The Ottoman

Catherine Carroll rolled over on the plush mattress and looked out of her window over the Swinomish Channel in Western Washington state.

Her distended and generous pussy lips still throbbed and dripped liberally from the vigorous masturbation session she had just completed. She ran her palm over her mons leisurely, massaging the moisture from the saturated, soft curls of her pubic hair framing her recently sated cunt into her skin.

"A tonic for her soul and libido, an elixir, if you will," she thought to herself. "Nothing is better for the complexion than a fresh coating of cum."

Except perhaps for a man's cum, she mused, smiling at the thought of her fantasy lover, a stranger, fucking her intensely on the large ottoman that served as the centerpiece of this room in the quaint bed and breakfast, and then showering her with his semen.

But, for now, at least, her trusty rabbit vibrator and knowing fingers sufficed more than satisfactorily this early Spring weekday afternoon.

This was just what the doctor ordered. Not that she had consulted with a doctor, per se, but if she had, well, a prescription for some 'alone time' would have been a piece of medical genius.

Yes, we all need to get away occasionally, Catherine rationalized, trying to clear her mind of some of the greater issues of her domestic life. True, she had it better than most wives, much better, she had to admit.

Her husband of well over two decades was still virile and attentive, but as often happens over the course of a long marriage, no matter how solid the bond, the frequency and intensity of their sex life had abated significantly in recent years.

Catherine had taken the ferry over from Victoria in British Columbia to Anacortes on the American side , and then made the short trek down to this lovely little village, La Conner, that she had heard so much about.

She had checked herself in to this bed and breakfast for a two-night stay, content to pamper herself with some rest and relaxation, a little shopping in the small town's boutiques, and ample samplings of the fine chardonnays that this region was known for.

Catherine rinsed away her musings with a long hot soak in the in-room Jacuzzi, and then a warm, cleansing shower. She examined herself in the mirror after slipping on a sheer, white thong that barely covered the thick folds of her labia. She also put on a gold belly chain that wrapped around her waist.

As she caressed her lithe, mature body, she glanced at that ottoman again. Her eyes were continually drawn to it, not just in admiration of the lush leather finishes. Catherine couldn't help but think how many guests ended up using the furniture accessory item as a play toy for their carnal activities.

"It's absolutely made for sex," she said to herself, her hands casually rubbing her breasts. "Yes, it's beautifully, classically crafted, but come on, what can't you help but think of when you see it? Why else is it in the room?"

Catherine found that her mind wandered more and more to all things sexual recently, sensuously rubbing the vanilla body lotion over her chest, pinching and twisting the nipples as she massaged the cream into her pores.

Her perpetually sensitive nipples had been on full alert since her visit to the day spa earlier that afternoon, which, of course, eventually resulted in her solo pleasure session.

Catherine had recently turned fifty, a milestone for any woman. Yet, she smiled at the reflection staring back at her. She liked what she saw, and she knew that most men did as well. She could turn the heads of men half her age, as indicated by the comments of one of the twenty-something crew on the ferry a few hours ago.

As she walked to the terminal, the young man tipped his hat as he opened Catherine's car door for her. The hem on her dress had risen well above mid-thigh as she eased into the driver seat, a sight which did not go unnoticed by the valet.

"We hate to see you go, ma'am, but it's been my great pleasure to watch you leave," he smiled before giving her a big goodbye grin.

That parting acclamation was enough to keep Catherine's pussy moist for hours, and the self-release that she had already provided to herself earlier was only a brief respite from the incessant churning in her loins. She was interminably horny today, even by her own standards. She smiled at the realization that she desperately craved a good, strong.........

".....chardonnay. Yes, that's what I need," Catherine mumbled to her image. "A buzz to match the one in my pussy. God, who would have ever thought that my hormones would be running so rampant at fifty?"

All in all, Catherine was a pretty amazing package for a fifty-year-old. She was on the tall side, 5'7" in bare feet, and close to six feet tall when adorned in the heels that she loved to wear.

She weighed 140 lbs, but was trying hard to get back to 130 lbs... much better for the beach, she giggled. A natural brunette, but age now required that she use hair color to maintain it. Currently her hair was shorter than she was accustomed to keeping it... a bob with a 'just been fucked' look was how she termed it, for lack of a better description.

Her breasts were full, and sagged only slightly, just enough to add to the allure of her womanly body. Her stomach was still mostly flat, just the hint of a slight curve between her belly button and pussy.

Her bush was immaculately trimmed in a neat inverted triangle, with just a few wisps of gray in her sparse pubic hair. Catherine liked this, paradoxically. If it was on my head, she admitted, I'd be tripping over myself to dye it brown. But she thought the grudging concession to age looked erotically sexy above her crotch. She was right.

She turned sideways to admire the shape of her buttocks, still high and firm, a rear end that could be the envy of women fifteen to twenty years her junior. And an obvious source of enjoyment for men aged eighteen to eighty.

But it was Catherine's legs that were her best feature, and she knew it. They were long, lean, and thinly muscled, testimony to the athlete that she once was, and still fancied herself to be. Her calves were toned from decades of regular running and aerobics, which also served to keep her thighs taut and slim.

She still had that telltale little "gap" between her legs, "Inner Thigh Clearance", she called it, which was uncommon for a woman of almost any age, never mind one on the north side of the half-century mark. Legend had it that such a "crack" was attributable to good body structure and a fit lower torso. Either that, or a woman had sex a lot.

Catherine chalked it up to good bone structure and fitness, for sure, smiling to herself as she slipped on a flowered sundress over her shoulders. The dress was her first indulgence on her trip thus far. She bought it in one of those little boutiques shortly after arriving in town. She might be venturing out to dinner by herself later on, but dammit, she was going to look and feel mah-vah-lous while doing so, she told herself, smoothing the hem.

She would go braless tonight, also, that's what solo road trips were for, to do things you wouldn't necessarily do at home. Her nipples expressed their excitement at their unexpected freedom by pointing proudly against the thin cotton of the dress.

Catherine threw a baby blue silk shawl over her bare shoulders. She then headed down to the lobby after slipping on her favorite Jimmy Choo snake-print platform thong sandals with three-inch cork wedge heels for the complimentary wine and cheese 'happy hour' offering by the host and hostess of the inn.

She was well into her second glass of an especially musky vintage from Woodinville when he walked into the lobby. From her spot on the patio, Catherine peered in through the half-closed Venetian blinds, trying to sneak a peek like a teenager at a school dance.

"Mmmm, crisp white shirt," Catherine said softly while running her finger over the wine glass rim. "I do so love a handsome man in a crisp white shirt and tie." She instinctively squeezed her legs together, conscious that the incessant moistness between them just became even pronounced.

She turned away when he finished the check-in process, aware that he had spotted her. She pretended to find something that captured her visual attention in the far away horizon of the Cascades mountains, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him approach, a travel bag tossed over his shoulder.

He appeared to be her age, maybe a few years older, early fifties, tops. He had close cropped salt and pepper hair and his green eyes twinkled as he examined her sitting in her cedar Adirondack chair. Now feeling the effects of the wine, Catherine returned his gaze and examined him in return.

She guessed he was maybe just shy of six feet tall, a bit stocky, no, muscular, the torso of a former athlete perhaps. Cute in a ruggedly preppy way, like an adolescent in accelerated development, with the mischievous smile of a schoolboy cutting class.

"Ah, there you are," he said, plopping his bag down on the deck, addressing Catherine like a long-lost crony. He eyeballed the glass in her manicured hands. He studied for a second how her finger circled lazily over the rim. "Started without me, I see. Good for you."

Catherine played along, eager to have a companion in the almost empty inn. And a good-looking one at that. What was it that the doctor ordered...?

"Well, you're late. Serves you right for missing the beginning of happy hour." She waved her hand around the solitary porch. "I chased off everyone else so that there'd still be some wine left over for stragglers like you."

"How kind of you," the new arrival replied graciously. He took the glass from her palm with such a casual ease that Catherine barely knew it was no longer in her hand until it wasn't. "So the least I can do is buy you the next round and join you." He walked back inside the lobby and emerged with two full goblets. He returned her glass and clinked it with his own.

"Cheers," he said, holding up his glass. "John."

Catherine held up her own glass and raised it to her lips. "Cheers to you as well, kind sir. Catherine."

He slipped in to the chair directly across from Catherine and his eyes dipped to her legs, now exposed well above the knee. Catherine noticed his gaze and parted her legs almost imperceptibly. She liked being admired, and by a handsome admirer at that.

"You stole my room, Catherine," he said, looking at her with a mock austere glare.

For a second, Catherine became defensive, not knowing the intent of his accusation. "What? What do you.....I did not. I mean...well, what do you mean?"

John broke into a huge grin and took a sip of his wine in celebration. "Had ya going there for a minute, didn't I? What I meant was, I asked for the room that you're in when I checked in, and the woman told me that it was already occupied. By you. I stayed in that room last time I was here, and took a liking to it."

Catherine's relief was palpable. "Oh, you're a regular, are you? Why didn't you say so? No wonder you said 'Cheers'. You're like Normie from that old sitcom here, I assume. Where everybody knows your name, isn't that how the song went?"

He broke into song, and Catherine chimed in. They ended in tandem, "You wanna go where everybody knows your name........."

They clinked glasses again. "We make quite a duet," Catherine said.

John shook his head. "No, we sucked, actually. Good thing you chased away the crowd earlier or they would have booed us off the patio after that rendition."

Catherine rocked her head back in delight. "All those singing lessons that mom and dad bought for me, they'd be so distraught."

John raised a finger to his lips. "Sssh. I won't tell them. After all, what happens in La Conner, stays in La Conner. Isn't that how the commercial goes? or do I have my cities mixed up?"

"Just a bit," Catherine admonished.

John caught Catherine by surprise with his next comment. "Well, one thing this joint has that Vegas couldn't hope to match is the biggest ottoman on the planet. And it happens to be in YOUR room now, which should be MY room." John stuck out his lower lip and feigned a pout. "I'm jealous. You could land a 747 on that thing."

Again, Catherine found herself laughing at his words. She had known this man for what, three minutes, and their banter was that of long-lost familiar friends, as comfortable as...well, as comfortable as an old ottoman. And when an attractive man could make Catherine laugh, well, inevitably it resulted in Catherine's nipples getting harder and her curious cunt seeping aromatic nectars.

Catherine was acutely aware of both the flush on her face and the familiar throb in her oyster.

"So, Catherine," John said, picking up his bag and placing his wine glass on the porch ledge. "if you'll give me a few minutes to change into 'something more comfortable', I promise to treat you to the best salmon you've ever tasted. There's a restaurant down Maple Avenue called Kerstin's that has a deck that overlooks the channel. Great place to get drunk on wine and great conversation. And of course, afterwards we can indulge in sinful.....well, indulgences."

Catherine raised an eyebrow at this remark, although it was more for show. She had known this man for perhaps five minutes, yet had already begun to imagine how John's cock would taste in her mouth. The salmon would just be a palate cleanser. "Indulgences?" she asked.

John gave her a palms-up shrug. "Yeah, desserts. What did you think I meant?"

Catherine polished off her own glass, and sat watching the gulls circle the channel, diving for their own dinner. The wine had gone straight to her head. It had been awhile since she had a buzz on this early in the day, and the alcohol was lowering her inhibitions by the minute.

She rubbed her thighs together as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her labia were swollen with arousal to the point where they threatened to swallow the thin triangular wedge of her thong up into her slit. The satin was now pushed up into her gash and Catherine could feel the thin material begin to puddle.

"God, I'm going to stick to the seat," she thought, "That is, if I don't starve first," realizing she needed something in her stomach as much as she needed a hard cock in her cunt. First things first, though, she mused.

After all, when a strange man asks a woman to dinner, he does so only as a thinly veiled implication for other activities later in the evening. So wasn't it convenient that Catherine was all dressed up and had no place to go?

John was back before Catherine even was aware that he was now standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a golf sweater. The words came out of her mouth before she even could bite her tongue, the wine talking.

"Wow, you have great legs," she said, her voice unwittingly husky. John's legs were muscled but tapered, a product of many years of professional baseball in his younger years and good genes. Catherine couldn't help but to let her gaze linger as his third leg, too.

"Must be a lefty," she said to herself, admiring the indentation of a mushroom-shaped cock head hanging down from the left side of his crotch. "He packs light, I see. There can't be any underwear covering that appendage...."

John chuckled. "Now that's the pot calling the kettle black, or whatever that stupid saying is. YOU are the one with fabulous legs, you room-stealer, you." John did a pirouette, whirling on one foot like a ballet dancer. yet not quite as gracefully.

"But if you insist on ogling my legs, who am I to argue? A below-the-waist mutual admiration society." The double-entendre was not lost on Catherine.

John went on, "Now it won't make me feel so guilty when I ogle yours. Shall we?" He held out his arm in a crooked position, and Catherine placed her own arm in his, and they began the walk down the steps and toward the main street.

One of the local tourist attractions in La Conner is the fact that many of the restaurants have stone grills right on the sidewalks outside of their doors so that pedestrians can sample the wares of fresh seafood. The couple stopped at several of these locations, and Catherine made little appreciative groaning noises with each savory morsel she was fed by the generous restaurateurs.

Her pseudo-orgasmic utterances only served to further tantalize John, as he wondered if he would hear such moans of pleasure induced by non-culinary sensors after their meal. He watched in delight as she walked ahead of him to go from one restaurant to the next, sampling the delicacies of each.

Once seated in Kerstin's, on a corner table with a wonderful view of the nearby Rainbow Bridge, a suspension bridge that crossed the channel to Fidalgo Island, John ordered a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle. They enjoyed the ambiance and each other's company.

Neither asked any probing personal questions over dinner, and that was the way they both preferred it. This was a moment in time that neither had planned, and there was no reason to let the outside world interfere with their chemistry and the only night they would likely share. As Catherine savored the last of the wine, it dawned on her that she didn't even know John's last name. Nor did he ask hers.

Yes, that was just fine with her.

As the busboy cleaned their table, John looked at Catherine with a cat-ate-the-canary grin.

"What's so funny?" Catherine demanded, playfully slapping his arm, which gave her an excuse to touch him. Catherine liked to touch.

"Do you know every time one of the cooks out on the street gave you a treat, their eyes followed you down the block?" Catherine felt her face flush again from the compliment. She secretly loved to be watched by men, and often found great delight in surreptitiously providing men with the occasional flash of skin.

John continued. "But besides the obvious reason, which of course is your beauty, do you know what they were looking at?"

Catherine responded, "Not to sound vain, but I have a pretty good idea."

John nodded. "I see. Well, do you have any idea that as you were walking west, into the setting sun, that your dress is virtually transparent?"

Whatever blood that wasn't already swelling Catherine's labia rushed to her face. No, she hadn't even considered that. But neither did it bother her.

John leaned closer. "Why do you think I was walking behind you? You could see everything." John paused, letting his words pour slowly from his lips.

"Your entire silhouette. The curve of your body. The rise of your breasts. That tiny thong that looks like it is painted onto your butt and wedged up your crack....."

Catherine's own breathing was becoming more shallow now. John's narrative was as exciting as the realization that she was unwittingly exhibiting her torso in such an innocent yet blatant display.

John tried to lighten the sexual tension that was bubbling beneath the surface like a smoldering volcano in the distant mountain ranges.

"I offer this information strictly as a gentleman, for informational purposes only, you understand. Any indication of my own interest or arousal is purely circumstantial. Any jury would have no choice but to acquit me of any charges, having been lured into the temptations of voyeurism. It's a crime of passion, sure, but a victimless crime."

The levity worked its magic. Catherine rocked her head back in laughter. "So, I'm dining with a hardened criminal now, am I? Or would you plead that you were coerced?"

"Well, criminal, no. But hardened? Yep, I was guilty like any other man. Every single one of them was no doubt wanting they could......." His words trailed off. He looked into Catherine's bewitching brown-green eyes. He loved brown-green eyes, so seductive.

She leaned closer across the table. "Wanted to...what, John? What were those men...wanting....?" She wanted him to say it. She wanted to hear it.