Stargazers: Carrie's Story

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance by any character or situation to any actual person or event is purely coincidental. All characters presented in this narrative are over the age of 18.

Editors Note: To fully appreciate this story, first read "Stargazers: Ellie's Story."

Stargazers: Carrie's Story

By Royce F. Houton

Let me get this out there from the very start: George Clinton Standeford always has known how to make my pussy twitch, even when he's not trying. We were high school sweethearts, we've been married for 32 years and we've been ardent, monogamous lovers for all of that time. It just never gets old.

Let me also say that while I don't put it on billboards, I am not shy about acknowledging our very active sex life. I don't go into detail, but I make no secret of our vigorous and regular connubial pursuits. Friends ask if they can drop by, and I'll tell them unflinchingly that Clint and I are having some buck-naked, adult alone time. We've been known to sneak away momentarily from entertaining guests for a bathroom quickie and then, if asked where we disappeared to, acknowledge that we ran upstairs for a fast nut. People who don't know us well think we're joking; our closest friends know it's true.

It's just the happy story of being Clint and Carrie Standeford and we make no apologies for it.

Our friends are important to us. We live in the world's best neighborhood -- Cordovan Court, a cul de sac in Chesterfield County, Virginia, a suburb of the state capital city of Richmond. There may be more trendy and affluent subdivisions than our mid- to upper-class subdivision, but I wouldn't leave here for anyplace. All the families on our little dead-end drive have lived here long enough that we mark major occasions together. Clint and I host the neighborhood Christmas party -- we call it our Festivus gathering, borrowing the idea for the alternative celebration from "Seinfeld." We all pitch in and seal off the cul-de-sac for community parties to mark Memorial Day at the start of each summer and Labor Day to mark its end. And our neighbor Will Tetherton has hosted the annual Thanksgiving feast for the past few years at his house, a large, two-story white house at the top of the cul-de-sac that sits atop a gradual rise with a commanding view down Cordovan Street as it slopes slowly downward toward its intersection with a major state highway.

Will was a special project. He and his wife, Gloria, had been close friends to Clint and me and he was devastated when she passed away from cancer about seven years ago. Will became morose and reclusive. He moved from a house on the corner just opposite of ours into the large white house at the top of the rise because everything in the house he and Gloria had shared was a painful reminder that haunted him, but he didn't want to leave our community. Will's adult children, Emma and Walt, had begged him to get out and meet people, perhaps date, but at least find interests to fill his brooding, idle hours. Their pleas got them nowhere. So Emma turned to me, knowing I am not above devious means to achieve a worthwhile goal.

Ellie Matner had been a friend and colleague in the teaching profession for decades. She's a little older than I am but our children were about the same age. We bonded as parents and as fellow professionals. The past 13 years, I worked under Ellie while she was the principal at the elementary school in our neighborhood. During that time, she made the school a statewide model, perennially among the highest ranked both by test scores and subsequent student outcomes, in Virginia. But most importantly, we managed to remain best friends even when ours was a boss-subordinate relationship. That's hugely rare.

I had toyed for a few years with the idea of fixing her up with Will, but I knew that he had to be handled delicately and that he might bristle if he thought someone was overstepping a boundary or intruding on his sacred, still-loving memory of Gloria. It was Clint who gave me the confidence to go for it.

Like Will, Ellie could be somewhat reclusive, though she wasn't emotionally vested in a past spouse as Will was. Thirteen years earlier, her marriage to a stuffy architect crashed and burned on a New Year's Eve when he came out to her that he was in love with a man. Ellie went into mama bear mode, resolute on protecting her twins, Mark and Melissa, and giving them the best possible childhood that a single mom could. As part of that, she also focused on being the best education professional she could be.

Clint and I both adored Ellie and, in our efforts to keep her from going reclusive on us, involved her in some of our family activities. She was a regular at birthday parties, at holiday gatherings, and occasionally beach vacations. It was last summer, when she joined us for a couple of days at the cottage we'd rented for a week in Corolla on North Carolina's Outer Banks. There, she confided to me that she would be retiring early this year, tentatively the end of February. Absent her lifelong avocation, I knew she would need something or someone to fill a considerable void in her life, and I sensed that with both her children grown and on their own, her resistance to dating was softening.

Ellie is a compact ball of energy. She's short, but lean -- easy to see how she had been a star sprinter on her high school track team in southeastern Ohio decades earlier and to this day a merciless force on a tennis court. But I didn't know how much of that was attributable to her actual physique or a fashion sense so keen that she could hide any infirmities of age beneath her impeccable clothing.

It was when Ellie and I were changing into our swimwear in our Corolla vacation rental for an afternoon on the beach that I saw firsthand that she's the real deal. There was no way anyone would believe that this body had given birth to twins in five decades plus on this planet. Her abdomen was firm, no bulges or rolls anywhere. Her tits were probably C cup with less sag than most women half her age, topped by dark, tight and prominent nipples. Her bare ass was a taut, perfect inverted-Valentine shape. My supposition that her vibrant auburn hair color came from a bottle fell away when I saw that it was a perfect match with her neat, reddish-brown nether curls.

She knew she was impressively built, boldly changing into a modest, white, two-piece for her afternoon of sun and surf. I was mildly annoyed at first that Clint so quickly took notice and commented on Ellie, but realized that he was no more amazed than I. That's when he offhandedly said to me, "You know, if I was Will, I'd be all over that."

"You think so?" I asked. "I mean, I think it would be a match made in heaven, too, but you know how protective Will can still sometimes be of Gloria's memory... morbid as it seems."

Then, as only straight man can, he clued me in on the clueless perspective of men.

"Baby, look at that ass. Look at that bod. Next to yours, those are the best set of tits on this beach today. I mean, Will may be a mopey ol' droopy-dick, but he's still a man," Clint said. "All you got to do is get her in front of him, baby. Her personality can disarm anybody, and hopefully he'll notice what a hottie she is and that'll do the rest."

That's all the validation I needed. I hatched my plan to introduce them at Will's neighborhood "Friendsgiving" party on Thanksgiving day, inviting her to join us for dinner without really telling her that it would be at Will's gathering. Clint was in on the plan but, because he could find a way to fuck up the most perfect plan and couldn't organize a game of Solitaire, I put him under strict orders to shut his mouth or I'd close his nookie factory for a month.

It was a cool, crisp, sunny, picture book autumn day and Ellie showed up at our house right on time, a little after noon. I recommended we swing by Will's, and she walked between us toward Will's house, where he stood in the drive greeting arriving guests personally. We apologized for bringing a tag-along and introduced Ellie to Will.

Props to Clint: his intuition was dead on. Will seemed momentarily thunderstruck when he grasped Ellie's hand to welcome her and looked into her pretty, smiling face and green eyes. He momentarily babbled like a middle-school boy before he spent the afternoon escorting Ellie around the premises, introducing her to everyone. As the crowd began to thin, I saw Ellie and Will in rapt conversation on his sofa swing in front of Will's blazing outdoor fireplace. So I squeezed Clint's ass, smiled at him and suggested we do an Irish goodbye and sneak home where we could get naked and I could reward him properly.

Theirs had been a storybook romance. It took on an almost mystical, otherworldly dimension when Will, during a Christmas visit to his daughter Emma in the small Blue Ridge Mountains village of Bedford, purchased a necklace as his first gift to Ellie. Remarkably, the cloisonné and gold necklace he picked up in a bygones store 200 miles away turned out to be an heirloom necklace that Ellie's grandfather had given to her grandmother on their first anniversary in the 1930s. As a little girl, Ellie would play dress-up and wear it when she was at her grandmom's house before it vanished in the 1970s, apparently stolen by a cleaning woman. Will gave it to her as a holiday present on their first date on New Year's Eve, and told me goosebumps covered her when he fastened it around her neck. Weeks later, after some bizarre dreams about her deceased grandmom, she used a magnifying glass to check an obscure, tiny jeweler's inscription on one of the beads that authenticated it as her grandmother's missing necklace.

By Ellie's last day on the job in mid-February, she and Will were hopelessly in love. At a surprise farewell gathering for Ellie that day, Will handed her a bouquet of 13 roses -- one for each of Ellie's years as principal -- and escorted her to a surprise gathering Clint and I had organized at our house before the two of them called it a night at his house just ahead of a snowstorm. She was there the next morning when Clint and I showed up for our longstanding Saturday morning tradition with Will of making waffles for breakfast, She had just showered after their first night together and Will made it clear to all of us that morning that he considered his home thenceforth to also be hers.

What I know as of this writing in late April that Ellie still doesn't is that Will is going to propose to her in just three weeks. Ellie's daughter, Melly, and I were the only two people with whom Will had shared his plan. He had enlisted our help to make sure that he gets her the perfect engagement ring to give her in May at a gathering of her family and his at Ellie's lake house in New Kent.

Years earlier, Will shared another secret with Clint and me that he had a secret gate built into his wooden privacy fence that bounded a thicket of trees that formed a buffer to a public park and the adjacent school along his rear property line. He had the builders install it, making it indiscernible from the outside, so he could access both sides of his fence for maintenance and to keep it clear of fallen limbs and debris. But it also gave Will easy access to the park and school grounds beyond it without having to walk about half a mile to access the park via the front entrance. We were the only neighbors who knew where the covert gate was. We also had the pass code to unlock the gate leading from Will's front yard into his back yard.

I would use the private access to take a shortcut to school on the occasional day I didn't want to drive to work. Clint and I would use it go for a stroll and take in nature. That was especially true at night when we would sometimes pack a blanket and indulge our penchant for open-air nudity and sexplay.

Last May, I decided to get Clint all hot and bothered while I was planting a small vegetable garden in our secluded backyard. Will was nearby repointing loose stones on our rustic fire pit, so I dressed in a tight, sheer sports bra, a tennis skirt that did a poor job hiding my ass cheeks and wore a thong underneath it. Bent over, as I was planting the sprigs of thyme, basil, oregano and parsley, poor Clint found it nearly impossible to keep his one-track mind focused on grouting the loose fire pit stones. My plan was to have him so hopelessly hard that by the time we went inside to shower, he'd either take me on the tiled bathroom floor or do me standing up, pinned against the shower wall with my ankles locked behind his back.

To up the ante, I ducked out of sight for a second, removed the thong, walked over to Clint and shoved it into his shorts pocket. "Hold onto these for me, would ya babe?" I said, returning to my garden spot.

"What the...?" he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the skimpy garment, now soaked and rich with my womanly musk. He held it to his nose and I could see his penis harden and tentpole his shorts in just seconds. I smirked at him, bent over with my nakedness now facing the other direction and went about my business.

I lost sight of Clint for a few moments and paid it no mind until I felt his hands grasp my hips and felt the swollen underside of his manhood pressed against my drenched folds. I looked around and he was naked.

"You asked for it. So here it is," he growled, pushing my tennis skirt upward and fully exposing my ass. We were shielded from view from outside our backyard by a wooden privacy fence and blooming crepe myrtles, but anyone who opened the unsecured gate to our backyard and walked in would have caught us. There, in the full afternoon sunlight, Clint pressed himself into me in one easy motion.

Restraint vanished. I peeled off my sports bra and my tits flashed free in the warm afternoon breeze, my nipples engorged and longing for the touch of his rough hands. On all-fours in the soft dirt and cool grass, we fucked fast and hard, utterly uninhibited animal lust, our moans and primal grunts reaching a crescendo. As he thrust his gourd into me, I slammed myself backward with equal force, allowing him to achieve maximum depth. I could feel the head of his dick swell and flare as it neared the mouth of my uterus, a sure sign he was about to cum, and I could feel the explosion building within me, recognizing that the muscles of my pelvic floor were about to contract around his invading manhood. Mindful that nature hasn't rendered us fully storkproof yet, my sweet Clint pulled out just in time and sprayed hot jizz all over my asshole, my slit and the small of my back just as a paroxysm of orgasmic pleasure tore through me. Not content with a one-and-done, I grabbed Clint by his flagging pole and -- both of us still naked -- led him inside and into the shower where I revived him with the mother of all blowjobs before he carried me to bed and pleasured me for another hour -- and three more orgasms -- before he blew his next load.

So suffice it to say we love sex in the wild, as nature intended.

Every August, we find a spot -- usually in the mountains somewhere to get away from the sultry Chesapeake basin heat and the vicious mosquitoes that thrive in it -- to watch the Perseid meteor showers. And late each April, we find a spot near the soccer fields in the public park just behind Will's house to see the Lyrid meteor showers. The next-to-last Saturday of this April was ideal -- a beautiful night with a half-moon hanging low in the western sky, affording us a perfect look at the open southeastern sky and the falling stars.

Shortly before midnight, we had quietly passed through Will's back yard and his secret gate to take up our spot at the edge of the woods overlooking the park's two adjacent soccer fields. We're the only stargazers we've ever encountered out there, particularly so late in the night. So we spread our oversized beach towels over the soft bed of pine needles and wispy grass in an area partially hidden behind a large, wild rhododendron. Within 10 minutes, the minimal clothing we had worn was gone and we were busy sucking, fingering and grinding each other toward the point of no return. Clint had already made me cum twice -- once with his skilled fingers and again with his expert tongue. After a session of face-sitting, I had worked my bottom slowly down his body and was about to mount his manhood and ride him to orgasm cowgirl style when I saw a light moving amid the trees. We froze. It got closer, and we heard hushed voices and twigs and leaves crunching beneath their feet.

A man and a woman emerged from a footpath out of the woods and unfolded canvas camp chairs on the soft grass about 20 feet from the soccer field and 150 or so feet from us, seemingly choosing their location to maximize their unobstructed view of the southeastern sky than for privacy. In the sparse moonlight, it was hard to see much else other than they were wearing light-colored tops.

"Shhhhh...," I whispered into the ear of my husband. "Let's just watch what's happening here."

"Honey, just me guessing here, but I bet that's Will and Ellie out here to watch the Lyrids," Clint whispered back. "Who else could access this park from that direction without going out his hidden gate?"

"I bet you're right. Let's stay quiet and don't give away our location. They don't need to see us like this," I whispered.

Still naked, we sat up on our knees, just enough to look over the rhododendron that perfectly concealed us. Clint's poor, aching boner still strained for relief as he crouched there, just inches away from my waiting pussy, but neither of us dared getting caught and, possibly, reported to the cops.

It didn't take long for the couple's attention to move from the meteors in the heavens to more earthy pursuits. We could tell they were talking, but they were speaking barely above a whisper. Then a kiss. From there, things developed quickly.

The woman, diminutive just like Ellie, left her chair and climbed into the man's lap and the kissing intensified into a full makeout. His hand traveled from her neck along her back to her butt and then down her outer thighs. After a few round trips, his hand began traveling up the inside of her thighs and her legs parted, inviting his fingers. I made out the word "commando," meaning he had encountered her pussy unencumbered by undergarments.

The kissing and handplay intensified until she sat upright, pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it in the empty chair, giving us a distant view of her lean, naked body. I'd seen that body naked before and it had to be Ellie. She sank down deeper into his lap again, her legs lewdly splayed open in our direction, affording us a distant view of her dark vee and his right hand perfect access to everything from her asshole to her clit. Her hips had begun to roll and thrust against his hand as it glided up and down her slit.

Her moans grew louder, and her pelvis began lurching uncontrollably. Then all doubt about her identity disappeared as her orgasm hit and we clearly heard, "Ohhhh fuuuck, Will!"

Clint and I immediately looked at each other, our eyes wide as we jammed our hands over our mouths to keep from making a telltale sound. Now we had seen firsthand proof of what we had known since that night in February, the night after Ellie's last day on the job: that they were lovers in every possible way.

We kept watching and it appeared Ellie had nearly fallen off Will's lap as she trashed about while she came. She stood in front of him, pulled off his dark shorts and then a button-up short sleeved shirt, leaving them both naked.

"Oh, shit, Carrie," Clint whispered, "if I watch them do what they're about to do, I am going to cum into a bush -- either yours or this shrub."