Love All, 0-15, 0-30, ... Love-69

When we were lying together afterwards, .... Oh, we did kiss after she sucked my cock. Afterwards, I snorted and said:

"Get up and show me how you hit a ball."

"Why?"

"I want to see something."

"Hmm? What I would look like playing naked?"

"That too! All the men in the club would like that."

"Men!"

"Um-hmm. Please."

She chuckled and got up, looking back at me as I sat up and said:

"Go in the corner and take two steps and then swing, and then don't move."

She snorted with a grin and did, very realistically. She stood still, looking back at me. Her thighs were open, her feet pointing away from each other. She had a quizzical expression.

"Don't move your feet."

She looked down at them, assuming a more relaxed position, still with a quizzical expression. I nodded and said:

"Thanks, just like that; that's the way you look on the court."

"And?"

"With your feet placed like that, opening your thighs."

She looked down at them and said again:

"And? So what?"

"Turn your front foot parallel with the other one."

She did, her knee moving, so that her thighs weren't turned apart. Naked, of course, it was still an enticing pose. She looked down and at me again, her expression still unchanged

"Relax, come back here."

She did, looking even more curious. I told her about my thoughts over the years: pigeon-toed Japanese women in kimonos. She chuckled and remarked:

"Really? Like that? And you've been having thoughts about me all the time? Don't other women play like that?

"Hmm! Really, yes, yes, no."

"Hmm! 'Dirty old man', just thinking about sex. Oh, I didn't mean it like that."

"As long as I'm here, since I'm here, you are right. I like being a 'dirty old man'."

"Just 'older'."

"Can't deny that."

"And other men think like that?"

"I don't know, haven't asked them. Hm-hmm! Wanted it to be my secret, didn't want them to think I'm a dirty old man. You could ask you partners."

"Shit, no! What would they think?"

"That I'm lucky to have noticed first.

"Hm-hmm! This could ruin my game: either thinking that men are having such thoughts; or trying to keep my toes together."

"Just forget the men."

"Me, forget men?!"

We laughed heartily and ended up fucking again.

Despite the routine of arranging our mornings together, the sex was never perfunctory, and we always had something to talk about. A couple of times, she had to tell me that I couldn't come, and a couple of times, I had to tell her that I couldn't, but that just made the next week more intense. We didn't always immediately jump in bed, but our conversations usually followed what we had done.

One time, when she was absentmindedly fondling my cock, she suddenly snorted and said:

"Oh, Monday I was picking up in the boys' rooms. Don't like to, but for the dirty laundry. I picked up Tommy's tennis racket, by the handle. Oooh! It felt like a cock! Maybe a size too small, but ...!

"Hmm! What mothers can think about."

"I wasn't thinking about his."

"I hope not! ... Hm-hmm! Fondle my balls." (We were very familiar by now.)

She did, asking:

"And?"

"Think tennis ball."

She fondled a moment more and exclaimed:

"Oh shit! Fuzzy balls. And I'm supposed to serve, thinking I'm holding a man's stiff cock and his tight sack?!"

"And with your inviting thighs spread."

She almost slapped me, but laughed. I replied:

"Better than thinking about tennis when you really are."

She did slap me, but only lightly, and made it up for it the best way possible.

Finally one day, I ventured to ask:

"Why me? You know younger men."

My question didn't seem to surprise her. She replied immediately:

"I know their wives. Oh, I asked one - not one of those - once, but he didn't dare. Once with another one, but only that once."

"Lucky me."

"Lucky me, too."

Her mention of wives reminded me that weeks before she had said that she also liked grapefruit juice, and that she had suggested that she would tell me the following week. I venture a second question, hoping she would understand:

"And the wives? You said you like grapefruit juice."

"Hmm! You had to ask. Not with any of them. Sure, I've done it with girls, back when I was one. Of course, it's good. You know that, but it isn't the same."

"Men's good luck, or women wouldn't need us."

"Um-hmm! Something like that."

"Want me to?"

"If you let me taste it."

She did.

I had heard a little about her sons: Tommy, ten - who still didn't mind running around naked; and Jake, almost thirteen, who did and, as I had heard, objected to his brother's doing so.

One morning - had we been talking about nudist resorts again? Doesn't matter. She chuckled and remarked:

"You wouldn't believe what I found in Jake's room."

Well, I could, having had a son who was once that age, but I only looked surprised and ask:

"What?"

"A nudie magazine."

"If he doesn't have a sister ..."

"Don't talk like that. Did your kids see each other when they were that age?"

"Too late to ask them. They shared a bathroom. If they both wanted to? Don't know. They played doctor when they were preschool."

"That doesn't count; we all took off our clothes when we were that age."

"I didn't. ... Hm-hmm. Didn't need too; took baths with my other sister, younger than the other one. ... And the magazine?"

"A quarterly for nudists, naturists. Lots of naked people, really, hair, or no hair."

"And breasts, of course."

"Them too."

"Where did he get it?"

"It wouldn't have been sold to him - I hope. Very dog-eared."

"Hm-hmm, probably from a classmate, but only if he had gotten something better."

"You think so, in the seventh grade?"

"Maybe an older brother's. Hope the pages weren't stuck together."

"Hmm? You think he could?"

"Try, at least; I did. Didn't you?"

"I told you that I didn't yet know what it was for."

"Good girl!"

"Not by choice, just innocent."

"The best kind."

"Hmm! For sure, he's not going to see me naked again."

"Hm-hmm! Just his little brother?"

"Not him either."

"Poor kids, and just when they were finding it more interesting."

"Oh, you're horrid! You want me to show them what a real, live naked woman looks like?"

"Can't think of a better example. But ..., well, no, might give them false expectations.

"You are horrid, but you just escaped another slap."

We grinned and laughed.

Our conversations weren't always so entertaining, but what we did was. The next time she had her period, she said I should come anyway. She had an IUD, and her cycle was more or less than 28 days. I never bothered to figure it out.

She obviously wanted our meeting to be good for me; she showed me a couple of books from a top shelf in the den. Had she thought we needed a little inspiration? "The Joy of Sex," "My Secret Life" and Frank Harris's "My Life and Loves." She read me passages from the last two, ones she had could only have discovered in preparation my joining her. After the first couple, all about cock-sucking, I chuckled and said:

"I guess I know what you were doing last night."

"Hm-hmm! Um-hmm, and Thursday night last week, when I remembered that is all I could do today. Let's get undressed."

We were sitting together on the sofa in the living room, with coffee, as usual. Naked, we sat back down again - on our underpants. She found another passage, a more arousing one. She had planned this well. I don't know if my cock would have responded by itself. I caught her glancing to see if it would. Not to disappoint her, my hand began to fondle my cock and balls. Not just for that reason; the passage was arousing. She chuckled, pleased. After another sentence, she handed me to book and said:

"You read, and let me do that."

"I'd rather watch."

She was already moving off the sofa, clearly wanting to do more than just fondle me. She nodded with a chuckle as she got between my legs.

Can a woman love to suck cock as much as a man loves to have his cock sucked?! She made me want to think so. Watching her, I could only think that she must, her knowing that I wouldn't be able to reciprocate. Maybe some couples do then, but she didn't like it, she had suggested indirectly. Enjoying anything that good must be sinful, receiving undiluted pleasure without being able to return it. Next time, but now!

"It's better to give than to receive." The line for the collection in church was terribly out of context, but most appropriate: she was giving, and I was just receiving. That made her a saint and me a sinner?! A rhetorical question that I was not going to ask any theologian. Did my giving her all the banana cream she liked so much make me less of a sinner?

Her pleased sounding moans - buzzing on my throbbing cock - seemed to suggest that she thought so, also her smiling eyes and then smiling lips, when my cock slipped from between them. She licked them and then licked my cock clean, making it twitch. A cock-sucking saint? From what little I knew about saints, they only became one after giving up a debauched life. We were debauched? Not in the twenty-first century, just delightfully adulterous. I drew her up and got a kiss with the taste of a lot of banana cream.

We spent the rest of the time looking at "The Joy of Sex." When we saw the pictures in the chapter about called "Mouth Music," I ventured to ask a question I had had from the beginning:

"When did you first do that?"

She snorted, looking at me, after a moment replying:

"After the first couple of times - weren't so good, of course. My brother knew I had. Hope my parents didn't. Nice older brother, could talk to him about it. He told me what else we could do - my friend and I. So I did, and then he did, better than before, realizing that his orgasm wasn't one for me."

"Very nice brother."

"Um-hmm, very nice. I told him so."

"Hm-hmm!"

I guess I had a smirking grin on my face. She scowled and said:

"Don't look like that, I only did it to him once to thank him, ... well, ... twice, to thank him for doing it to me."

"I didn't ask."

"That expression! Never told anyone, hope he didn't."

Chuckling, we returned to the book, agreeing that we might try something new.

We did the following weeks, and she surprised me again, the next week, this time in the shower. When I started to pee, she immediately dropped down, murmuring: "I want to taste it," and did. We had seen the chapter about natural champagne in the book, so I wasn't terribly surprised. She grinned up at me and said:

"Your banana cream tastes stranger."

"If you say so," I replied, helping her stand up.

"I read more about it, and then tasted my own."

"I will next time."

She grinned, and we finished our shower. The next week, I did. She had been right about the taste, but I knew that already, having tasted my own at home.

There was a time when I thought that an ongoing affair would lose its charm, especially one with minimal emotional attraction. "Minimized" emotional attraction is the better description, but maybe the charm was also in the illicitness of our affair. It certainly was for me.

And, as she once said:

"I thought this was going to make it easier to get through the week, but now, instead of sublimating all week with tennis, I'm even more sexually aroused, looking forward to it with you. It's your fault, but it helps for a couple of days."

That was sort of a compliment, but also an obligation, a very pleasant one to try to fulfill each week, like this coming week. We wanted to come together (pun intended) on Tuesday this week, but couldn't. Tuesday, because she expected her period would probably start the next day, and continue, of course, into the weekend.

I know she will still make it good for her husband, but that won't satisfy her, regardless of how much she likes banana juice. She knows it too. When she heard that it wouldn't work on Tuesday, she immediately asked if I couldn't arrange to play singles with my supposed friend before my doubles match. I have; that means at least three hours together, and it won't start with sipping coffee and talk.

I know, because something similar happened once before. We fucked twice. She knew better than to waste one of my orgasms for oral sex. Then she insisted that I find her G-spot. We had done that a couple of times before. I knew what was going to happen then, and it did; her body spasming as though she were receiving electric shocks. I hadn't anticipated, however, that she wanted me to do it again - and again! Had she needed so many, could stand so many orgasms because she is so fit?

My hand and the bed had been drenched, and she was tired but very happy, and I was aroused again; watching a woman having such body-shaking orgasms is very arousing. She wasn't so tired, however, that she selfishly forgot about me. She almost swallowed my cock.

I know what I can expect next week.

Let the story end here, although I hope our affair continues. I have worried about how it could end. Best case - least bad case: her husband returns to work here. Worst case - and more likely: my wife finds out. If so, I have thought about trying to make it sound like just the one time that she discovers. Too sordid to think about! So let the story end here.