One Page - 4. His First Cougar

His First Cougar

******Short and hot, stories in this series are meant for those of you ready to get off in under 3500 words.

John had developed a method for cultivating cougars. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't a lot different from marketing his remodeling business; know your market, deliver a quality product, develop trust, perform above expectations, guarantee your work, generate word-of-mouth, repeat. He was feeling like a made man sitting in the booth at the Sunnyside Diner, watching the morning sun silver New York Harbor. Everything's marketing, he'd learned, so even his credit card had his business name on it - John's Erections.

"You want to top that up, hon?" asked the tall waitress in the pink uniform and smudged apron, offering the coffee pot.

"Sure, Sandy, thanks." He always used a woman's name, always looked in her eyes with an appreciative smile. He'd accidentally discovered the deep pool of hungry women that worked in the local diners one morning, maybe a year ago. That first time he'd been a little clumsy, but Sandy here had been eager enough to overlook his newbie-stud status.

Know your market: Lonely or bored women over thirty-five who want an adventure, not a commitment. Sandy, for example, was divorced with two teenagers at home. She'd worked for fifteen years paycheck-to-paycheck here at the Sunnyside. She'd been a field hockey star in her catholic high school, had flashed some impressive thighs under those plaid school skirts. She was tall and top-heavy, probably twice the weight of little Mrs. Lee. Sandy still had the libido that had made her popular behind the bleachers, but, he figured, at her age and weight she couldn't get that itch scratched.

That first cold morning he'd sat in this same booth watching the same sun rise over the gray harbor, expecting to roll out and start gutting the Columbo's bathroom, but Sandy had caught his eye, lit that hunger that the farmer's breakfast wasn't going to satisfy. He'd noticed her haunches first, the way her hips worked under that uniform as she walked away, the sculpted calves, muscular like a horse. She moved like she was well lubricated. His nostrils had flared and his 501s tightened. Huh, he'd thought, wonder what it's like to ride that?

When she'd stopped by his booth to return his credit card he'd asked, low voiced, "When do you get off your shift, Sandy?" and her eyes widened, she got a little flustered, maybe blushed a little. She'd left the receipt and walked away without a word, haunches keeping his attention. He'd left a generous tip, casting her a smile on the way out. And he'd come back the next morning again for the farmer's breakfast. He hadn't made another pass, just looked her in the eye, knowingly, smiled, called her Sandy, and when she'd brought his credit card receipt there was a phone number on the back.

Deliver a quality product: "You walk like you need to step around a huge pair of balls," she'd said to him once. Yeah, he looked like the cover of a romance novel, like Michaelangelo's David - ripped, dark body, curly black hair, full lips, roman nose, tall and feline in his movements. But, like when redoing a kitchen, he'd learned he had to have the skills to back up the package. And it wasn't just a skill like dancing his tongue around a clit or balancing above a woman while slowly sawing her toward ecstasy. It was also about setting the stage.

Nowadays, the first time he took a cougar he leaned on luxury, usually getting a room at The Lighthouse, the discreet boutique hotel in Tottenville his second cousin owned. The women were surprised a working man like him could have class and taste. Of course, if he wore just his leather tool belt, both hammers swinging, in the bedroom, they ate up the blue collar body.

He'd learned to up his game, but that first time with Sandy it had been at the Holiday Inn Express and he hadn't yet known to prepare with candles and soft music and chocolates. He'd answered the door and seen the hint of desperation and wariness in Sandy's eyes. She was still in her pink uniform and scuffed white Nikes, her chestnut hair pulled back in a red scrunchie, nervous but hungry, looking him up and down, tentative about touching him.

Develop trust: He'd found that being calm and letting the cougar exercise her curiosity soothed her. John gave them room to explore, to smell the territory. They liked undressing him, especially the first time, and he'd simply let them peel off his t-shirt, unbutton his 501s, find his swelling tool, hardly making eye contact. Sandy had taken a long time to half strip him, clearly not confident.

"I like your perfume," he might say to a nervous cougar, or "your hair's so soft." The simplest of kind words did wonders, allowed the cougar to come out of hiding. They liked when you noticed their shoes. They felt 'seen' when in real life they were becoming invisible, to their husbands, to men in general. Like most cougars, Sandy tried so hard to be appreciated and he delivered that appreciation, first touching a finger to Sandy's eyebrow, stroking, giving a gentle face massage. A woman who'd been on her feet all day melted under his skilled hands. As he got better at it, at about this point he'd start the scented bath and light candles around the tub.

"Can I take off your shoes?" he'd asked Sandy after she'd found his tool, got a hint of how big he was, but before he'd dropped his jeans. Then he'd begun with her feet, her sitting on the edge of the bed, him bare-chested and furry, kneeling there slipping off the Nikes. She lay back on her elbows and watched him reach up under the dress to find the top of the pantyhose and tease her a bit as he rolled them down. John smelled her arousal under there, a cloud of feminine funk. He took his time with her toes, the soft pink soles, especially the arches, pulling out the tension of the day.

"Oh, my Jesus," Sandy signed when he slipped one hand up her calf, kneading out the tension.

Perform above expectations: John didn't have book smarts, but he'd learned to read a woman. So he led with romance and caring and attention; he didn't just pounce on their bodies. Sandy was trembling by the time he'd worked his strong hands up her thighs, massage oil making her heavy legs slick. John felt the muscles still alive there and the tension as it slowly eased.

"Let's get you in the bath," he'd said, and Sandy took his offered hand and rose, was led to the bathroom and allowed him to carefully uncover her. While the steaming water thundered into the tub, she grasped at his thick biceps as he unbuttoned the pink uniform and drew it back over her shoulders, revealing a tall woman, solid and strong, yet shy, self-conscious. He adored women's bodies - their curves, softness, the warm moist electric feel of pressing his length against them, toe to forehead. John would look them in the eye at this point and sincerely adore their bodies, describing what he saw.

Burying his face in Sandy's mane, he'd said, "What beautiful hair. So silky," breathing deep. "Your skin's so soft, so warm. You make me hungry."

As he moved his hands across her body, he'd said, "This curve is just right. I love the shape of your shoulder blades, like wings."

Sandy had heft. John saw a vital animal with needs for connection and care and he met those needs with tender adoration, gently kneading her bare shoulders and unclasping her red silk bra. Here was a clue to the hidden cougar in a woman. If she dressed herself in sexy silks under her uniform he knew she could imagine getting a man, had hopeful fantasies that he could fulfill.

Her heavy breasts fell, full and warm, into his hands when he peeled away the lace and she drew a deep, shaky breath when he held her eye and said, "you make my mouth water." She pushed the uniform down and wriggled it past her wide hips herself. John bent and slowly worked his full lips across her neck, her collarbone, the little hollow at her throat, to tease his way across her breast flesh toward a nipple. He didn't touch it yet, but stroked the swelling jug with his thumb, lifting with his hands until he brought the thickened, red nipple to his moist lips and sucked it in. Sandy groaned, standing there in only dainty red panties, those haunches bunching as he moved a hand down to grasp a full cheek. John liked to run his fingers into the sticky crack. She clung to his broad shoulders, eyes to heaven, while he gave each nipple long-needed attention.

"Not yet," he said, when she tried to tug his jeans down. "First, this," and he knelt at her feet and pulled down her panties, pressing his face to her thick bush, filling his lungs with her aroma. John explored with his tongue into the folds, finding the moist source of that funk. Slowly, he'd circled toward her cleft, drooling, pulling her onto his probing tongue.

She quavered, "Oh, sweet Jesus, I'm on fire," laying her hands on his head.

"I'm going to bathe you now," he said.

Sandy stepped daintily into the scented water and sank down. He'd learned to properly wash a woman's hair because he had six younger sisters. Women loved that he knew how to untangle and to massage the scalp and to gently care for them all over. After, he'd wrap the wet hair in a towel then soap his hands and work his way down her body, carefully easing the tension away and teasing out the shy animal in each of them. He wouldn't touch her pussy yet, though. By this time with so much pleasure given and so much anticipation built most women were impatient to move to the bedroom again, eager to get at his body, to give him attention, show what they could do.

"Get those jeans off," said Sandy, now the aggressor, a cougar ready to pounce.

"Yeah, but stay there," he said and while she lounged in the warm bath he did his ChippenDales routine, muscular and teasing. He was already bare-chested and his jeans mostly unbuttoned, but he flexed and twisted and ran his hands down his lumpy six pack to have his fingers disappear into his fly. If she'd noticed earlier when she groped him, Sandy knew he kept his groin mowed short, not bare, to match his chest hair. He'd let her see the root of his swelling cock, then turned to show off his jean-clad butt. Women loved his butt.

Looking back over his shoulder, he bent down to unlace his work boots and slip them off. Then John eased the 501s down, slowly revealing his all-over tan, the lean, powerful glutes that women liked to sink their teeth into. From her low angle he knew Sandy could see his heavy sack hanging between his legs, his cock lengthening. He stroked it, pulling it to hardness, foreskin stretched tight, glans purple and shining. Sandy's eyes were riveted to it when he turned around. He put out his hand and she rose, glistening.

"You're a goddess," he said and he meant it. A woman's form never failed to inspire him, always elicited a sense of worship. "I have offerings for the goddess," he said and led her to the bed. He kept the lights low and the heat turned up. John liked to sweat. At this point he often discovered if a woman liked to suck cock. She'd reach down and grab him, maybe kneel down and hold his pole up, sometimes inspect it, sometimes just get her mouth on it. Sandy wasn't one of those, but that was OK.

Hungrily she embraced him at the bedside, the fat cock pressed into her belly, her warm breasts flattened against his chest, their mouths finally meeting, lips as sensitive as fingertips, exploring each other. "You tell me what you like," he whispered and she pushed him down again, stood with feet apart and guided him to her center. John reached around, got a hand on each cheek and pressed his nose into her muff, moving across her belly, nipping at the ridges of her pelvis, running his tongue down the creases leading to the juicy, aromatic flesh that needed him. Sandy's hips curled into his attentions and he got his tongue deep into her hot, wet channel, drooled, swept upward and repeated until she cried out. Those hefty legs shook and she leaned on his head, gasping through a first release. He kept the licking gentle and persistent as Sandy plateaued, whimpering, groaning, clenching her fingers in his hair.

It thrilled him to make a woman explode and his cock felt gigantic, buzzing with need, straining toward his own explosion. His tongue kept up a rhythm on her clit and she dripped. Suddenly she pushed him back and turned to lean on the bed, ass to him, feet spread, fat, wet labia shining. "This is what I like," she moaned.

John stepped to her and she reached between her legs to grab his swinging pole, pull him forward, press his head to her cleft and rotate her round bottom until he sank slowly in, their wet bodies meshed. A low, long growl from Sandy told him he'd met the cougar on her ground. Her appetite for cock about to be satisfied, he felt proud, competent. And he began thrusting into her, splitting her. Sandy pushed back, eager, strong, meeting his thrusts with enthusiasm and joy. He loved to hear the gleeful sounds of a woman in rising excitement, the ecstasy and happiness in each cry, each jubilant shriek.

He got his hands full of ass and got to work pounding her, just as she clearly wanted it. He didn't have to worry about breaking her, like with little Mrs. Lee, but he could drive with all his strength into her welcoming pussy. He could see them coupling through the open bathroom door, reflected in the big mirror over the sink. Her solid ass in the air, flesh rippling to his thrusts, his long, lean body taut, bowed back, hands sunk in her hip flesh, pulling her firmly onto his pole. And her shoving back, those ripe melons swinging wildly over the mattress, her arms stiff, hands clenching the bedspread, hair loose and falling over her face. He bent his knees and drove hard, pounding and pounding as she grunted in an escalating pitch with each thrust. It was a treat to pound a woman as hard and as deep as he could - the small ones and the skinny ones couldn't take it, or their bony asses poked his groin.

Sandy reached between her legs and felt his shaft where it sank into her wetness, caressed his balls, fingered herself. John liked a woman who knew how to get herself off, didn't leave all the work to him. The slapping of their sweaty bodies and the crescendo of their rutting noises must have been audible from two blocks away. Theirs was a celebration, a jubilation.

Like a quarter-mile horse race it was pure exertion and triumph; two strong animals galloping headlong down the stretch, every muscle straining, every particle of attention on the rising energy of their union, every nerve ending on fire with the slick, hot friction. He felt Sandy's body leap to the finish, a final clenching explosion of force in her thrusts back onto his shaft, impaling herself, driving herself to the end. She shuddered, screamed face down in the bed, frantically fingered her clit, lost rhythm, shook wildly, clasping him on the inside, hot and wet.

He pulled her quaking body back tight onto his organ and burst, filling her, making a soup of her insides. Rigid and leaping to his own finish, John's fierce thrusts came in hard, short strokes, emptying his balls in staccato bursts until they both collapsed, sweating and heaving for oxygen, onto the bed. He spooned her, a hand cradling one red-flushed boob as they melted together. She ground her meaty ass back against his softening organ, the heat and the wet sticking them together.

"When can we do this again?" she murmured.

"In about fifteen minutes," he said. "Your satisfaction is guaranteed."

"Oh, my sweet Jesus," she sighed.

And they had done it again, slowly, exploring the territory together. And today, the third Wednesday of the month, was Sandy's day on his calendar. He had a waiting list now because word got around.

She left the credit card receipt on his table, this time with a smiley face on the back confirming that he'd see her at the Lighthouse that afternoon. Over his last sip of coffee John watched those firm haunches striding away.

If you've made it to the end, may I ask for a comment, please? The benefit to you is that I'll be much more encouraged to write and to write more often. Your feedback makes my stories better. Thanks for reading. (If you have constructive criticism, please be specific)