Ride, Sally, Ride

The voice on the phone was vaguely familiar and yet new to me. Her words made it clear I should know exactly who she was, but I could not place it until she mentioned my mother and gave a throaty chuckle. It was the voice of a friend of my mother: Sally. When I was in junior high school in Panama City, Florida she lived across the street in the sprawling four-bedroom home with a courtyard and more funky, little nearly-hidden living areas than I could imagine. Her home was like a maze, going from one antique-choked sitting area to another. And I was there often, as her only son was my best friend.

Sally. Why in the world would she be calling me? At my office, no less. Here I was, an attorney for a federal agency, living in the stylishly re-done garment district in downtown Kansas City and beginning to sweat and fidget like a junior-high kid again. Her voice was nearly like a purr; and that was fitting, for I clearly remember that her features and figure had a feline quality. When I was an adolescent, Sally had been the star of many of my fantasies. She had that perpetual beach bunny tan and wore tight white bathing suits nearly year-round. She moved with a grace that belied her blocky and buxom figure. Her legs were long and toned, and her big ass seemed to roll from side to side as if she were a jungle cat stalking its prey.

Her velvety alto was about to run out of mundane things to say when it finally became clear: my mother had told her that I would be in Tucson on business, and Sally now lived there, and wouldn't I like some company when I was in the desert?

The polite child in me automatically answered "yes" before I considered the ramifications. She purred her delight at my answer and told me she would pick me up at the airport, and would make sure I got a nice supper and some friendly conversation before my tough negotiations the next day. A major ramification was this: I had planned to meet Charlie Tejano, my only friend in Tucson, and he and I were planning on going to tie one on and maybe even drive down I-19 to go to a "Donkey Show" in Nogales. Now I would be eating a sedate supper with my Mom's friend, who had to be in her 50s by now. Sally always seemed much younger than my mom, although logic would dictate that her son Jack and I were the same age, so they must have been at least members of the same generation. Sally just exuded youth. She drank daiquiris by the pool early in the afternoon. She playfully gave hints to the horny adolescents who swam in her pool that her "old man" better be ready for a good ride when he got home from the bank. She wore heavy eye make-up and tight clothes. She laughed in that Lauren Bacall voice and tended toward being a tad bawdy, even when the kids were around. Mostly, though, I think she may have seemed young due to her two greatest assets. Her tits.

In her bikinis, her tank suits, her tight blouses, her halter tops and even her evening wear she always showed them off. They were tan and high and firm and, well, wonderful. Mom was pretty, but very staid. She covered up in the sun, and Sally acted like she might just melt away without it. It was obvious to me that her tits must have needed the sun, as well, because so much of them were always uncovered. This arrangement was perfect for a 14–year-old pervert-in-training across the street, but now I was 35. Likewise, she was 20 years older. And now I was having dinner with her.

I called Charlie. He understood. I had been whipped by my mother and he would spread the word in the legal community that is friend, known in college as "Borracho Loco" (the crazy drunkard) would henceforth be known as "Puta Triste" (the sad pussy). The only sad thing about it was that he was right. The night before my flight I lied awake beside my sleeping wife and remembered what Sally had been like. I wondered how much of the fun-loving sun goddess remained inside of her. I wondered whatever happened to Jack and to his little sister Kara, as I had not seen any of them since I was in high school. I tried to sleep, but the thoughts of those tits, and those legs, and that crazy ass kept me frustrated. I nudged my lovely wife awake and ravaged her for the better part of an hour. She thought it was because I would miss her. In my mind, she was Sally. I finally slept.

Thank God for direct flights. KC to Tucson was no biggie, and the turkey sandwich was surprisingly tasty. The flight attendant, Rosie, reminded me somewhat of the younger Sally of my memory: confident and carefree, full-busted and long-legged, tan and blonde. I even accidentally called her Sally when I answered her question, and she flashed that same toothy grin and the same knowing chuckle that kept me awake the night before.

I flirted casually and she commented on the fact that my wristwatch matched my wedding ring. Oh, well...

The plane was on the tarmac and a serious thought occurred to me: twenty-plus years is a long time; would we recognize each other after all this time?

As I entered the terminal I scanned the expectant faces that were waiting for the disembarking passengers. Nope. None looked familiar. I looked for the buxom, without-a-waist figure. Nope. I looked for the sun-bleached hair with the red highlights. Nope. No tight white bathing suit. Shit. This was going to be impossible. I was no longer the pudgy boy with the braces and bad complexion, the one that a sexual animal like Sally would never have noticed; no longer the one that once caught of glimpse of Kara when she was naked and about eleven years old and immediately sprouted a boner not because she was attractive or sexual, but because she was the naked daughter of my fantasies; no longer the smart kid that sat along the edges while Sally laughed with the dumber and more physical teens. I was none of that anymore.

OK. Look more closely. She has got to be 55 or so. I was 35 and much fitter than she would have ever known. I was a late bloomer and grew several inches and lost many pounds since she last saw me. While not terribly handsome, I was at least average looking with a full beard. I looked again. She wasn't there.

I grabbed my single bag off of the carousel and hailed a taxi for the Marriott University Park (not a fancy hotel, but nice and within my per diem budget). I checked in and took the elevator to the eighth floor, tossed the bag on the bed and noticed that the red light on the room phone was blinking. It was a voice message from Sally. She got held up, wanted to apologize and meet me for supper at a little Italian place on North 4th Avenue called Caruso's at 6pm. It was about a fifteen block walk from the hotel and the weather was beautiful, so I decided I might walk, until the end of the message advised to sit near the phone so she could contact me about giving me a ride.

I hung up my suit for the next day, put my undies in the in-room chest of drawers and kicked off my shoes. I stretched out on the bed in my khakis and piquet polo shirt and turned on the TV to watch Sports Center. I closed my eyes to recall the days by the pool two decades earlier and conjured images of Sally seeming to bend over to put on her shoes while always managing to be facing toward me, just so I could stare into the darkness of her cleavage. I remembered one particular night when she absently ran her fingers through my older brother's hair and only the fact that he was underwater from the waist down spared him the embarrassment of a raging hard-on. I recalled the shame I felt and the burning in my cheeks when Jack accused me of leering at his mother so obviously that even little Kara noticed it. It was that night, during Jack's tearful tirade that I found out that Kara had a crush on me, I had broken her little heart, that I was a pervert and that I was no longer welcome at his house. Before I could remember the part where all was forgiven, with the drone of Dan Patrick in the background, my reverie was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

My heart leaped to my throat and I checked the mirror like an unsure teenager and then pulled the door open to see Sally. It wasn't her.

Instead, there stood a smiling woman that I recognized soon enough. She had the dark curly hair, laughing brown eyes and heart-faced shape of her father, and the large busted, thick-middled, long-legged figure of her mother. It was Kara. She took two steps forward and threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. I returned the hug, excitedly shouted her name and crushed her to me. We let go of the embrace and held each other's hands and grinned and looked. No words were exchanged for some time as we were drinking it all in. It was a wonderful surprise. My initial disappointment was replaced with a joy at seeing someone from my past that had changed as much as me. She was dressed in western boots, designer blue jeans and a loose-fitting silk shirt. It was obvious that Tucson suited her sense of style, for she was bedecked in coral, turquoise and silver: dangling earrings, numerous bracelets and several chains that nestled in her impressive cleavage. She was not quite as blocky as Sally in her youth, but the bosom was an obvious genetic gift. Her shirt was unbuttoned improbably low and when she stepped back to look at me, I caught glimpses of the navy lace of her brassiere.

She noticed my peeking. She chuckled and said "Some things never change.....but others do, I guess." Her voice trailed off and I figured she meant that my ardor for tits was the same, but the little pervert had grown up into a not-so-bad looking guy.

We made small talk as we walked arm-in-arm to her Prius. The drive was short, the restaurant homey and comfortable. Sally arrived before the wine and she was wonderful. She had embraced the southwestern style as well and wore lots of Native-influenced jewelry, a brightly floral silk blouse and a dressy white linen pant suit. Exotic animal skin pumps matched her handbag and her now-graying strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into an elaborate bun. I noticed her body had become barrel shaped and the bosom that flummoxed me for the last three days was even heavier, higher and as tan as two decades before. She hugged me maternally, sat down and we chatted, ate too much heavy food, drank too much wine and the years melted away. I was no longer the awkward kid that was too soft and too heavy. She was no longer the unattainable goddess. Kara was no longer the shapeless skinny girl with the Harpo Marx hair and the crappy attitude. We were peers and friends, and nothing else mattered.

We spent the entire supper catching up. Because Sally kept in contact with my mother over the years, Sally and Kara knew a lot more about how my life had gone than I knew of them. Sally and Tom had divorced very shortly after I moved from Florida. Sally re-married a hotel developer and retired with him to Tucson and he had recently passed away and had left Sally a very rich widow. Kara, apparently, left home at eighteen drifted around for many years, never married and recently returned to live with her mom.

Jack was a lost cause. He was a drifter that neither of them saw any more, and he had great resentment that his mother refused to share her riches with him.

Kara excused herself around 8:30 and explained that she worked a late shift at her job and needed to be there by 9 pm. I hugged her, this time noticing the sensual curves of her frame against mine, and she kissed me on the lips. She locked her gaze onto mine and said "I hope to see you again soon." She turned and sashayed away, her hips possessing the same feline roll of her mother. My eyes followed that walk until she turned a corner and disappeared.

I sat down and Sally was the cat that ate the canary. Her eyes twinkled and her sly smile belied the wheels turning in her head. Had I been caught again, twenty years later, only with the females reversed? She sipped her wine and huskily whispered: "We need some dessert." My heart leaped in my shirt, and my cock leaped in my pants.

"Shall I get a dessert menu?" I asked as I tried to remain calm and collected. I felt her naked foot on my calf, stroking up and down, barely touching the fabric of the khakis, creating just enough pressure that I knew it was intentional. I looked up to her eyes. She licked her lips. She exaggeratedly pursed her lips as she finished the wine and put the goblet on the red linen tablecloth.

The pressure on my leg increased and she leaned forward. I began to sweat and my head began to reel from the intoxicating situation. She took my hands into hers, pressing her arms against the sides of her breasts, making them nearly jut out of her tasteful silk blouse. She lowered her eyelids and whispered: "I have an ache for a cannoli. How does that sound?" What was I supposed to think? Was it a request for that tubular cream- filled treat, or was it a sly attempt to suggest something sexual?

"What the hell?" I thought. "I am flying home tomorrow evening. I haven't seen this woman for twenty years, and may never see her again. If she wants to fuck, I am fulfilled. If I read it wrong, what is the worst that can happen: she's going to call my mom?" I looked at her eyes. The twinkle had increased and the sparkles appeared to be dancing. Her eyebrows arched expectantly. Her foot had found its way up inside my pant leg and stroked my bare calf. I took the chance. "Check please!" I roared, even though our waiter was nowhere to be found.

Sally squeezed my hands tightly and in sotto voce hissed, "Kara took care of the check. Get me out of here before I lose my nerve."

The next several minutes are now a blur: I hugged Sally at the tableside, grabbing that fancy ass and kissing her forehead; we jogged arm-in-arm to her Lexus and I drove to my hotel, I tossed the keys to the valet and we necked and groped each other in the elevator, we ended up in my room after dropping the key card at least twice.

In reality, the room was like so many others. The furniture was too cheap, the bedclothing too basic. The lights were too harsh and the radio too tinny. However, I was no longer living in reality. My head was full of wonder and my cock was full of blood. It was not a hotel room, it was the lair of the lioness. The only thing the two of us really needed was each other.

She held me sensually, but not sexually. We stood near the bed, her left arm around my neck, her right hand on the small of my back. She tipped her chin upward and opened her lips so that I could kiss her. My hands were on her hips, inside her jacket and against the cool silk of her blouse, and our kiss was full of wonder and exploration. My lips opened and she immediately probed gently over my teeth with her tongue. I returned this inquiry with an expedition of my own. The teeth that made up her perfect smile even felt wonderful on my tongue. Our tongues engaged in playful fencing and she sucked my tongue deep into her mouth. I moved my hands to her shoulders and slid her jacket off and onto the floor. Her blouse was sleeveless. I emphasized this discovery my moving my mouth to her collar bone and kissed my way across her shoulder and onto her thick and toned arms. She shifted her feet until the bed was at the back of her knees, and she sat down. While I was disappointed that her skin was no longer in contact with mine, I felt her hands at the tail of my shirt. She tugged it out of my waistband, and I lifted the shirt over my head and pitched it onto the chair. Her eyes were honed in on my zipper and her delicate hand, adorned with deep purple nail polish and many rings, gently caressed the bulge at the front of my slacks and her expression was nearly quizzical and imploring. I stroked her cheek and her shoulder and she leaned her face against my hand. Was she having second thoughts?

My trepidation was misplaced. She moaned, ran her splayed fingers up my belly to my chest and whispered, "It has been so long. I really need this." She put her open mouth over my cock and blew hot breath through the khaki fabric. Her fingers massaged my chest and tweaked my nipples. I moaned in response and the words went through my head "I have needed this for twenty years." She chuckled. Did she read my thoughts or did my thoughts actually become words?

I pulled at the bun and her hair spilled out onto her back and shoulders. It was wavy and thick and flaxen. The strawberry highlights were losing ground to the grey, but the mix of colors and the reflected light radiated beautifully. I put my fingers into her curls and shook her hair out a bit and noticed it was much longer than twenty years ago, easily a foot below her collar and to the middle of her back. She pulled harshly at my hardened nipples and began to chew my rod through my pants. My cock grew even more and began to hurt from the angle at which it was pressed against my slacks. She sat back once again and this time looked me in the eyes.

She began to unbutton her blouse and I stepped back to remove my khakis and shoes. By the time I was down to my boxers, she was bare to the waist, and her breasts stood out, toned and tan and impossibly high for a woman of her age. They were easily D-cups, but had very little sag and no droop. She leaned back onto the bed as I joined her and fastened my mouth over the prize I had sought for so long. Her nipples were wide and stubby and stood up from small dark brown areolae. Her tits were soft and massive and tan. There was not a tan-line or a hint of a second, paler skin tone. I pulled my mouth from one nipple and watched a thread of saliva string from my lip to her breast, as if her nipple had thrown a lifeline to my mouth to keep if from moving on. I dragged my tongue into the valley of her cleavage and over a few dark freckles and up onto the mound of her other breast.

She clutched the back of my head as I bit the second nipple. She groaned and shifted her hand until it was inside the fly of my boxer shorts. I slid one hand down to cup her pussy through her linen slacks. I nibbled her nipple and she laughed. It was that same laugh that I thought was so bawdy and sexy as a teen; the one that always preceded and ended the "warnings" to her banker husband; the same one I had heard in other women in the previous three days: deep and throaty and carefree and sexy. She closed her eyes and let out an audible "aahhhhhhhhhhh" as she stroked my cock through the boxer fly.

I was beyond control. I wanted to ensure that this act of lust would last long into the night. I couldn't do it. I put my mouth in the depth of her cleavage while she stroked my cock. I left a puddle of drool there, and I hitched myself up and slipped off my shorts. Her eyes came alive as I straddled her and she pushed her heavy tits together as I began to piston my hips to and fro, my desperate cock sliding in and out of the tunnel created by our hands and her breasts. Much too soon I spurted my thick goo onto her neck and collarbone and she squirmed beneath me as I continued to pump in and out, never wanting this ride to end. With the strains of ZZ Top going through my imagination, I shifted off of her and kissed her breasts and began to stroke her through her slacks. She deftly pulled a pillow from beneath the bedspread and used its case to wipe up my mess. She kissed my head and stroked my shoulders.

I was in such a state of bliss, I do not know how long I lied there next to her, my cheek on her breast, by hand at her crotch. She laughed and said "Enough of this!" and got out of bed. I wondered what my next move should be, and she began to peel her pants and panties down to the floor. She may have been a bit self-conscious about her belly, for she turned her back to me, and wearing only her heels, walked to the large window overlooking the city in the foreground, and the mountains behind them. She opened the drapes, put her palms flat against the glass and I noticed that she leaned slightly forward a the waist and spread her feet. Her ass was not as tan as her breasts, with faint and numerous tan lines, but it was taut and firm and only slightly dimpled. Her legs appeared to be the same long and shapely legs of my youth. I took her silent invitation, stroked myself hard again and joined her at the window.