Mother and Daughter

Rhonda Miller really didn't like dating—but what was the option? Staying at home and being lonely; having an affair with a married man; or throwing herself at any presentable male, of whatever age, just to get some relief from certain compelling physical urges. No thanks!

It's true that, when you're a forty-eight-year-old woman, even one who is reasonably attractive and financially secure, prospects just aren't that great. Young guys—and that includes everyone up to the age of about thirty-five—don't want to date you: for those poor sods who still want to bring children into this world, you're way beyond childbearing years, or else you either remind them of their mother (and if there are any who want to date you because you remind them of their mother—well, you'd better stay far, far away from them!). As for guys your own age, they're weighed down by vengeful ex-spouses, demanding teenage or college-age children, and all manner of other impediments to long-term happiness—not the least of which were certain difficulties in the performance of intimate acts, if you catch my meaning.

Sometimes Rhonda wondered how people got together at all after their thirties. Maybe some couples just hooked up for companionship, but that wasn't nearly enough for her.

Of course, she had some impediments of her own, even though sagging breasts and excess weight around the stomach or hips weren't among them. Her impediment, it was becoming clear, was a certain creature who had emerged from her womb twenty-three years ago named Miranda.

At first, Rhonda and her ex, David—who'd flown the coop three years earlier, predictably attracted by some piece of fluff at his office about fifteen years younger than herself—were delighted with the daughter whose name rhymed (sort of) with her mother's. She was bright, bubbly, vivacious, and reasonably good-looking, and seemed to have no end of possibilities. But she had made the decision to go to the classic "small liberal arts college"—and then major in something called "comp lit" (what on earth was that, anyway?). Predictably, she hadn't been able to find a job after graduation, and now she was more and more ensconced in the fatherless family home, doing very little to become gainfully employed and at times lapsing into a sulky depression that wasn't exactly appealing to the few men friends Rhonda brought over once in a blue moon.

Rhonda had to admit that Miranda had gone from merely good-looking to being a real knockout. But even though everyone seemed to think that pretty young women had it easy in this world, Miranda didn't seem any closer to flying the parental coop, however many heads she turned with her generous breasts and tight, round butt. In her especially sour moods Rhonda toyed with suggesting to her daughter the perfectly viable career of porn star or lady of the evening.

Meanwhile, she herself scoured several different Internet sites for suitable males. The quest was largely a failure, even when she extended her search down to men as young as forty. And so, having nothing to lose, she went all the way down to men of thirty-five and up. This was presumably not low enough to inflict upon her the unsavory type of youngish man who wanted a "Mrs. Robinson"-type of woman, but it might root out some nice, nerdish guy—fairly personable, well established in his career, and able to perform adequately in bed—who didn't mind an attractive, self-assured woman who had a few years on him.

And, incredible as it may seem, the tactic worked. The profile of a man named Gary Sanderson—age thirty-six, working in the tech industry, and living only a few miles from her—came up. His photos made him seem more than handsome, although Rhonda was too familiar with the ins and outs of online dating to take such photos (which might be more than a decade old) at face value. Still, after some initial chatting online, they had set up a date for that Friday. What did she have to lose?

And when she sauntered into the wine bar they had agreed upon for their first date, Rhonda wondered if she had hit the jackpot.

It had been a long time—maybe even before she had met her husband-to-be—that a man had made her weak in the knees, and wet between the legs. But Gary did just that. Incredibly, his photo didn't do him justice: his tanned, craggy face, his substantial height (five foot ten, as compared to her five foot six), his broad shoulders, flat stomach, muscular legs, and (so far as she could tell from an initial glimpse) really cute butt—all these things made her stagger as she approached him, to such a degree that she actually stumbled into him, compelling him to seize her around the waist lest she fall to the floor.

"Sorry!" she cried, reluctantly prying herself out of his strong grasp. "Just tripped over my feet."

"Are you okay?" he said in a resonant baritone voice that made the crotch of her panties so damp that she worried about leaving a stain on the chair to which Gary led her.

"I'm fine," she said shakily. "I'm usually not such a klutz."

"I'm sure you're not," Gary said gallantly.

When she took off her wrap and hung it over the chair, Rhonda smiled approvingly to herself as she saw Gary give a covert glance in the direction of her chest. Of course, she was wearing a push-up bra under her business suit, and the scooped neck of her blouse displayed a fair amount of cleavage. You'd better take a good look, guy! she thought. I'm wearing this uncomfortable garment just for your benefit!

They ordered two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and some munchies and got down to the business of getting acquainted. Gary worked at a software company nearby, while Rhonda was a vice president at a bank. So neither of them had money worries. Rhonda was certainly not in the market for a guy whose chronic unemployment would become a drain on her finances (she had enough of that problem with her daughter), and she found nothing appealing in the idea of being a "kept woman" of some bigwig executive.

It turned out that both had been previously married. Rhonda did her best to speak of her ex without rancor, knowing that men find it a real turnoff if they think a potential partner has some long-simmering resentment against a spouse, no matter what he has done to deserve her abuse. And she admitted reluctantly that she had a grown daughter at home. Gary confessed that he had married at a very young age, right out of college; both of them, after several years of nearly nonstop arguing, realized that they were just too young for marriage, and had parted ways amicably after four years.

As they chatted, it was clear that a chemistry was developing. It wasn't that they shared a lot of interests, but their outlooks were surprisingly similar—as regards politics, religion (or, rather, the lack of it), interest in a family (Gary had little of that, and Rhonda took up some time telling him of her shiftless daughter), and so on. So it was unsurprising that their date extended into a proper dinner at a restaurant close by.

By the end of the meal, Rhonda for one was totally smitten. There was a gentleness in Gary—backed, she sensed, by an inner strength that suffered no fools gladly—she found inexpressibly appealing; and she hoped her own charms, whether of body or of personality, had a similar effect on him.

It sure seemed that way. Gary unquestioningly picked up the check at the restaurant, as he had done at the wine bar. As they walked slowly to their respective cars in the restaurant parking lot, Rhonda's mind was racing fiercely. I can't let this guy get away—I have to snag him now, or I'll lose him to some younger female. Even if it means spreading my legs on the first date—something I haven't done in ages, except in those few cases when that was the plan from the start—I'm going to have to seal this relationship right away.

And so she casually invited him to come back to her house for a nightcap.

She was thrilled when he accepted, emitting a giggle like a schoolgirl before she clapped a hand over her mouth to shut herself up. She gave him her address, which he duly entered into the GPS on his smartphone, and then headed for home.

The fact that Miranda would be there was a concern, but Rhonda figured she could deal with that somehow. There had been a few other times when she had brought men over for the evening—and the night—and her daughter had handled the situation well enough, mostly by confining herself to her room and pretending the guy wasn't there. It was as if, with her daddy gone, Miranda was desperately imagining that her mother would be perfectly happy moving into a convent.

When the couple reached the front door of her house, Rhonda cursed herself for struggling with the keys. God, it's as if I'm some kind of virgin! Finally she got the door open and ushered Gary in. And the first thing they saw was Miranda lounging on the living-room sofa, reading a book—in her nightgown.

It wasn't just any nightgown; it was a frilly, baby-doll thing that barely covered her groin and revealed quite a lot of her creamy white thighs. At first, Miranda—who had her back to the front door—didn't notice that her mother had company with her, since Gary had said nothing as he entered the house. Miranda, without tearing her eyes away from her paperback, called over her shoulder:

"Hi, Mom. Had a good time on your date?"

Rhonda cleared her throat. "Miranda . . ." she began.

"Was he as scrumptious as you thought he would be?" Miranda went on casually.

"Miranda!" Rhonda said sharply. "We have a guest."

At that, Miranda turned her head around and let out a girlish squeal. Dropping her book, she tried to cover her chest and delta with her hands, as if she were naked. But that only had the effect of pressing the thin cloth of her nightgown closer to her body, revealing the outlines of her exuberant breasts.

"Jeez, Mom!" she cried. "You could have warned me you were bringing him over!"

"Sorry, dear," Rhonda said.

Miranda leaped from the sofa, somehow slithered by both her mother and her new beau, and dashed up the stairs. Her steps were so wild and frantic that at times the lower hem of her nightgown flew up, revealing the lower part of her round, firm and bare bottom.

Rhonda saw Gary follow the ravishing creature up the stairs with avid eyes. She made a sour face, thinking: Oh, God, do I have to contend with a potential boyfriend who already has the hots for my daughter?

"That was Miranda," she said unnecessarily.

Trying to regain control of the situation, she offered Gary some liqueur. "I have some nice Amaretto," she said.

"That would be very nice," Gary said.

She almost rushed to the sideboard at the end of her long living/dining room, poured out some of the golden hazelnut liqueur into two elegant glasses, and sashayed back to Gary in what she hoped was a reasonable imitation of the smoldering movie stars of the 1940s. True, she wasn't wearing a long ball gown, as they tended to do, but she was wearing a fetching pleated skirt—and that was good enough.

As they sat on the sofa, exchanging idle chitchat and taking covert glances at each other, they both sensed that they were characters in a play—a play that would very soon turn passionate, if not obscene. They were all too keenly aware of where this evening would end up. Rhonda, catching Gary peering intently at the breasts straining against the thin fabric of her cotton blouse (she'd helped matters along by artfully thrusting her chest out), had long ago given up any pretense of being demure and modest. There was only one way to catch this guy, and that was by "putting out."

Their drinks finished, Rhonda scooted next to her guest and snuggled up against him. Gary obliged by throwing an arm around her shoulders, letting it slip down to her midsection, just under her left breast. As she turned up her face to him, he planted a kiss on her mouth.

That kiss lasted for a full minute—which, as anyone who has experienced it can tell you, is an eternity for a kiss. Somewhere in the midst of that long smooch, one of them—neither of them could tell who—slipped a tongue into the other's mouth.

That was a sign that the path of no return had been crossed.

Rhonda boldly forced Gary to lie on his back at full length on the sofa, with her lying on top of him. She took his face in her hands and kissed it all over—cheeks, forehead, nose, eyes, even the tender earlobes—while wriggling over his body to signal that he should be equally bold. He complied. At first his hands merely rested on her back; then they slipped down to cover her bottom. Grabbing fistfuls of her skirt, he pulled it up to her waist, getting a lovely feel of her satin underwear. Not content with that, he tugged those panties down to her knees to squeeze her bare bottom.

Rhonda was eminently satisfied with how things were proceeding. She was already more than a little wet, and she could also feel some pestle-like object swelling and hardening in the area of his abdomen. But what Gary did next surprised her.

It was not unexpected that he would slip one hand between their bodies and place it on her delta, getting a nice sense of her hairy pussy. She had never shaved (only porn stars did that), and she gloried in the thick, curly bush she sported down there. Gary seemed to like it too, playing with some of the tufts with questing fingers. He moved on to her rapidly moistening cleft.

But instead of merely giving it a cursory examination, he began stroking her labia and rubbing her clitoris—first gently, then with increased vigor as he sensed that Rhonda, spreading her legs wider, was more than inclined to tolerate his liberties. To her amazement and admiration, his objective as he continued feeling her up with questing fingers was clear:

He was going to make her come first.

She couldn't remember the last time any man had done that. Even when her ex-husband, David, had been courting her, he had put his sexual needs above hers—and, in any case, hadn't been particularly deft at bringing her to climax with fingers or mouth, even after repeated catechisms that he found acutely embarrassing. She had at times resorted to the practice of stimulating herself after he had fallen asleep. At least she could ensure that she got off in just the right way and just the right tempo—but still, it was not exactly inspiring.

But as Gary played her like a musical instrument, Rhonda found heself getting more and more excited—even though she wished that both of them had shed a few more clothes in the process. And yet, remaining nearly fully dressed had its naughty appeal, as if they were engagng in this lascivious behavior in a semi-public place.

Her delight at Gary's initiative and skill soon paid off. Even with her lips pressed firmly, almost painfully, against his, she expelled a moan that rose rapidly in pitch as the initial waves of her orgasm crashed over her—and Gary (bless his heart!) knew enough to keep on gently stroking her, as he seemed to realize that women's climaxes can be prolonged far longer than men's, and indeed could go on almost indefinitely with the proper manipulation.

Only after many minutes had passed, and Rhonda had finished tossing her head and crying out like a banshee (she was long past caring if her daughter upstairs heard her), did Gary let up.

He gazed at her admiringly. "You sure know how to enjoy yourself," he said.

"You sure got magic fingers," she said between ragged breaths.

Now that their date had definitely become intimate, she staggered up onto her shaky feet, urged Gary to get up, and led him by the hand up the stairs. She was relieved to find Miranda's door firmly closed and no light on: Let's hope she's asleep, or at least has the good sense to remain ensconced in her room. Not without justifiable pride, she ushered Gary into the master bedroom, where he raised his eyebrows at the king-size four-poster bed that took up the bulk of the room. There was no gauzy canopy, but the sight was still impressive.

There now began a mutual striptease. It was almost as if they had entered a contest: one of them would take off a piece of clothing, then wait for the other to do so. Rhonda began first, carefully unbuttoning her blouse and tossing it away, and again thrusting forward her chest, her breasts enclosed in a frilly white bra. Gary followed suit by removing his shirt, exhibiting a chest covered with just enough fine hairs to seem masculine without so much fur that he looked like a caveman. Keeping her eyes fixed on him, Rhonda now slipped out of her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. She had had to shove her panties back on to climb the stairs, but that and her bra were now the only things she had on.

Gary slipped off his dress pants, folding them carefully and placing them on an easy chair. He certainly didn't want to iron them, Rhonda concluded with a smile. He went ahead and removed his socks, feeling that it was the least he could do in light of the absence of parallel attire (socks, leggings, or pantyhose) on her part. Rhonda then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, tossing it away. She was rewarded by a wide-eyed stare on her partner's part. You'd better gawk at these if you know what's good for you! They're 36D, for your information.

But a few seconds later, it was Rhonda who would be gawking; for when Gary blandly peeled off his boxer briefs—already seriously distorted with his erection—she couldn't help but utter a gasp.

"Oh, my goodness," she breathed.

His member must have been at least nine inches, perhaps ten. She almost burst out laughing, remembering her ex's much more modest endowment, which barely extended to six inches. In fact, the sight of the thing frightened her a little, and she suddenly felt like a naïve young schoolgirl. God, can I get that monster in me? Have I ever tried to get a thing of that size into me? Trying to keep up her courage and self-assurance, she whipped off her panties and kicked them aside. Both of them were now entirely naked.

They rushed together in a frantic embrace, clutching at each other—and at each other's various parts—as if they'd not had human contact in ages. Rhonda found all manner of delight in his hairy chest, his strong, muscular back, and in particular his exquisitely shaped bottom, whose dimples she couldn't get enough of. Gary squeezed those ample breasts, massaged her arching back, and renewed his acquaintance with her gorgeous butt.

They stumbled clumsily into the bed, Rhonda landing on her back, Gary on top of her. He paid more attention to her breasts, placing his head between them and squeezing them against his cheeks, then licking and sucking the nipples, which became even more erect from his attentions. Then he slid up her body and, in a single motion that caught her by surprise, slipped his cock into her cleft.

She gasped as he entered her inch by inch; and even though she raised her legs and bent her knees to accommodate him, the unusual size of his organ filled her to repletion as she had never been filled in her life. Gary seemed to want to press his lips against hers, but he couldn't manage it—because her mouth remained open in a perfect O of amazement and (though she hated to admit it) just a soupçon of pain as he tunneled into her. She had the weird sensation that his cock was forcing its way all the way up her body and would come out through her throat. Eventually he lowered himself onto her, pumping her diligently as his eager hands stroked her all over, especially her breasts and bottom.

The frenzy of their coitus couldn't go on long—and it was only about ten minutes later that Gary, his face lapsing into a grimace of effort (and, Rhonda sensed, of faint disappointment that he hadn't held out longer), began sending long streams of his emission deep into her. By this time he was clutching both of her breasts with his hands, and after his discharge was finally over he collapsed on top of her, heedless of the dead weight he was placing on her. But she rather liked this moment: even in this seemingly submissive position, with a cock still buried firmly in her, she sensed that she was in charge of the situation. She had allowed a man to attain a little bit of heaven by his entry into her vagina, and he would be as weak as a kitten until (or if) he managed to revive himself.