The List

So you try to restrict yourself to texting. (Is it wrong that both of you use so many emojis? It seems so juvenile but you can't help but giggle when he texts:

raindrops. tongue. heart.).

*********

It doesn't work. You want his voice in your ear like his tongue in your ass. (OMG did you really think that? The memory makes you blush. If you could, you'd blush about blushing. What would he call that? Blushing squared...?)

Turkish coffee. You must remind yourself. Just a little bit...

The phone buzzes. He texts you: Are you awake? It's barely 6 AM.

Yes. He's an early riser. Or maybe he just works weird hours because he can.

What are you doing? What should you be doing? Sleeping. Getting ready to get up for work. But - honestly - that wasn't what you were doing...He couldn't know...

Stop. What? How could he know you had your hand between your legs, not really doing anything. Not yet. It's kind of your morning routine. Hell, even your nurse practitioner says it's good for you. Use it or lose it.

You text back: Why? And immediately notice that you'd didn't even bother to ask him what it was you should stop.

Call me. I want you hear you.

You've already got the phone in your hands. You could turn the speaker function and put it on the pillow. Where his head should be...

You hesitate, look at the clock. You haven't got long.

The phone rings. He's not going wait for you to decide.

You don't have to answer shoots through your head the same minute you feel your finger hits accept.

Good morning, milkshake, he purrs. (Yes, he calls you 'milkshake'. For obvious reasons. It's the dumbest - the best - nickname you've ever had.).

Are you wet? It's a stupid question and he knows it. How do you even answer that? 'Very' sounds lame so you put the phone near your pussy and move your fingers against yourself till the sticky clicking sound is audible.

Mmmmm...delicious. Have you got your toy? As if you were some sort of poodle, eager to play tug of war with her master...

Yes. He chuckles a bit and your pussy clenches automatically.

Can you reach your ben wa balls? (????)

Yes, you mutter, wondering what for? Get them.

You reach for the toy bag under the bed and rummage around till you have two sets.

Spread your lips and put two in. You cringe. "Your lips" - it sounds so clinical. And graphic. That's the scientist in him.

Ok, you tell him. They slide in effortlessly. Why shouldn't they? You're so wet you could have thrust a bowling ball up there.

Do you feel full? There it is again. His tag line. Which would be cliched if only it weren't the subtitle of all your fantasies. You recall that first night, him leaning over you, some unknown number of those clever fingers deep inside your pussy, so close but not quite yet where you instinctively know he's going to put them. A moment later, when they land on X or G or C spot, you're gasping as he says, almost nonchalantly, as if he is simply stating facts -

Do you feel full?

But this time you answer: No.

No? Put in another one.

You do. You know you can do more. But you also know - he's inventive. He's not going to ask you to do something he already knows you can.

Better? It is better, you think, but it's still not... him.

"Yes, Doctor, I feel better now. I guess I'll be going...Thanks so much."

Not so fast, milkshake. I'm not done with you yet.

Of course not.

Take your toy. (??? - now what?)

Put it in your mouth. You do. He must hear the glass clink against your teeth.

Down. As far as it can go. What?

You heard me. You push the glass toy towards your non-existent tonsils until you make a small but ugly chocking sound.

Good girl. Now put it in your cunt. He knows you prefer the word 'cunt' to 'pussy'. 'Pussy' implies something weak. 'Cunt' is a word of power. Still - when he says it, it's shocking. Dirty. Beyond dirty. It makes your clit sizzle.

You stutter for a moment - how?

Just do it.

You do and the sensation takes your breath away. Somehow the toy nudges a ball deeper inside. Like when the ball hits the lead pin and they all come crashing down...

Milkshake...stay with me.

He knows you're beginning to zone out. Your rendezvous made it clear that you get lazy, stupid and unfocused when you're about to orgasm.

You like that, don't you? You can practically picture the smile behind the words.

He already knows too much. Way too much. But there's no way to take it back.

Now stir.

It's a strange, insane request. He wants you to stir the ben wa balls inside you with a glass g-spot wand. Why the hell...? It's not a fucking cooking show.

"And now, ladies, stir vigorously so as to ..."

So as to what?

Do it.

It's a strange, insane suggestion and yet everything he's done so far has been so weird and wonderful that you can't help but do what he asks. You stir.

And what you stir up is almost beyond the power of description. They put those stupid moving ball chains in vibrators. Those tiny little bearing balls. And they're supposed to stimulate...something. That's nothing.

This - on the other hand...

The balls' churning is like something rising from the ocean floor, something you've never seen before. Something powerful and primitive.

RELEASE THE KRAKEN!

You've touched so many places inside you're already almost weak with pleasure, You want to stop but ...

Harder.

"Harder?" you gasp.

Harder.

You do. You push the toy in deeper. You really put your strength into it. When it starts, the orgasm is un-human and the sounds it wrings from you are some something like a hiss, a growl and a keening.

That's it, you hear him say from far away. That's it. I want you to sound like an animal in heat. And you do.

He can't see you but he can hear that you are crying. Sobbing somewhere on the unthinkable edge between exquisite pleasure and serious pain. Your whole body is shaking and it doesn't stop even after you've pulled the wand out - pulled the 'want' out.

There is silence from the other end of the phone. You half expect to hear him say 'That's it' again, or something like that but he doesn't.

Instead he says: I wish I could be there to hold you.

Imagine he's a coach. Imagine this is a ball game. You lost it. You lost it - BIG TIME. It is no underestimate to say you totally fell apart.

Which is what he wanted. Must have wanted. After all, he coached you to this - the point where you're a shaking, slobbering mess and yet, what he wants now is to do nothing more than hold you.

No more home runs. No more cheering form the grandstands.

Just the quiet bench. The quiet bed.

Part of you wants to be just about sex. About kink. About him experimenting on you and you letting him. But, in the back of your mind, you realize you want this, too - the soft shoulder, the easy sleep.

Are you ok?

Oh god, he's still there. When you've reconstituted enough, you answer - yes. Thank you.

There it is again. That adorable laugh.

My pleasure.

******************************

PRO

good with technology

So good, in fact, you weigh the possibility of just using him for phone sex. After all, over the phone you can pretend he's any age you want him to be. Or that you don't know how old he is at all. Pretend he's some sort of anonymous voice you call for a service - like the time announcement you remember from childhood, only sexier. It's hard not to smirk when you think that he wouldn't even know what that was...

In the week before the concert, you go about your business but - somehow - thoughts of him are always lurking in the background.

You need to pick up lunch for work - 'something from Amy's ...' and the next thing you know you've got palak paneer in your hand and you're wondering if this is something he likes. If he's ever made it. All of which leads to a vision of

of his hands, of him slowly chopping something, the knife moving rhythmically on the wooden board. The cold box feels like a coal in your hand and you almost fling it into the cart, your face suddenly on fire.

After work, you and your colleagues hang around for a glass of bubbly. E is newly single. She's 37 and eager to finally meet someone and settle down to make babies but everyone she's meeting seems to already have children. Well, the others tell her, that makes sense. After all, at that age - of course, you would have been in a relationship, right? One of the older women laughs and jokes - guess you need a younger man. Maybe someone fresh out of professional school. 31 perhaps. Someone with a good degree - like a doctor or something.

Or Batman, E retorts, pouring herself some more sparkling wine while all the women laugh together and agree - there is no such thing. At least no such thing that's not hopelessly socially awkward. You're dying to yell: OH YES THERE IS. I'VE ACTUALLY MET HIM. (ACTUALLY DONE HIM) But, of course, you don't. And even if you did - who would believe you?

Especially since you don't always believe it yourself.

Browsing the shelves at Cafe de la Press, you see a French edition of Elle with Brigitte Macron on the cover. Your French is beyond rusty but you open it anyway, hoping to find out what it was - if what she saw in Emmanuel was the same thing you found in him. You stop reading when you get to the quote from her fifteen year old daughter about the classmate who would go on to be her step-father: "He knows everything. "

You close the magazine quickly, feeling like you were caught stealing, or looking at porn in public.

Other headlines scream at you: How having a younger lover can keep you young. Really? You're not so sure. Keep you young or kill you. You look in the mirror. Surely you look like you always did. It's not as if anyone is following you around remarking on how you glow now... And yet, you find yourself running your hands over your breasts, thinking about how he did, and smiling because they're still firm and just the size to fill his palm. Like it or not, you'd be lying if it didn't tickle you to think that no one looking at you would guess you're a...

cougar, let alone a ... milkshake.

The day of the concert draws closer. He insists he's absolutely interested in the concert. Honestly. I used to be a drummer. Well, that explains a lot. They always say that drummers get all the chicks. Good sense of rhythm and all that, you think, and feel your face run hot again.

You can pick me up at my hotel.

His hotel. You hadn't actually discussed this part but you like that he hasn't assumed anything. At least not about the sleeping arrangements.

I want to edge you, he says.

Good luck with that, you think. One of the few good things about getting older, you've found, is an ability to orgasm faster. Maybe it's that last ditch surge of estrogen before it's all gone, or maybe it's that now you actually know what really gets you off. Regardless - if you want to come, you will and there's nothing he could do to stop that.

You laugh.

What's so funny?

You, you answer, thinking you can keep me from coming.

You think I can't?

I know you can't, you answer. Not if I want to. And why would you? I can always come again. (In contrast to you, you think but don't share.)

He doesn't say anything. See? You were right. He knows he can start the avalanche but he can't control it once it gets going...

We'll see about that, milkshake, he finally answers. Let the boy believe it, you think to yourself. No harm in that.

Little did you know...

The morning of the concert he sends you a list. A wish list - of sorts.

hash lube (Ok, that's fun but the last time you used it, it made you crazy horny. You told him that and still he thinks he can edge you? Hahaha)

A butt plug. Which one, you ask?

Send me a photo, he replies, so you line up all your plugs. Sure enough, he picks the stainless steel one you've never been able to insert yourself. Of course. Geez.)

Bring a funnel, he says. A FUNNEL? You don't even want to know.

Want me to bring a cock ring? you ask.

Sure, he answers.

How about another cock? you add.

Would you like that? he replies evenly. Just like that. You want another man in the mix and he seems perfectly amenable. When you think of all the men - grown men - you've known who have refused to have a second cock in the room... The same men who would have been more than happy to have an extra woman to play with.

Have you ever done that before?

Yes. Of course. You say it to yourself again. Of course he has. Why do you even bother asking anymore?

And you were ok with that?

Why wouldn't I be? You can picture the bemused little smile. And - while you're inwardly steaming at all the lost opportunities over the years, all the times you've hinted and finally straight out asked - he adds:

If it makes you happy, why not?

Why not?

There it is again. That weird combination of almost jaded nonchalance and adolescent eagerness to please. As always, you're crazy charmed by it.

The night of the concert, when you see him standing in the hotel parking lot - in a hoodie, for Christ sake! - it hits you again. He's shifting his weight from one foot to another. You can tell he's uncomfortable. Or maybe it's just impatience.

You realize with a start it's the hotel he's not used to and suddenly you feel a surge of... What? Power? Experience? Here you've got the upper hand.

Or so you think.

The room is nothing special. Serviceable. You're wearing a wrap dress, mules.

The thought occurs to you that everything you've put on you've chosen because it's easy to slip off. It's immediately clear that that's not lost on him. In no time,

his hand is on your waist where the dress is tied. He's not opening it.

Not yet.

You turn and kiss him.

Ready?

For what?

For the concert, silly. You size him up. Oh well. It's Sebastopol. They're ok with bohemian.

Do you own anything other than sneakers?

Does it matter? He laughs and you know he's thinking - they're going to come off anyway. Why do you care?

And - truth be told - you don't care much. At that moment, you're more concerned with the notion that you'll be sitting next to each other for 2 hours. In public.

Can you behave for the next two hours?

He looks almost angelic as he answers: You think I can't?

I'm not sure.

It's as if that sentence gives him permission to...

Misbehave?

Is that what you call it when he grabs the back of your neck and pushes you face forward to the bed. In a flash, his leg is between yours, pushing them apart. You can feel his breath right next to your ear, murmuring.

You sure you want to go to this concert?

You protest. Hey - I bought the tickets...

Are you sure... Milkshake?

And as he says that, you realize his inquiring fingers have made their way up your legs to your thong.

Your sopping wet thong.

Tell me, Milkshake. Tell me how much you want to go to the concert.

He's dipping his fingers into you and you can hear him sucking your wetness off them even as he presses you harder into the bed.

Just a little taste before we go. Yes?

With that you feel him move to kneel behind you.

Oh - oh no. No no no no

Just a little, Mmmil

He doesn't finish his sentence. Or - if he does - you don't hear it, muffled as it is in your muff. His tongue is talking to your cunt so you needn't pay attention. They will work out the details between them.

You're moaning now and trying somehow to rub yourself into the edge of the bed because that way you can come.

Yes Yes if I angle — you think, but it's already too late.

His head has popped back up from under your dress and you're about to protest when he says - calmly, firmly -

I don't think so.

WHAT? FUCK! There is no way —

But there he is, pulling you up - just slightly - by your stupid wrap dress belt, just far enough to keep you from...

Oh no you don't, Milkshake. Did you forget what I said?

What did he say? He talks A LOT when the day's long.

WHO THE FUCK CARES WHAT HE SAID?! You're so close. The bastard. He should...

You want to come, don't you? You want to come worse than you want to go to that concert. Isn't that right, Milkshake?

Right. He's right and he knows it. Why argue a lost cause?

Say it.

Say what? You ask. You're stupid with lust right now and why does he want to TALK when it's clear that if he'd only...

Say it. Say you want to come more than you want to go to the concert.

He lowers you just a tad toward to the bed and his other hand inches up just slightly towards your pussy, just enough to make you leak some more. You'd suck him in if you could. If only he'd...

Yes. Yes.

Yes what?

Yes. I want to come worse than I want to go to the concert. It's an incredibly long sentence and you have to breath twice to get it all out when all you really want is to...

Please.

What was that, Milkshake? I didn't hear you.

Your plea actually makes him stop, though he starts to kneel again and you let out a deep breath.

Oh yes - it WILL happen. He will...

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

He sighs. That's better.

And pulls down your panties with one swift motion. Before you've even registered your sudden nakedness, his fingers are in you. Probing. Just a little.

More gently than you'd like. You squirm agains them.

Hold still or I'll stop, he says softly. So you do.

You hold still. As long as you can. But you can't hold out all that long against that talented hand. In a fog you think - how can he get...and his thumb on my clit...he can't ... he doesn't...

But he does. And when he starts licking your ass while he strokes your pussy from inside you stop asking yourself if he's some sort of multi handed mutant because right then you seriously don't care if he's an alien from outer space or something that belongs in a medieval Wunderkammer, you just want him to...

And then he stops.

Just stops.

You could kill him. If ever you've know the urge to cold blooded murder, it's now.

Con

MOTHERFUCKING RAT BASTARD WHO THINKS —

We could still make to the concert: You hear him say in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone of voice. What the hell ...?

He's clearly waiting for you to answer him.

Milkshake...?

FUCK THE CONCERT! You're actually surprised how loud you shout it. The sound echos in your ear, just above the sound of his amused laughter.

I thought you'd say that.

Even with one hand firmly engaged in your cunt, it sounds to you like he's rummaging around in the bag you brought.

Pro

good at multi-tasking

Hmmmmm...,he says. It's somewhere between a hum of pleasure and an analytic consideration.

And - whatever it is - it's suddenly cold against your ass hole.