Visiting Author

"Well," she said with a sigh, "Then we should make the most of it. Enjoy the view while you can."

I laughed, tossed her the bikini and starting taking off my clothes.

Rather than putting on her suit, Janet stood there, watching me undress. There was no more awkwardness, or embarrassment, but it was erotic. Watching her watch me get naked was thrilling. By the time I was pulling down my underwear, I was sporting another chubby.

"Hmmm, nice." She smiled.

"Thanks," I smiled back.

I started to fumble with my swim trunks as she stepped forward. "You're so pale," she said reaching up and lightly touching my chest. "And you have freckles everywhere."

"Oh, you have no idea. I'm so pale, I'm blue. I disappear in the pool during the day time. All you can see is my red hair."

I was thinking of the hair on my head, but she had other ideas. Her hand dropped to my crotch, her fingernail gliding through my pubic hair to feather light caress the top of my cock. It jumped, as if commanded it with a twitch of her finger, and she did.

She was close enough to me, I could feel her breath warm against my chest. I looked down; her breasts were inches away from pressing against my stomach. Her hand still caressing my cock, but with more intent. I could feel the warmth of her fingers stoking the heat of my passion.

At some point, she dropped the bikini and I dropped my swim trunks. She turned around and pressed her ass against my groin. "I'm pretty pale too. The color of my ass, which never sees the light of day, is just as pale as you are."

I agreed, but that's not what I was thinking. My erection was pressing between her legs, my hand automatically went to her hips, and I pushed against her. She reached out to put her hands against the door frame, bending her at the waist, pushing her ass harder against me. I could feel my cock straining against her legs, my imagination willing my cock to move, slide, throb, this way, then that to find a way in. She lifted one leg and stepped slightly right, and that was all it took for my cock to find its way home. First the head, slid up against the moist folds of her labia, but those quickly spread way for the lips of her vagina to kiss my cock. I shift my hips, and the head slipped inside, moist and hot. Within moments, thoughts gave way to primal passion, as I thrust against her again and again. I heard her call out, but it wasn't words, mindless, pre-language calls that transcend understanding. The room was filled with noises, the slapping of my thighs against the backs of hers, the groaning of muscles straining for releases, and the ever present satisfied hum of my cock.

When I did finally cum, it must have been quick, but it felt like eons, I didn't stop. I kept thrusting, kept cumming, kept throbbing. Eventually, I did slow down. Janet took the cue, turned around and kissed me hard on the lips. She wrapped a leg over my hip and then jumped to swing her other leg around me. I was still hard. So, when our hips pressed back together, I slid into once more. This time, it was not me providing the motion, but her. Janet swiveled her hips, her hands cupped my face, and her lips sought to devour me whole. More epochs passed until we found ourselves laying on the floor, her on top, still grinding her hips into mine.

The next season was slower. Janet rose to look at me, her hips still rotating. There was nothing to say, no words to express the pent up passion we were finally exploring. Then, she swung a leg over me, turned to face my still turgid cock, and bent down to kiss it with her lips. Something deep inside my imagination called out, "Find her silver ball. Where is her silver ball?" I lifted her by her hips and slid her body on top of mine. As eager as her tongue was to taste my cock, so, too, was mine to find that ball, to tickle it like she did with her finger the other night. When her dripping vagina was within reach, I pressed my face into her flesh, my tongue, my lips, my teeth exploring with the gusto of a thousand Quixote's.

Finally, the words were done. The tale was told through dozens, if not hundreds of orgasms. Everything we had was spent on the pages of lust, devoured in the poetry of sensation, and printed in our memories in ways no story can capture. We did go swimming, then came back to have some Italian food. My wife arrived home acutely aware of the aroma that could not be swept away with a light summer breeze. We didn't discuss Janet's manuscript, or writing at all. Instead, we tilted at windmills, posited the pilgrimage of The Wife of Bath or the Pardoner. Nothing was resolved, because the journey is not over.

Janet left to go back to Cleveland. My wife went back to assisting writers with their craft. I wrote this story.