He Had Time to Spend

"Don't pull my hair until I tell you to pull my hair."

"Yes, ma'am. Oh. Damn. You have a talent for that."

"Shall I stop?"

"Well, if you want me to be good for anything else, yes."

Florence stood up, kissed him hard, explored his mouth with her tongue, let him run his hands over her breasts. This time he was more forceful, cupping her breasts and kneading them, using a light touch only to feel her nipples protruding. His hands went to the top button, began unfastening it. Florence stopped kissing him and spread her arms wide, inviting him to continue. She was robust, her body big around, her breasts large but not out of keeping with her powerful torso. She helped him slide the blouse off her shoulders and down her arms. Andrew was pleased to see her brassiere had a front clasp. He took firm hold of the cloth on either side and unhooked it. He pushed it aside and touched her bare breasts for the first time – they were warm, soft, and filled his hands.

He leaned down, licked her right nipple, sucked on it for a moment. It was as big and as hard as a marble. He treated the left one the same, then stood and kissed Florence's lips again, the palms of his hands resting lightly on her nipples, circling them. Florence took hold of his cock for a moment, then decided to unbutton his shirt. She kissed him after each button, then pulled the shirt down off his shoulders, but it hung up around his elbows.

"You have to unfasten the cuff buttons, too."

"Maybe I'll just leave you trapped there."

It was true, his arm motion was limited. He shrugged the shirt back up so he could unbutton the cuffs himself. She watched while he took the shirt off and tossed it over the back of his chair, followed a moment later by his undershirt. He stepped the rest of the way out of his trousers, peeled off his socks, and added them to the heap.

Andrew stood there, naked, feet slightly apart. He put his arms over his head and stretched. Florence looked him up and down, smiling. She finished removing her blouse and bra, then without ceremony unfastened her own pants and shed them, kicking them to the foot of the bed. She leaned one hand against the wall for balance while she removed her woolen socks and then stood there in only a dark red pair of panties. Andrew knelt.

He put his hands on her hips and his cheek against her thigh, then kissed the tops of her thighs – first the left, then the right – then nuzzled her mons, his breath warm even through her panties. He nosed at the crease where her thigh met her pubis. He put his hands on her great, round ass cheeks and squeezed. He looked up at her, nuzzled her again, looked back up. His hands sought the elastic waist band and peeled it down, rolling the fabric up and revealing her dark, wild pubic hair.

Florence adjusted her stance to allow him to bring the panties down to her ankles, then stepped out of them. She held her hands down to him, and pulled him up to standing. He embraced her, kissed her, felt the glory of her breasts pressed against his chest and his erection pressed against her belly. They kissed, and kissed again, and Andrew breathed in Florence's ear, and she snaked her fingers through his hair. He ran his hands over her breasts. She wrapped her fingers around his cock.

"I can just lead you around by this."

"Metaphorically or literally, as you choose."

She kept her grip on him and turned, crossed the three paces to the foot of the bed, and released him, saying "Stand here."

She went round to the side of the bed and pulled at the duvet and sheet, and handed them by the hem to Andrew. "Pull these down evenly to the foot and straighten them out."

As he arranged the covers, she piled one pillow on top of the other, sprawled onto the bed, and lay back, watching him. When he'd finished and looked up at her, she slid her feet toward her bum till her soles were flat on the mattress and her knees were up and spread wide. Andrew did not wait for further instruction. He crawled over the foot of the bed and up between her legs, kissing her knees as he passed and putting a hand on the inside of each thigh. He slid his hands up her legs gently, and pulled them back down firmly, massaging the muscles from groin to knee. Then he bent down and kissed the inside of her thighs, alternating from side to side, from her knees to her groin.

Andrew, on elbows and knees, his ass in the air, moved his face in towards Florence's twat. She smelled like earth. He kissed her lips, then began exploring her outer labia with his tongue. As he gradually moved from outer to inner, she began to purr. She became quite moist, and Andrew lengthened the stroke of his tongue, first one side and then the other, beginning each pass lower and following through higher, until he was licking from just shy of her asshole up to the hood of her clit. He noted each time she tensed a muscle, made a noise, twitched, sighed. Florence was breathing hard now, so he centered his strokes, letting his tongue slide over her vagina and ending with a flick of her unhooded clit. She reached for his head, not quite getting a grip on it, but her urgency was clear to him. Each stroke of his tongue became shorter and faster, concentrating on the depth of her cunt, his nose mashed against her clit.

Florence gasped, grunted, and raised her hips off the bed. Andrew, whose hands had been resting lightly on the insides of her thighs, slid them under her, cupping her ass cheeks while he ground his face into her twat. She said something, neither one of them knew what, perhaps just "That's – ah!" and then she collapsed back onto the mattress. Andrew stopped licking, stopped moving, but kept his face pressed tight, his tongue still buried in her cunt. After a short time he slowly withdrew it, which helped him breathe, then slowly inserted it again. His hands, trapped under her ass, kneaded her flesh lightly. He slid his tongue in and out again, and sighed. Florence made a small mewling sound, a kitten half asleep. Andrew moved his tongue again, breathed soft and warm on her wet, puffy lips, and licked the hollows on either side of her outer labia. He covered her clit with his mouth and pressed against it with his tongue.

Florence shifted her weight and Andrew freed his hands. He put them on the backs of her thighs now, near the knees, and pushed, rolling her back and exposing her sex more than it had been. He began tonguing her again. There was little art to it this time; he just pushed his tongue into her, then ran it up and over her clit. His beard was wet, his face was covered in warm and sticky juice. Florence moaned and pulled her knees closer to her chest, and Andrew pressed her, faster and harder, until she began to orgasm again, at which he slid two fingers into her vagina. She bucked, shouted "Fuck!" and brought her legs back down, then tried crossing her legs in spite of Andrew kneeling between them. She rolled onto her side, toppling Andrew in the process. They both lay still for a while.

Andrew extricated himself, sat back on his haunches, and tried finding a corner of the top sheet to wipe his face on. Then he leaned and kissed Florence on her hip – it was as far up as he could reach from where he sat – and she lifted one hand and half waived it at him without opening her eyes.

He crawled up alongside her, brushed hair out of face, and kissed her cheek. He looked at her lying there on her side, one leg bent and one stretched out, her arms crossed over her heaving chest. Hers was the perfect body for this moment: big, powerful, unashamed, and just beginning to stir back to life. His cock jumped, its tip dripping in anticipation. He brushed at her hair again and she rolled partly onto her back to look up at him. She smiled.

"So is it your turn to be turned to jelly by me?"

"At my age, you only get to do that once in an afternoon – choose your methods wisely!"

She snorted, rolled the rest of the way onto her back, spread her legs, and extended her arms. He rolled onto her, settled between her legs, and kissed her again and again as she embraced him. She raised her knees. He shifted his weight, pressed his cock toward her, and then let it slide up and in. The feeling was warm and smooth and tight, and he buried himself as deep as he could and held it there. Then, as slowly as he could, he slid almost all the way out. He could feel the cool air on his wet cock, could feel the press of her vagina against only the last inch, and knew he risked slipping out entirely, so slipped back in. Once fully in again, he lifted himself slightly and rocked from side to side so his pubic bone rubbed against her clit. She rewarded him with a throaty chuckle. He resumed his slow and teasing withdrawals, but found it more and more difficult to go slow. Florence tightened her cunt at will, squeezing as he plunged in and letting him glide out without resistance. He concentrated on the enormous pleasure he was being given, and on returning as good as he got. Once, instead of going deep, he just teased with the tip of his cock quickly and repeatedly entering no more than an inch; Florence's eyes widened and she gripped his upper arms. He couldn't keep resisting. He began to pound her, deep and hard and fast. He began to make small noises, which he so seldom did, in anticipation, and Florence responded with "C'mon! C'mon! C'mon!" and his excitement built until on one thrust he felt himself spurt, hot and stinging. He slammed himself home again. Again. He closed his eyes. Again. He paused. Again. Florence gasped at the last thrust. He held himself deep inside her, and she rocked them both from side to side. His breathing was ragged, but it began to calm somewhat. He took another stroke, rocked a bit more, then stilled. He shrank. She petted his hair. He kissed her lips five times. He slipped out. She whimpered. He hoisted himself and rolled off.

He lay on his back next to her, still breathing hard. "Oh, Lord, that was wonderful."

"It was. I commend your enthusiasm. But I am going to be sore tomorrow, I just know I am. I'm not complaining, I hasten to add! But sore, no doubt."

"You wore me out. I could have been forty years younger and you'd still have worn me out."

"And if I were forty years younger, you'd be in jail! How old are – no, don't say a thing. Damn you! Now I want to get to know you, and I'm supposed to be spending all my time and energy and concentration of that damned novel!"

Andrew laughed. He'd have clapped his hands if he'd had any strength left in his arms.

"Sixty-five."

"Really? Ah, I'm forty-six."

"A mere girl. And a most excellent fuck. Bless you."

Florence sat up. "I really shouldn't go down this road, but how much longer are you staying?"

"I've got the room for another week, and then reservations at other places after that – Kirkwall, then back south."

Florence didn't say anything, just sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. Andrew put his hand on her back and rubbed gently, then sat up and put his arm across her shoulders. They sat for a while, naked, side by side.

"I'll tell you what. Tomorrow you write. Day after, I'll wander back up here with my paint box, if it's dry, and set up next to your gate and see what I can make of your flower garden. You can hide in here all day long if you like. I won't knock. And if you come out to meet me, we can talk then."

She nodded but didn't speak.

Andrew swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He crossed past the foot of the bed and stood on Florence's side. He held his hands out. After a moment, Florence took them and he helped her stand. She didn't look at him, but they embraced and she held him tight. He ran his hands over her upper back. After a minute or two, he put his hand on her upper arms and pulled away from her. He put his hand on her chin, just as he had done not an hour earlier, and kissed her. She accepted his kiss, but did not return it.

"You're blue. That shouldn't be."

"Happens."

"Do you want to talk now?"

"No. There's dinner to be made."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her again. "I'll come back day after tomorrow. We'll talk. I don't know what I'll say, and you don't have to know what you'll say until you say it. From now till then you can think, or not think, or whatever. Spend tomorrow writing, in any case." Another kiss – this one she returned – and he began sorting his clothes and getting dressed. As he buttoned his shirt he watched Florence pick through the clothing she'd left on the floor and put on her panties and trousers. She dropped her bra on the bed and put on her blouse without it. She left it unbuttoned.

"Don't worry. I'm just being moody. Day after, I'll come out to the garden mid-morning and expect to see you there in your beret and smock, painting up a storm."

"That's how it'll be, then. Minus the beret and smock." He smiled, kissed her again and adjusted the hang of her blouse a bit, obviously just as an excuse to expose her breasts for a moment. "It was a delight. You are a delight!"

She looked chagrinned by the compliment, but a bit of life seemed to be returning. "Keep your paws to yourself, now!" She looked out the window. "Looks like the rain's stopped. You've got hours of light left."

Andrew sat on the little bench in the foyer and pulled his boots on, tightened the laces, and tied them. He opened the door and looked out, judging the sky. The clouds had thinned some, but not much. He pulled on the coveralls and put on the jacket. The rain shroud for the pack he rolled up and fastened through a loop at the bottom of the pack. Florence held the pack while he got his arms through the shoulder straps. He kissed her one more time, then took his walking stick and set off, around the end of the cottage, across the garden, through the gate, and on down the coast path towards town and his room.