Renee

She was about to get off his lap, but he held her in place. "No, no, it isn't that. It's just . . . do I kiss okay? I don't . . . I haven't . . . I just don't want to let you down."

"Let me down?" She hugged him. "You are so sweet! Do you know how long it's been since a man cared what I feel, what I want? Besides, you're a great kisser, Kyle. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were lying about your lack of experience."

She gave him a naughty smile, and his pride swelled, swelled like it never had. This woman was unreal. In more ways than one.

He put his arms around her, gently pulled her close again, and . . . her glasses hit him in the forehead!

"That'll happen," she said, smiling, then took off her glasses, placing them on the stand beside the sofa. "Here, it should be easier now. Just be warned, I'm virtually blind without those."

Good, he thought. Maybe that way, she won't notice how small I am, when we get to that point. If we get to that point.

But the way things were going, they just might. This time when they kissed, her tongue darted out. He'd only French-kissed once, with that woman in the backseat of his car. He'd been self-conscious about it then, just as he was now.

But, God, her tongue felt good! She flicked it, in and out of his mouth, hitting his own tongue repeatedly, as if trying to encourage him to reciprocate. He did, and now their tongues were doing a dance, a ballet, parrying, leading, following, trying to discover a rhythm, a synergy. He ran his fingers through her blonde hair. She wrapped herself even more tightly against him, while her tongue grew more animated, more bold, in his mouth.

She began to moan. He moaned back, losing himself in the sensation, the feeling of their mouths joined together, their tongues making love with each other, their bodies, fully clothed, pressed firmly against each other. He lost himself in the feel of her hair as he caressed it, stroking it in all its luxurious length, its fresh, sweet-scented luster. His dick, small as it was, felt like it would burst straight through his briefs, straight through the denim of his jeans.

He reached behind her, pulled her sweater out from the waist of her jeans. Untucked now, it allowed him easy access to her bare back. He lifted her sweater up, higher, higher, now halfway up her torso, and she continued to kiss him with abandon, moaning. If anything, his daring maneuver had served to turn her on even more.

He ran his hands over her back, so smooth, so smooth. He rubbed her, massaged her, gently stroking.

Finally she broke the kiss, leaned back, and lifted the sweater over her head, tossing it onto the floor. Her breasts, full, beautiful, were encased in a skimpy white lace bra.

"I hope you like what you see," she said, and again a blush came to her cheeks.

"You are so beautiful," he told her, wishing he could think of something stronger to say, something better. She was perfect in his eyes. Perfect.

She kissed him again, but then told him to lean back a little, she wanted to take his shirt off.

"But . . ."

"Oh, shut up, Kyle," she teased, and helped him off with his shirt. He felt so scrawny, so boy-like. He didn't have a single hair on his chest. Well, at least she couldn't see him without her glasses on.

But then . .. she reached over and put them on! He wanted to cover himself, but he couldn't. She had him pinned there, on his lap as she was.

But she didn't pull away in horror, didn't laugh, didn't make vomit sounds. She just looked at him with that same hunger in her eyes. Then she took her glasses off again.

"Just what I thought," she said. "You're cute."

He thought he'd have a heart attack. Had she said what he thought she had? Or were the acoustics in this old room playing tricks with his ears? His questions were washed away when her lips again met his, when her tongue probed, deeper, deeper, into his mouth, when her skin pressed firmly against his own.

"Ohhhh," he moaned, wishing his life could remain wrapped in this moment, this one instant, like a treasure, a beautiful note of music, a soaring line from a poem, protected under a glass case, there to cherish forever. It felt so good, she felt so good. It was better than he even imagined it would be.

He caressed every inch of her exposed skin, his hands on her sides, her back, her neck, gently stroking, exploring. She moaned now, as he played with her bra strap, feeling, wanting to unclasp it. Ah. There it was. The bra grew slack, opened up, and she leaned back, letting it fall away, letting her breasts come free, right there, inches in front of him.

They were magnificent breasts. With every layer of clothing she removed, her beauty became more spectacular, more rare. He had only seen two women's breasts before, for real, not just in an illustration, a computer screen, on a television set. And neither could compare to what he saw now. They were large, but not too large, full and high, with some sag to them, but not much, despite her thirty-five years and two children.

Oh, he wanted her! He buried his face in her breasts, taking her nipple into his mouth, sucking on her soft, supple flesh, licking her skin, tasting the salt and sweat and musk that leaked through her pores.

He couldn't kiss her enough, couldn't pleasure her enough. When she moaned, it was the world's most beautiful sound. It meant she liked what he was doing. Him! Kyle Grayson. Lifelong nerd. He was actually making a beautiful woman moan and squirm and hunger. What a wonder. What a miracle.

"Ohhhh," she purred, as he sucked on her left nipple, "Kyle. Make love to me."

He stopped, as if frozen. Again he wondered about the acoustics in this ancient room, this corner of a building built before the Civil War. He wanted to go all the way with her. He wanted it so bad, he couldn't have expressed it in words, even if he had weeks to prepare his statement. But . . .

"Make love to me," she said again, and, suddenly, all his hesitation, all his second-guessing melted away like snowflakes on the river outside his window. All his life he had hesitated, held himself back. Not this time. Not now.

He kissed her, ran his fingers through her hair, and she moaned. "Make love to me, Kyle," she said yet again.

She reached down, unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down his zipper, stuck her hand inside his briefs, and grab hold of his dick.

He froze again. His dick. His inadequate little pecker. The part of himself he was most ashamed of. Could she feel how tiny he was? Was she, even now, laughing at him on the inside? Thinking he was a freak? A boy? Someone incapable of fulfilling her?

But then he felt her hand brush against his chin. He looked up, and saw her staring at him. It wasn't ridicule he saw in her eyes. It was self-consciousness, on her part. And, could it be? Lust. Unbridled lust.

"Kyle? I didn't surprise you by doing that, did I?" she said. "I . . . I just want you. So bad."

How could this be? She had just grabbed hold of his pathetic excuse of a dick, and she still wanted him? "You . . . didn't think I'm too small?" he choked out.

Her mouth dropped open, then she laughed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not laughing at you. . . . Look, I already told you. I think you're a really sweet guy. I think you're super-cute! And I want you. I want you to make love to me. Okay?"

The way she looked at him . . . it made him feel ten feet tall. It made him feel desirable, like a man, for the first time in his life.

"Okay," he whispered. And he knew it then. He loved her. There was no denying it. No doubting it. He loved her, wanted more than anything in the world to make this good for her.

They jockeyed for position on the sofa, lowering their jeans, kicking them to the floor. Then she pulled down his briefs, tossed them aside.

"Mmmm," she said, eyeing his dick. "You're just right." She kissed his cock-head, then his lips.

He shook his head, not believing his good fortune.

"You'd be surprised how many women actually don't want a big dick," she said. "My husband is big, and yes, it feels great when he wants it to. I won't lie. But he needs to be very careful with me, too. I'm not a big person, you know? When he isn't careful, it really hurts. And he . . ."

But Kyle didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear how her asshole of a husband just used her for his own pleasure, how he fucked her with that horse cock of his, not concerned about her comfort, her feelings, her worth.

He stopped her words with a kiss, amazed at how comfortable he felt now, with her, fully exposed, his lifelong shame no longer an albatross strung around his neck. She accepted him. She didn't care he was small. She just wanted to make love, wanted to feel him inside of her, join together as one, share something unimaginably close and intimate. His entire body was on overload. His nerve endings felt like conduits of pure electricity, enough to light a city block, enough to give wings to dreams, dormant for so long, but now ready to take flight and soar.

She pulled her panties down now, exposing a fully shaved mound. A touch of red colored her cheeks.

"You're so beautiful," he said, sensing her moment of doubt. She smiled, went to him, straddled him again. She leaned in close, kissed him.

They tongue-danced with each other once more, and as they did, she maneuvered herself on his lap, lifted herself up, and then, and then . . . he felt her come down on his dick. He felt himself sliding into her wetness, the walls of her vagina grasping onto him like a silken vice. It felt so good, so unimaginably good, he worried he'd cum right then and there.

"Oh my God," he said. "Oh my God . . ."

She leaned in closer, closer, her arms wrapped around him so tightly. Her breasts were firmly pressed against his chest, and she kissed his ear, whispering, "That feels so wonderful, Kyle."

"Ohhhh," he said. He was robbed of his ability to form words. He was in heaven, in paradise. He had never known such ecstasy.

She kissed him again, and then started to buck at the hips. She lifted up several inches, then slowly sank down again, sending waves of pleasure cascading through his body.

"Oh my God," he said, when she broke the kiss. He felt his body shake. It was too much. It felt too good. Too good. The pleasure was like torture.

She lifted up again, slow, her vaginal walls constricting, gripping onto him, then came down again, still so slow. She repeated the process, again and again and again, eventually moving faster, rising and falling with more force. She moaned repeatedly, kept saying, "Yes, oh yes." He jerked his hips, up and down, in unison with hers, causing her to moan louder. Until he felt himself ready to erupt . . .

"My God!" he said. "I'm cumming, Renee, I'm cumming . . ."

She was close, too, he could sense it. Her body was tense, ready to explode.

Hold on, a little more, a little more, he told himself. He wanted her to have her own release. He didn't want to cum before she did. Hold on!

And then she screamed. Her body spasmed, then went limp in his lap. "Oh God, yes!" she said. But even through her orgasm, she continued to make love to him, moving in quick rhythm with his thrusts. It didn't take long for him to cum, too. Moments later, he felt a surge, more powerful than anything he had ever experienced, rip through him, and he came in a torrent. He squirted into her for what seemed like minutes, before finally growing soft, shriveling up inside of her.

They held each other, neither speaking, or even moving. Then she leaned back on his lap, looked at him. And started to cry.

He didn't know what to do. Why was she crying? Oh God! He'd been so caught up in the moment, he hadn't even considered until it was too late. He wasn't wearing a condom! Was that it? Maybe she worried that she'd get pregnant with his child? But if that were the case, why hadn't she asked him to pull out of her when he told her he was cumming?

Her sobs grew louder, her body jerking with the force of them. She hugged him, her arms squeezing him so hard, it almost hurt. His dick, now just an inch of soft flesh, still rested inside of her. What was going on?

"I . . . I'm sorry I didn't pull out," he finally said when her crying began to abate. "I should have pulled out. I . . ."

She leaned back again, looked at him, shook her head. "It's okay. I'm on the pill. My husband and I . . . well, he . . . doesn't want any more children, so . . ."

Whew. That was a weight off his shoulders. But then why . . .?

"Thank you, Kyle, so much. For everything," she said. She kissed him, then got off his lap and quickly dressed herself. He followed suit, not wanting to be the only one naked.

He wanted her to stay, to talk about what they had just shared. If she left now, so suddenly, it would make things seem tainted somehow, bittersweet.

But she seemed determined to leave.

"Renee . . ."

"I really need to go," she said. He noticed she was no longer able to look at him, the glasses, which she had put back on, now a barrier, a wall shielding her eyes from him.

"Renee . . . please . . ."

"Thank you, Kyle," she said again, and then left before he could stop her. It looked like she had started to cry again.

"Wait!" he yelled as she walked briskly away, down the hall. "Will I see you again?"

She stopped, her back to him still. "I don't know," she said.

Before he knew how to respond, what to say, she was gone.

♣

"So, anything exciting happen to you last night, Kyle?" Trista asked him first thing next morning. "Did you get lucky? I saw Tina last night, and she said Jennifer still would love to meet you. So when you're ready . . ."

"Thanks," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."

Trista then rambled on about something, Kyle didn't know what. He tuned her out. But then, "Kyle? Hey! What's with you this morning? You even here?"

"Oh, sorry," he said. "Just thinking, I guess."

Trista took a step back, almost as though he'd slapped her. "Geez. Something must have happened to you last night. C'mon. Tell me. Did you get lucky?"

He looked at her, her expression so eager, like a little girl, just wanting to hear the details, grist for her gossip mill. Had he gotten lucky? Was last night something he would cherish? Or something he would mourn? It had been the best night of his life. And the worst. Because what if he never heard from Renee again? What if she vanished, disappeared from his life as suddenly and unannounced as she had come into it? What if, on the night he had finally discovered himself, he had lost himself, too? Had he gotten lucky?

"I don't know," he told his fellow technical writer. "I don't know, Trista."

And when she looked at him, puzzled, a hundred questions in her eyes, he offered her no further explanation. . . .