The Boss Ch. 01

My oldies station was playing and I was singing along with Neil Diamond. I mean, who can resist when he starts belting out "Sweet Caroline?"

And I was tired and it was late. Ever have one of those days when absolutely nothing goes right? Well, this had been one. One of the County Commissioners I deal with had been complaining about a federal inspector. The inspector had been bitching about the county staff being uncooperative. The secretary threw a goddam tantrum.

THAT kind of a fucking day, you know.

The garage door opened obligingly and I parked the Yukon next to his baby, a little Fiat Spider that, as near as I could tell, worked about three days in seven. But I patted it on its pretty red hood as I walked by, headed for the back door.

The back door opens into a mudroom with the second door opening onto the kitchen.

When I opened the door, there he stood, and I felt the tension of this bitchy day start to leave me.

David is so damn cute he's almost pretty. A little under half my age, a student, an interesting and enjoyable companion, he was also the most attentive roommate one could want. He was standing there, dressed in an apron and nothing else, holding a screwdriver out to me.

I smiled. Not one of my grins that I practice in the mirror to pacify irritated elected officials or bureaucrats, but a real smile as I said, softly, "bless you," and took a drink, the orange juice and vodka almost immediately calming my nerves.

He took my hand and led me into the front room. He had me sit in the overstuffed wingback chair I had purchased on a whim one time at an estate auction and found to be comfortable.

"Relax," he said, taking my left foot into his lap and getting the shoe off. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt more tension leave my body as he began rubbing my foot.

He didn't say anything, just did the other foot.

Then he kissed me, a soft kiss, whispered, "stay put," and went into the kitchen.

He was back in just a minute and offered me his hand. He helped me stand and then got back to his knees, slipped his hands under my skirt, and rolled my pantyhose down. I sat and he took them off and went back into the kitchen.

He was back in a couple of minutes, this time with a small tub filled with steaming water. I caught the faint scent of Epsom salts as he sat it at my feet. I hissed softly as I put my feet into the VERY hot water, took a drink, closed my eyes, and leaned back.

He moved to stand behind the chair and started rubbing my shoulders, digging hard into the big, tight muscle that ran from my neck to the roundness of my shoulder. I sighed.

"Marry me," he said, not quite a whisper but barely audible, his breath warm in my ear.

"No," I said for about the nine-hundredth time.

He worked on my shoulders some more.

"Marry me," he said again.

"No," I said again.

He chuckled, very softly, and said, "Okay, relax then."

He went back into the kitchen and I enjoyed watching him go. David is 24, less than half my age, and still slender, his body still the high school championship swimmer he had been.

He was back in a few minutes, carrying a tray. He set the tray on the couch, pulled a chair over beside mine, put the tray on his lap, and started feeding me.

"Relax, Susan," he said, "I can always tell when you've had a bad day. Now let me take care of you."

So I laid my head back and just let him feed me.

He does things like that. It's such a delightfully, wonderfully intimate thing. I know I tend to kind of wallow in the attention but, well, there it is. I ain't apologizing.

"Marry me," he said, wiping my chin.

I smiled and said, "no."

He's getting to be a good cook. Tonight was pot roast and I felt bad for being so late. He likes to have a sit-down dinner, and I hate it when I miss them.

Fed and full, I watched him carry the tray into the kitchen and then come back with a fluffy towel. He got to his knees again, and lifted one foot at a time, drying it carefully, making me giggle when he did piggies-to-market on my toes.

When he was done he carried the little tub into the kitchen and then came back. He helped me to stand and then walked me into the bedroom where he undressed me.

It was an odd combination of casual and sensual. He eased the jacket off and carefully hung it as I stood still. He unbuttoned my blouse and pulled it free of the skirt and tossed it into the hamper. He unbuttoned and unzipped my skirt and hung it.

Then he kissed me. I always enjoy being undressed by him. It makes me feel young again.

He reached around and unhooked my bra and when I felt my boobs sag I was reminded of the difference in our ages. He pushed my panties down and I stepped out of them, naked now before him and liking the way he looked at me.

Then he finished our, well, "ritual" is too strong a word, but "process" sounds too cold. Our, well, our "greeting." He walked me to the full-length mirror on the closed door and stood behind me as I looked.

"Marry me, gorgeous," he said, his hands on my hips, nuzzling my neck.

"No," I said, smiling, and looking.

Not bad, I thought, for pushing 60 pretty goddam hard. My hair was short and grey, but I'm one of those women who got lucky in the hair department. It's that silvery grey many women try for, often spending a lot of money, but rarely achieving it. My face wasn't bad, I tend to think of myself as "attractive" rather than "pretty" or "cute." My bones are good, my nose a bit oversized but straight, my eyes very dark brown and wide-set, my mouth is generous with full lips, my chin is what you'd call a "strong" chin in a man, my ears are small and close-set. Oh, and my teeth are my own. Not bleached, kind of ivory colored, and straight.

I have good shoulders too. I had run track in high school and been on a state championship cross country team. I was small-breasted until I got pregnant and then I ballooned from a B cup to a D cup and they never went away. I'm one of those women who lost the fight with gravity early, but my glands always remained large so my boobs droop, looking kind of like oversize oranges hanging in skin-colored bags. Blue veins made an interesting map and my nipples, very dark and always big on even bigger areolas, tightened as I looked.

But working down, well, things weren't real good. When menopause stuck I suddenly seemed to lose all of my fat cells. That meant that what had been a bit of a pot belly was suddenly a wrinkled pouch with my navel, a deep innie, right in the middle.

Farther down, I had always been natural until David started trimming. Now my pubic hair, still dark, was trimmed to a short dark triangle, terminating at the top of the slit of my vaginal opening clitoral hood. My labia, always full, was smooth and on display, with just a hint of delicate pink inner lips peeking out. My thunder thighs, my saddlebags, were on display, the ONLY place menopause had left me any fat cells. No thigh gap for me. They tapered down to fairly slender calves, remains of my running days.

I smiled.

All in all, not bad for 59.

His hands were still on my hips and he whispered, "Marry me, gorgeous."

I giggled and said, "no."

He sighed theatrically but then held out my light robe and helped me put it on.

"Come on," he said, taking my hand and leading me into the front room. He made me a screwdriver and brought it in and handed it to me. He sat, then, on the edge of the couch, and pulled me gently over until my head was in his lap.

It's funny, in a way. This was part of our evening routine and although my head was about one inch from his cock, and a very nice cock it was too, this wasn't a sexual encounter. Well, it didn't START as a sexual encounter anyway. Instead, he started stroking my hair.

"Tell me of your day," he said.

And for the next half hour, I got to vent.

While I was talking his fingers eased down, finding my nipples and making little electric shocks running between them and my clitoris. He tickled his way down and found my belly button, making me giggle, and then down.

After three years together, he knew me better than anyone ever had. His fingertip found my clitoris and touched, lightly, bringing a little gasp from me.

"Keep talking," he said, his left hand stroking my hair while his right gave me little shocks of delight.

So I went back to talking about the shitstorm that had been my day.

"So," he said, "do you think they have anything to worry about with those inspectors that have everybody so nervous?"

I giggled and went back to telling him about what was going on. He was always interested in the intricacies of the goofiness involved in getting federal money.

"I don't think so," I said, and then launched into a discussion of how we monitored the funds pretty carefully.

His finger was busy again, and I felt the delightful fullness deep in my belly, that wonderful pressure that he gave me like no one ever had.

I could feel the wetness between my leg, and that pressure building, that tingling and burning and itching combination as he continued, lightly stroking my hair, and his fingertip continued brushing so lightly.

He had me RIGHT there. My body was starting to strain for its release.

"And what was your Secretary's freak-out about?" he asked, breaking the moment, as he knew how to do, making it last for both of us.

My need for release retreated a bit and I started explaining how Tricia, the office's long-standing secretary, had gone into a screaming fit when Gil, the guy who handled our business financing operation, had brought in another complex deal scribbled on the back of a bar napkin.

He got the giggles at that, as I started describing the language she had used.

But his finger never stopped, and my need was building again.

I was pretty well wound down by then, with my day, so I started rocking my hips.

"Please, baby," I said.

"Marry me," he said.

"No," I said.

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm," he hummed and his hand moved up my belly to play with my boobs.

"Please, baby," I said again, pushing his hand down.

"Marry me," he said.

"No," I said.

He pushed me clear and stood.

"Maybe drugs will help," he said and disappeared into the kitchen.

The ache in my belly was demanding attention, but I ignored it.

He was back in just a minute or so with a joint and a Bic lighter.

He lifted my head, sat, and laid me back onto his lap, then laid the heavy, and cold, ashtray on my belly.

He lit the joint, took a hit, hissing it deep into his lungs, and offered it to me.

We took three hits on the joint, no more. It's VERY good pot and the fourth would have had us both snoring.

When he leaned forward to put the ashtray on the coffee table his cock was right there so I kissed it. He smiled.

"Now," he said, his fingertip finding where my love button was hard and throbbing, "where was I."

"Right THERE!" I said as he pressed gently, almost taking me over the top.

"Oh, yeah," he said, making soft little circles that made me moan in turn.

"Do you want me to make you cum?" he asked, almost conversationally.

"You know I do," I said.

"Just yes or no," he said, making me gasp with what he was doing. My legs were sort of bicycling, my hips were rocking, I could feel my nose running with my excitement, all of my mucus membranes working full out.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you like what I'm doing?" he asked, a sudden change in the speed of his fingertip making me gasp.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you love me?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, and I meant it. God help me, I meant it. I was head over heels, crazy, stupid in love with him.

"Do you want to cum?" he asked again.

"Yesssssssssssssss," I hissed.

"Will you marry me?" he asked.

"Ye-NO!" I said, giggling that he had almost caught me.

He was smiling down at me as the pressure and speed of his fingertip increased.

Another 10 seconds and he had me cumming like a garden hose. The pure pleasure, yes, the "ecstasy" of release had me. My world was reduced to what was between my legs and I liked it that way.

He kept me going through a dozen waves of orgasm until I was begging him to stop.

"Please, baby," I was sort of whining, "enough."

"Now," I said, finally getting my breathing under control, "tell me of YOUR day."

David is a Teaching Assistant at the local university while he's working on his Master's Degree. He's usually good for an interesting story from his students. I especially like the ones about the college girls who offer to "do anything" for a grade. He always tells them to study.

He says he'll try for a job teaching at a junior college when he's done, but honestly, I doubt it. If he stays with me, and God knows I'd like him to, I think he'll probably be a professional student. I have plenty of money. The divorce settlement still pays me exactly 49 percent of everything my ex-husband's practice brings in, and I'm reasonably well paid for running an agency.

But I do enjoy hearing about his classes, both the ones he's teaching and the ones he's taking.

He used the remote and turn on the TV then. The top-of-the-hour news to find out what the weather was going to be, and then to our DVR for a couple of "Big Bang Theory" reruns.

I love our quiet time.

I rolled over then and kissed his erection. I wasn't going to fellate him. I was just reminding him how much I appreciated him.

He stroked my hair softly and said, "marry me. Let me make you happy forever."

I smiled, kissed it again, and said, "no."

Then I rolled off the couch and smiled down at him.

"What's the line?" I asked, "take me to bed Goose, or lose me forever."

He smiled up at me and stood. "Come on, Maverick," he said, taking my hand.

I led him into the bedroom and enjoyed the little courtesy as he slipped the robe off of me and hung it carefully.

I watched as he turned down the bed and fluffed the pillows. I LOVED watching him do domestic things like that.

He held my hand as I got up onto the bed and then crawled in beside me.

"What is your pleasure tonight my darling?" he asked, "gentle or rough, giving or receiving?"

I giggled softly. "After the day I had today?" I asked, "be rough with me, baby. Make me vent."

His fingers entwined in my hair then, tight, twisting, making me gasp.

"Are you sure?" he asked, kissing me very softly on the cheek.

I smiled up at him, found my nipple and areola with my thumb and forefinger, and twisted, hard enough to make myself gasp. But it's just not the same when you do it yourself, you know?

He twisted his fingers in my hair, making me cry out softly, and forced me to roll over.

I knew I was in for a long night when he rolled out of bed and opened our toybox. I watched, with a mixture of fear and excitement as he selected four restraints, padded leather cuffs attached to bright chrome chains. Things we had bought at a medical supply store. And then he brought out the birch switch and I felt my bowels loosen as he swung it experimentally a couple of times and it made a soft whistling sound.

"I need to go the bathroom, baby, please," I said, knowing that sometimes he might say "no."

But he let me so I went in and the adrenaline-induced diarrhea was explosive.

When I was done I knew I would be a mess so I grabbed the bottle of Listerine under the bathroom sink, got a mouthful, and turned on the shower. I cleaned up and then dried, kind of surprised he hadn't joined me.

When I walked back into the bedroom I saw that he had the bed arranged for a night of bondage and my knees got weak.

The thing that keeps me so in love with David is his creativity. I know that no matter how long we are together, it will never be boring. Besides that, he knows my moods now, and he can always give me what I need.

"You made me wait," he said, giving me his GRIN that always got to me, "so I've changed my mind."

I said nothing.

"Up on the bed, on your back," he said.

I heard myself moan softly, but I got up onto the bed and laid on my back.

"I think," he said, almost conversationally as he locked my left wrist into the cuff that was secured, now, to the eyebolt discretely screwed into the back of the headboard, "that tonight you'll get a striping," as he joined the two cuffs at the foot of the bed and secured my ankles together before securing the chain to another eyebolt, this one at the bottom of the footboard.

"You do seem QUITE tense tonight," he continued in that same tone as he locked my right wrist into the cuff on that side and then drew the chain taut through the eyebolt before locking it in place with a little carabiner.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked.

"Please," I said, already smelling my arousal in the air.

He flashed the GRIN again. The thing about David is, I know he enjoys everything we do together. I think that's why I'm still in love with him.

"Well, then," he said, and his voice had taken on a different tone now, "let's make it special."

I watched him go to the toybox again and come out with a sleep mask, a very efficient blindfold. Then the little earplugs he used when we went shooting, very efficient sound blockers. He went to the closet, rummaged in the hamper, and came out with a pair of my panties that he carefully folded into a small square and then said, "open your mouth."

I opened my mouth and he stuffed the panties in, gagging me effectively. The blindfold took away my sight, the earplugs took away my hearing.

My nose was swollen, my mucus membranes working hard, keeping up with what was going on between my legs and reacting to my, well, my fear and excitement. I huffed out a deep breath and felt snot on my upper lip, running down my cheeks.

I flinched when I felt the switch touch my skin, slowly tickling across my skin from hipbone to hipbone, tracing a line of goosebumps across the top of the delta of my pubic hair.

It took a few seconds to get my breathing back under control, the fear had me panting.

But I did.

And then, with no warning, there was a line of fire where he had traced.

I screamed, well, I tried to scream. What came out is better written as "aunnnghmpfffffff."

When I drew in a sharp intake of breath snot from my runny nose made me cough and the gag made me snort out a gout of snot through my nose instead. My body wanted to curl around where I hurt, but all I could manage was writhing a little.

He was kissing my cheek, stroking my hair while I got myself under control.

I had barely relaxed when another line of fire, this one an inch above the first, had me screaming and writhing again. The blindfold was wet with my tears.

His lips, soft, his hands, gentle, calmed me.

The next line of pure agony was an inch below the first, striking my hips and the roundness of my mons veneris, my Mound of Venus.

His lips. His hands. My uncontrolled shaking.

The next line was above the second, across the roundness of my belly, below my belly button.

I was trying to beg him to stop, but the gag wouldn't let me.

The next line was below, cutting across my clitoral hood and that line of fat where my thighs met my body.

I thought I was going to faint. I was sobbing and coughing, snot was flying everywhere.

The next line was right at my belly button and I came. I came explosively. I could feel my release soaking my thighs. A picture taken right then would have probably shown only the back of my head and my heels touching the mattress.

I felt him releasing my ankles and then pushing my legs apart. He pulled the panties out of my mouth, and I gasped, my first full breath since he had started. He pulled the plugs from my ears, and the casual sounds of the house and our breathing was almost deafening.

The blindfold remained on, and my arms remained stretched out in the crucifixion position.

"Feeling better?" he asked, as he slipped inside of me.