survey the interior of the vestibule, craning her neck upwards to the spiral staircase that led to the upper floors. "It's a Civil War theme that we use here, all the rooms are named after the famous battles."

He rattled them off, pleased that her gaze had returned to him. The look in her smoldering hazel eyes did not go unnoticed. "The rooms are named Vicksburg, Fort Sumter, Antietam, Gettysburg, Chancellorsvile, Manassas, and Appomattox."

Mandy stepped closer to him, so much so that John stopped his monologue. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grasp her ample tits, heaving in the tight sweater. Oh, and how he wanted to.

"Appomattox." Mandy raised an eyebrow at John. "Isn't that where the final surrender took place?" John nodded tentatively.

"I want that one, then. For starters,at least. To set an appropriate theme. Surrender. Yes, I like that."

John gulped, uneasy. He wasn't not used to being the one in control, and his composure was indeed wavering under the spell of this young seductress. Mandy continued, moving closer to John now, her chest rubbing against his.

"I have a question for you, though, Mr. Griffin." Her arms reached up to John's shoulders, and one of her tiny, manicured hands snaked behind his neck.

"You remember my aunts, Dianne Finley and Monica Gleason, don't you?" John tried to suppress the shock of the mention of the names of the two divorcees that he had shared that unforgettable threesome with a few months ago, his last sexual dalliance. And what a dalliance it was.

Astonished, he looked down at Mandy, almost a foot smaller than him, despite the heels on her boots. Mandy? Their niece? Could it be? Aah, at least it was beginning to make some semblance of sense now, at least, he thought. The sisters HAD said they would be sending them a token of their appreciation for his expert services.

"You come highly recommended, Mr. Griffin," Mandy cooed, lowering her hand to his crotch and rubbing the entire length in her small hand as she moaned slightly, absorbing the length.

"How many rooms did you fuck them in?"

Her red, full lips melted into his own, sucking his tongue into her mouth with a sensual expertise that belied her tender years.

"Because I want you to fuck me on each and every battleground, General. Now bring out your weapon."

Mandy had long harbored this secret dual fantasy of hers which was now, to her delight and extreme arousal, being played out. She wanted not only to enjoy the talents of an experienced, mature lover, but she also desired to release her inner nymph, as she called it. She craved a marathon, uninhibited sex session where she could be totally free of any guilt or expectations going forward.

She had come to the right place.

With that, Mandy loosened John's belt buckle and lowered her lithe frame to the hardwood floor, kneeling in front of him, making his saluting eight-inch steel-shafted pistol disappear down her young throat in a few long, deep swallows.

John looked down at his rigid manhood being lovingly engulfed by the young vixen's enthusiastic mouth, and he then reached down to scoop her up in his strong arms before she could orally coax him to sweet relief. Not yet. He gathered his pants that had bunched between his ankles and pulled them up.

He carried her up the stairs, kissing her delicious red lips tenderly the entire time, and as he reached the door to the Fort Sumter Room, he kicked the door closed behind him.

Fort Sumter, after all, was the first skirmish.

TO BE CONTINUED...