Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  She remains quiet through my administrations, even when I slide my hands down her sides and over her hips, catching her underwear and pulling the elastic into the crack of her ass so I can admire the perfect, white globes.

  “It’s my fault,” she says. “I’m the adult here.”

  I itch to bring my palm down on these ass cheeks for the words she’s uttered. Instead, I twist the crotch of the panties around my forefinger, drawing the elastic tighter against her asshole and over her clit. She whimpers, but lets me.

  “If by that you’re insinuating I’m not an adult, I can rectify the situation to prove otherwise.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I give another twist, stretching the fabric to breaking point, and start flicking the elastic from left to right over her clit. A high-pitched sound leaves her lips.

  “What did you mean, Jane?”

  Flick, flick, flick.

  My right hand moves under her ass, my finger drawing circles around her asshole, applying just enough pressure not to penetrate, while I drag the tightly drawn string from side to side.

  She grips my shoulders. “I–I’m older, more responsible.”

  I press a bit harder. “Responsibility doesn’t necessarily come with age. The two aren’t directly related.”

  Her fingers dig into my muscles. “Oh, God, Brian. This is wrong.”

  Letting go of her ass, I bring my hand to her mouth and part her lips with my middle finger. “Suck.”

  She does, taking me all the way in and circling her hot little tongue around the tip. Her teeth rakes down the knuckle, but she lets go when I pull out. It’s not lubricated nearly enough, but this is as much for her punishment as teaching her how wrong she is. Splaying my hand under her pussy, I move the elastic aside and test her tight little hole with the tip of my finger. She clenches, everything in her lower region growing tighter.

  “Brian, please.”

  I don’t tell her to relax or breathe out. I sink the first digit into her asshole at the same time as I start flicking her clit with my nail. Hard. She screams and pushes at my shoulders. Then softer, until she moans and her ass grips my finger.

  “Don’t tell me this is wrong,” I say, “when your pussy is slick from my tongue and I can still taste you in my mouth. This is a long way from wrong, princess. It’s only the start. From here, there’s only one way to go, and that’s all the way. Fingers, tongue, vibrators, and cock.”

  A last flick on her clit and a push into her rear, and she comes savagely. Her stomach muscles lock, and her delicate neck strains as she throws back her head, her eyes rolling in their sockets. She’s panting when I pull out of her ass. I caress her crack with a feather-light touch and gently rake my nails over her pussy.

  “This,” I plant a kiss on her clit, “is the most right thing you’ve done. I’m the least wrong person in your life. Don’t give me excuses and guilt, and don’t even think about shutting me out, because I’ll fuck my way right back in, and I want to take things slow with you.”

  Supporting her back, I pull her to my chest. Her legs go around me automatically. It makes her pussy rub against my cock. I’m so turned on, I swear if she grinds herself on me I’ll shoot my load, but I think her pretty cunt had enough for a first time. If I don’t find release, I’ll have a serious bout of blue balls. I’m not shy about my body or to take care of myself. Giving myself enough room without leaving the vice of her legs, I unzip my jeans and take out my cock. It’s almost painful to the touch. Resting one hand on the counter next to her thigh, I fold a fist around the base and squeeze hard. It helps to not come too fast. Then I drag my fist up over the head, using the pre-cum to lubricate my shaft.

  I’m holding her eyes as I start pumping. The truth is there. She’s turned on in every right way. Whatever she tells herself, she can look away as little as I could. My jeans fall to my ankles, allowing me to widen my stance since I always go commando. Needing more, I start fucking my fist in all earnest. My balls climb higher, the sensitive flesh tingling with pending release. I feel no shame for my grunts or my exhibition. I like to watch, and I want her to have the liberty to do the same. From the way her gaze is glued to my crotch and her chest heaving under her dress, she likes what she sees.

  It’s like a thousand pins pierce the base of my spine. The pleasure is hot, near, and so intense it borders on agony. I’m going to come hard, harder than ever, all because of her. All because she’s watching.

  The explosion makes my vision blur. Just before I ejaculate, I pull the skin around the head back hard, giving her a prime view of the streams of cum that jets from the slit. There’s a lot of juice. It goes on and on, covering the crotch of her panties and her thighs. When I’m done, my breath is gone. I have to let go of my cock to catch my weight on both my hands. My cock remains semi-erect, my balls swaying heavily between my legs as I touch our foreheads together. She doesn’t touch me or speak, but that’s all right. There’ll be plenty of time for that. I’ve got the rest of my life.

  It’s when I zip myself up that I catch her gaze again. There’s heat and confusion, and a whole lot of lust. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, I clean her off and dump it in the trashcan. Then I help her down with my hands locked firmly around her waist.

  “Where’s your broom?” I ask.

  She gives me a puzzled look. “What?”

  I motion at the broken china on the floor. “I’ll clean this up.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I don’t want to risk you cutting yourself.”

  Since she doesn’t react, I start going through the kitchen, opening cupboards until I locate the cleaning utensils. In no time, the counters and floor are tidy and disinfected.

  I turn to find her in a chair by the table, watching me. She’s perfect. Beautiful.

  “Need a drink, princess? Maybe a cup of tea?”

  “Just maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Some time?” she asks uncertainly.

  That I can understand.

  Walking over, I place a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Call me if you need me.”

  I don’t look back as I leave through the kitchen door for fear of changing my mind and not giving her one ounce of time before I fuck every hole in her body raw, but every step I take toward the gate gets heavier. A godawful sensation festers in my chest, as if I’m one of those scumbags pulling a hit and run. Given, it was only oral and my hand, but sex is sex in all its forms. Before I reach the intercom where I’ll have to press the button for her to let me out, I turn on my heel and walk back to the house with fervent strides.

  Jane

  Oh, my God. What have I done?

  I did not just have the tongue and fingers of a man half my age on my clit and in my ass. Tremors run through my legs where I clamp my knees together under the kitchen table. The trembling is not only because of the physical toll those earth-shattering orgasms took, because my hands are shaking, too. I’m shocked. I’m dazed. I’m scared. What was I thinking? He’s too young. I’m a sick, perverted version of Mrs. Robinson. Only, he was the one who dished out the orders. There’s no doubt about who was in control. Is he even of legal age? Damn it. I could go to prison.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  A sick feeling burns with the guilt in my stomach. My chest tightens under an invisible vice, my breaths labored. I’m a mother, for God’s sake. What kind of example am I for Abby? What if this comes out? What if Brian talks? How could I let him go so far? I’m an idiot. I’m a slut. Oh, dear God, I’m a cougar.

  I can’t think this through, right now. My mind and body are in turmoil. I’m a mess. What I need is to eat. Sharp, acidic hunger pains assault my stomach. My blood sugar is probably too low. It will be futile, though, because no matter how hungry I am, I won’t be able to chew and swallow with the lump throbbing in my throat. Desolation swamps over me, a sudden unsettling loneliness making tears burn behind my eyes. Where did that come from? I can’t explain this latter feelin
g, but together with the guilt it’s overwhelming. No one has touched me like this except for two men. They both left me, each in a different way, and I never thought I’d let someone else touch me in this way again, least of all someone barely out of school.

  The only way I know to cope when I’m not coping is to carry on with the mundane tasks of routine. Laundry. Lunch, even if I have to force down a bowl of instant soup. Clean the house.

  I’m about to push to my feet when the door crashes into the wall. Startled, I freeze. Brian stalks through the frame and kicks the door shut behind him, his piercing eyes trained on me. I go weak with relief, then hot with shame.

  I need him here.

  I want him gone.

  I can’t stand for him to witness my humiliating breakdown.

  The unbidden tears start flowing. Once the valves are open, I can’t stop. Brian blurs in my vision. He’s a talisman of strength and confidence as he closes the distance between us, making my heart race with both joy and apprehension. He slides onto the breakfast bench and pulls me onto his lap. A big, warm hand with rough skin cups my face, pressing my cheek to his chest. His T-shirt smells clean. The wall of his torso is hard like granite, but heat and a steady heartbeat give me comfort.

  “I’m sorry,” I sniff. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

  “It’s all right, princess.” He strokes my back. “You’re just coming down from the high of your orgasms.”

  The biological explanation soothes me beyond measure. My body goes slack, relaxing more against his warmth. “Why did you come back?”

  His deep voice vibrates through me. “I couldn’t leave you like this.”

  I’m pathetically grateful. After the coldness has left my bones and my shivering has stopped, he gets to his feet, bringing me with him.

  “Lock your legs around my waist.”

  “I can walk.” My protest is weak. I love that he’s taking care of me.

  He makes a tsk-sound and carries me to the lounge with his arms supporting my butt. My weight doesn’t seem to bother him. Taking the remote from the coffee table, he sits us both down on the sofa facing the television. Then he settles me next to him so that I’m nestled under the crook of his arm. Without asking about my preferences, he scans the channels and settles on a documentary about animal life in Kenya.

  Seriously?

  I glance at him, but he only presses a kiss to my temple and strokes my hair.

  The program is strangely calming. I’m interested, my attention quickly absorbed, without having to work my brain. In no time, I’m boneless. He seems to sense my lethargic state. On cue, he gets up and disappears into the kitchen. A short while later, he returns with a glass of wine for me and a bowl of crisps that we share.

  He went through my cupboards? Secretly, I like his assertiveness. It doesn’t feel invasive or bossy, because he’s doing this to take care of me. My earlier loneliness, shame, and guilt make way for a warm, fuzzy feeling expanding like fluffy pink cotton candy in my chest. The wine relaxes me further, while Brian’s gentle caresses make me want to purr.

  I can’t help but plant a kiss on his pec, just above the hard disc of his nipple. Inhaling deeply, I take in the scent that’s him–pine and clean laundry.

  “You’re not drinking?”

  He smiles down at me. “No.”

  I want him to stay. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say so when I think better of it. I don’t want to initiate something he may decline and spoil the moment. He said he had somewhere to be. I’m just happy to share this moment.

  He twists a strand of hair around his finger, giving me such an affectionate look that whatever had been cotton candy before turns into mushy, gooey, deliciously sticky candy apple.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes.” I snuggle closer. “Thank you. I didn’t know I needed this.”

  His amber-brown eyes turn another ten degrees warmer, and his dimple makes its appearance. My knees turn instantly weak.

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “You’re welcome.”

  We sit like this for another hour before he switches off the television. With a broad palm on my forehead, he pushes my head back until our eyes meet. “I have to get home. Do you want me to fix you lunch before I go?”

  “I’m good, but thank you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his solid waist.

  He lets me snuggle and hug him until I’ve had my fill before he gets to his feet.

  “Call me if you need me. Anytime.” His expression turns serious. “I mean it, Jane.”

  Suddenly shy, I fight the urge to bite my lip. “Thanks.”

  Placing me in front of him so that we’re standing toe to toe, he runs his fingers down my sides and lets his palms rest loosely on my hips. He’s staring at me with wonder and admiration, like he’s looking at something precious or pretty.

  “You’re so goddamn perfect.”

  I drink in the compliment, letting it feed my self-esteem. It feels good to be appreciated. Whether it applies to internal or external qualities doesn’t matter. I seem to have needed this, too.

  Tension sets in his shoulders. His fingers clench on my hips. The attraction is fighting to break free. I sense he’s working hard on keeping a lid on his lust, which I already know will be violent when it erupts. He spent an hour and more on putting me into a relaxed state, and getting worked up now won’t serve either of us. The fact that he’s not going after sex to sate his needs, but what he perceives to be good for me feels better than good. It’s great.

  “Thanks for today, Jane.”

  I echo his earlier words, saying them in the same soft tone he’s used. “You’re welcome.”

  I’m rewarded with a flash of a smile and the full impact of that dimple. His eyes are brilliant with unconcealed pleasure. My words imply I’m fine with what happened, and that makes him happy. My feelings matter to him. The knowledge fills me with a warm glow.

  His jaw tightens with determination. Gently, he puts me aside and walks with purposeful steps to the door. For the full six steps it takes him, I have the advantage of the glorious view. His backside fits snugly in his jeans. His thigh muscles flex under the fabric. What will it feel like to be pinned under those powerful legs and pushed into a mattress by the weight of his body?

  In the door, he turns. The once-over he gives me is heated, not hiding his feelings where my body is concerned.

  “Later, princess.”

  He doesn’t look at me again as he exits. Through the window, I watch him go. When he first left, I felt like a dirty, wanton woman. In sixty sweet minutes, Brian managed to turn that around. Where I questioned my sanity and his intentions, he left me with no reason to doubt. We shared something sacred and special.

  It’s our beautiful secret.

  Brian

  A thunderstorm hangs in the air on Sunday. The sky is a tumbled mess of purple with darkness trapped between the clouds and soil. The world is turned upside-down. It’s as if I’m on the bottom of an ocean, and the foam is thundering above me. It’s humid. My T-shirt sticks to my back where I’m digging a hole for Tron’s fence pole. I barely register the burn of the splintered spade handle on my blisters. My mind is elsewhere. With Jane. By the unspoken law of society, our kinds don’t mix. Upset the balance and you end up with this upside-down world in which someone’s bound to drown. Only, I’m too happy to drown in her.

  Suddenly eager to see her, I finish the work, take a shower at home, cook lunch for Sam–Mom’s passed out with a hangover–and get a grumpy Clive to babysit before I drive out to Jane’s house. I call her from the hands-free set in the truck, warning her of my visit.

  “Oh.” She sounds flustered. “Actually, I’m heading out.”

  My gut twists in an ugly way when I think of her meeting someone else. “Where to?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

  “I’m visiting show houses.”

  The band of tension snaps, and my shoulders relax. “I’ll come with you.”

  “You’ll be
bored.”

  “I’ll check out the sturdiness of the structures and alarm systems.” Jokingly, I add, “I’m an expert in construction and security.”

  Her laugh is soft. “Suit yourself. I won’t mind the company. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

  In twenty minutes, I park in front of her house. Before I can exit, she walks through her gate, dressed in a pair of skinny jeans with knee-high boots and a loose blouse. The blouse hangs off one shoulder, baring smooth, peachy flesh. A designer bag swings from her hand. I don’t have to look at the brand to know it’s expensive. I’m so enraptured with the visual, I almost forget to get her door. She’s about to flip the handle when I reach her side of the truck and lean around her to open the door.

  She looks up at me with a playfulness I haven’t seen in her eyes before. Her lush lips are painted pink, and her cheeks reflect the hue. In the stormy light, her hair looks more silver than blonde. A dusting of gold mars her eyelids and her shoulder, like she brushed herself with a sliver of sunshine. The enticing scent of grapefruit and lemon hits me straight in the balls.

  Her smile twinkles like her eyes. “Thanks.”

  My voice is gruff, despite my efforts to soften it. “You’re welcome.”

  Once inside, I buckle her up before fitting my own safety belt. “First stop?”

  She pulls out her phone and checks the screen. “Garsfontein. Wait.” She places a hand on my arm as I throw the truck into gear. “Shall we take my car? I have a lot of stops to make.”

  “No worries. You navigate. I’ll drive.”

  We visit townhouses in security complexes, all on the east side of Pretoria. Most of the complexes are new developments, which means every house is a carbon copy of the next and there are no landscaping or trees. Coming from where she does, it must be depressing. I sense her discord throughout the visits, until we’re back at her place three hours later.