The Cougar Book

by Jolie Du Prè

  “Shouldn’t we go?” whispered Ned. His breath tickled my earlobe.

  I turned to look at him, my breasts still pressing against the heavy Victorian doorjamb. I took hold of his arm—firmly and purposefully. “Yes,” I whispered back. “Yes, we should.”

  He studied my face, and then he broke into a sly grin. He looked down to my hand, where it rested on his forearm, and he removed my fingers from his person. But instead of letting my fingers drop, he guided them to my chest, where he boldly squeezed my right breast, using my own grip as his proxy.

  His face glowed with unrefined want.

  Of course, I couldn’t take Ned home until the guests had finished depleting the canapés and Cabernet. Fortunately, the catering firm that had rented us the space and their services were responsible for cleanup, and Bill and I had no obligation to hang around washing dishes or vacuuming up crumbs. I said a quick goodnight to Bill and Felicia—getting a frisson as my mind leaped back to what I’d observed earlier—and I left the building with Ned.

  “Did you take the ‘T’ to get here?” I asked him after we’d driven a few blocks. I was surmising that he didn’t have a car, and that the subway would have been the logical option.

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess you’d be at a party with your friends tonight, if you weren’t with me.”

  He shrugged. “Some weekends I just stay home and draw.”

  At my condo, my libido found a comfortable plateau. I’d figured out by this point that he wasn’t an animated talker. But I didn’t want to jump on him, first thing in the door—well, I did, but I knew it would be more civilized to pace myself. So I enjoyed simply sharing my space with him for a while, having a drink and taking him on his terms—letting him set the tone of what passed for a conversation. He complimented me on the wine I’d served him and catalogued his favorite dollar-fifty beer bars.

  He was poking around my living room when I returned from the kitchen with our second round of drinks. I joined him in front of the bookshelf, where he had just stopped to admire a photo of me at about twenty-five, shaking my ass in a fringed miniskirt and go-go boots at a discotheque.

  “You must have had some wild times in the ’60s,” he said—name-checking the legendary decade with the reverence my generation saved for the names of movie stars and European cities.

  I smiled knowingly, and the comment that came out of my mouth surprised me. “Yes, that was a good era. But I’m not ready to relive it yet.”

  It was as if my discovery of the lingering profundity in his one-panel rattled him, and all he could think to do was grab me by the waist and kiss me, hard. It was as good a trigger as any.

  When his lips released me, I took a moment to set my drink down—feeling my juices flowing, my every atom ready. The next deep kiss would be served by the hostess, I decided.

  But Ned had something more to say. “When I got to the party, I was thinking I was going to turn you down.”

  “What?” This caught me unawares: I thought I could read a situation. And he’d picked a hell of a time to tell me this. Still, I was intrigued. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Your face. When you saw Bill and what’s-her-name.”

  “Felicia.” The word rushed out of my mouth.

  “There was something in your expression that made me think I might regret it if I didn’t”—he scanned the room—“do this.”

  “I see,” I said hoarsely.

  “Yeah, you looked sort of naked, for a second. It was great.”

  I would reflect on this later—how Ned had wanted me to be raw and churned up, not calm and in control. Other boys hadn’t felt that way. Or, if they had, they hadn’t told me.

  But right now, I couldn’t take any more time to think. “This is what I look like when I’m naked.”

  I’d dressed intelligently, and almost everything came off in one piece. My slip clung cooperatively to the inside of my floral dress—so that with one sibilant swoosh, I was left in only my bra and my jewelry. I had not worn panties.

  As I unclasped the bra, Ned started laughing benignly.

  I laughed with him. “What?”

  “I was remembering that discussion we had about breasts. You know, the cartoon. And now you’re . . .” His laughter trickled off. “They’re so gorgeous, Claudia.”

  He stood there worshipping me with his eyes—and with the hard-on that strained against his ill-fitting dressy trousers.

  “I need you to touch me, Ned.”

  The hand on my ass cheek was the warmest thing I could ever recall having in my living room. I hadn’t realized quite how hungry I’d been for contact with male flesh.

  I luxuriated in his palm, feeling the honey seeping down toward the mouth of my pussy. It felt too good, too fast, for me to be surprised that he’d gone for my ass first, rather than my breasts. I only thought of that afterward, conjecturing that Bill and Felicia had inspired him.

  And, man, that boy knew how to caress a woman’s ass. The alternating circles, back and forth from cheek to cheek. The vigorous squeezes and delicate pinches. The thin finger dragging itself down the crack, like a languid exclamation point streaked onto a foggy car window. The no-sting slap of approval, gentle but lewd as hell.

  I wondered if he was going to stay back there all night—and, frankly, I wouldn’t have cared if he had. But his hands finally traveled to my belly, grazing my bush, and his cock—still in his pants, but hard as fuck—nudged the pleasure-tingling bottom that his hands had just abandoned. I squirmed into him like the horny, in-her-prime sensualist I was, while my nipples buzzed like dried chili peppers. Then I turned around in his grasp. “You should get undressed.”

  “I want to make you come.”

  Again I laughed. “You will. Trust me. But I want to see you. I want to see that handsome cock of yours. Okay?” I kissed him.

  He shrugged diffidently, but I sensed he was gratified.

  He was hairier than I’d expected, but the blond, translucent fur that ran down his chest was soft and smooth, almost unreal. His beautifully-proportioned cock felt smooth, too, in my hand—but definitely not soft, and certainly not unreal.

  He let me stroke him for a short while, and then he dropped to his knees. He began kissing his way wetly up my thighs—he seemed increasingly passionate, now that we’d moved beyond the barriers of age and etiquette and uncertainty and clothing.

  “You smell terrific.” His face was millimeters from my pussy. “I mean, I liked your perfume, but down here—oh, wow.”

  I just stood there, clasping his head between my thighs, while he ate me out. I felt like a fine meal, like a treasure, as he sucked and kissed and licked from out to in and back, drawing silken pulses of ecstasy from my depths.

  My ass was still sizzling from his lavish attentions, and my breasts melted in my own hands—because my nipples had needed to be engaged by whoever was available, and my fingers, seething with pre-orgasmic tension, had needed something to do.

  His appetite seemed only to grow as he feasted. By the time my clit telegraphed a string of climaxes onto his tongue and my juice ran wild over his lip, the room was alive with his desire.

  When he emerged from my sanctum, I stepped away, turned, and bent over the back of an armchair—trusting that he would take the hint and assume his . . . entry-level position.

  He took the hint.

  Now, at last, as he fucked me powerfully from behind, Ned redeemed the voucher I’d implicitly offered him back in his cubicle—the invitation to celebrate my ample breasts. Though his thrusting honored a steady, linear rhythm—deliciously serviceable, given that we were a good fit—his fingers fluttered capriciously, titillating and molding me, imparting a constantly blossoming bouquet of tactile surprises. While his cock made me moan, his hands made me giggle; and, helpless in pleasure, I lost it, barely needing the feminine forefinger on my clit to fly into a heaving orgasm, as Ned pumped his condom full of raw enthusiasm.

  Later, he asked me to drive him home, rather tha
n choosing to stay over. Yet in the same breath, he asked if he could come back the next night.

  Of course he could.

  Ned moved on to New York after a year, and I moved on to the next bohemian. We’d never felt remotely “permanent”—but I remember Ned more distinctly than most of them.

  And not just because I get a hand-drawn, one-of-a-kind birthday card every year, featuring a cartoon woman with nice boobs.

  What Pretty Girls Do

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Sheena looked in the mirror, peering at the fine lines that had crept into her skin over the years, and in the last month or two, it seemed, suddenly take up permanent residence. She smoothed her cheeks, the ones that used to glow, smooth and sparkling as peaches. She used to thrill to the compliments that were passed her way, gracing every such stranger with a smile that would make his day, perhaps even his week. Being a model, she’d gotten used to the looks, the covert glances, the whispers, and the constant, eternal adoration. She’d worshipped herself, too, always had, ever since she was a little girl, twirling by every mirror she passed, learning early on to toss her hair back and bat her eyelashes at every man or woman she came across. Those skills had come in handy, and she’d certainly bedded some of the best. But she’d never expected to be washed up at forty. She’d had surgery to make sure of that. Sheena had never even really thought about what life might be like once she stopped being perfect.

  The thing of it was that it was only up close that one would notice any crack in her armor, any slight imperfection to mar her otherwise magnificent body. She’d made sure of that, visiting the gym so regularly she didn’t even need to flash her card, simply gave a divine nod before heading off into the back to sweat and sweat and dream about being able to lie back and have handsome waiters bring her elegant drinks while she floated in the pool. If she even had a pool. She’d been reduced to living in a small cottage, just far enough away from the major Hollywood players, the ones who’d undoubtedly made it, no questions asked, to make visiting her not-so-desirable. And today was her birthday. Her fortiethalthough officially, on the record and in the press, she was only thirty-fiveand intended to remain so for some time. She’d been lying about her age for so long that even she had to double check, and realizing that the big four-oh was approaching had shocked her to her core. She remembered starting out; a bright, young, eager wisp of a girl, and that was often how she still felt.

  It had come as a rude awakening, this impending day. For Sheena, a birthday had become not something to celebrate, but to hide, tucked far away like some naughty little secret. Birthdays were a sign, an omen, a portent that the apocalypse was near, and she was not looking forward to this one. She continued to peer deeply into the mirror, hoping to find some secrets or universal truths hidden within her pores, or at least some hidden hairs she’d missed as she tweezed and tweezed and tweaked and tweaked. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t spent hours in front of the mirror, grooming herself into the perfect specimen. She sat back, placing the highly coveted, expensive tweezers down on the sink’s edge, and tried to think back.

  She mentally scrolled through all the magazine covers, the way she’d tossed her hair back and laughed the uproarious laugh of the young and beautiful, the ones who have nothing to lose. Little did she know that her youth and beauty were exactly what she had to lose. But still, the longer she stared, the longer she was transfixed, as she’d always been, by her image, because despite all the accolades, the awards, and boyfriends, and trips to Milan, the hundreds of thousands of dollars her body had earned her over the years, sometimes she didn’t see what all the fuss was about. She never had. She put down the tweezers and took a step back, surveying her naked body. Her hands skimmed down over her still-ripe breasts, heavier and lower now than at her prime, but still responsive. As she squeezed the bright pink buds, they sprang to life, and she held her hands underneath them, an offering to some unknown god, begging to be claimed once more.

  She let her hands drop lower, cradling the belly that twenty years ago would have had her sobbing in horror with its rounded softness, its jelly folds, which made her think of comfort foods like rolls and potatoes. She was a lumpy mess, and yet as her hands lingered on the gently rounded stomach, she held them there, in front, the way pregnant women do. Sheena wondered what that would have been like, to have this mass of jiggling flab turned into smooth, hard, baby rock, to feel its strength and solidity even as she nurtured a child inside her. She’d almost done it, once, had been ready to devote herself to someone else, and then her chance had ended, just as quickly as she’d started planning for it. She moved lower still, peeling apart the lips that she hardly dared look at.

  Who wants to see this? she thought. She never had, and always marveled at lovers who took delight in spending hours down there, playing and tasting, sucking and biting.

  She thought back to Don, the one who had given her her first orgasm those many years ago, the way his fingers would splay her open and his eyes would light up like he’d just seen the crown jewels. How she’d thrilled at that look, and thrilled even more when his big, rough, man’s tongue had dove between her lips, getting all the way inside, messy and sloppy, taking her as far away from the world of high glamour as could be, into one filled only with pleasure and moans, aches and needs, wants and fulfillment. He never wanted to stop either, and would only do so at her absolute insistence when she was wrung dry, left panting and gasping for breath, utterly stunned, turned inside out. Thinking about Don had made her wet, and she slipped two fingers inside herself, leaning against the sink for balance as she tried what she’d given up during her teenage years. Now she regressed, back even before Don, to that first time she’d played with herself. She’d known so little and she had no clue about what she was after as her young fingers had squeezed and pinched the little nub of hardness at the part of her legs. She’d been scared though, and when she got too close, she backed off.

  Not this time. This time she kept going, pushing past all of those memories as she stroked both her clit and her cunt, the fingers of each hand working double, and then triple time to give her what she now realized was rightfully hers. I want my goddamn birthday orgasm, she thought, and she pictured herself in a room with everyone she’d ever loved. Not every lover, because that was far different, but everyone she’d ever loved, even the ones she never told, the ones her heart secretly pounded for behind her full-lashed lids. She worked herself into a frenzy, rocking against her own fingers and losing herself in her ecstasy, finally coming in a shuddering heap, tears dripping down her face as she struggled for breath. She looked back into the mirror, and even with the tears, she looked ten years younger. Big four-oh, my ass, she thought, and went to dress for her friends.

  In hardly any time at all, the party had started, the room filling with people half her age and the occasional old friend, and she could almost convince herself it was just like old times, where the nights had been forever young and nothing had fazed her. She’d let Aaron, her assistant, organize the night, not wanting to be bothered with worrying over who’d RSVPd or hadn’t, what to serve or how to act. She wasn’t exactly welcoming forty with open arms, but he’d insisted that she find some way to make the occasion festive, and was always on the lookout for any way to get her in the news, even though she didn’t particularly care about making the gossip pages any longer. She’d seen and done it all, and had never really mellowed out, but those around her had, so by attrition she’d been forced to slow down. She didn’t go out every night, and didn’t carry only the tiniest of purses when she did, blowing a kiss to her doorman and telling him not to wait up. Now she carried an enormous weight of a bag, one that said, if anything, that she needed reinforcement.

  As the party swirled around Sheena, she felt increasingly removed, as if watching it from afar, all the glittering, twinkling, bejeweled people, their laughter swirling through the air as they munched on mini quiches and drank champagne. Most of them barely knew whose par
ty this was, only that it was their first stop of the night, as instructed by their managers. Necks craned continually, wide eyes hoping to see the next big thing, or yesterday’s It- girl, or anyone who’d provide a smidgen of gossip to brighten up their already-charmed lives. Sheena had somehow wandered back to the deluxe bathroom, needing a break, and since she’d quit smoking, this was her private refuge. She stared until she couldn’t stand it anymore, and then she closed her eyes and tried to hold back the tears, tried to practice what her yoga teacher and therapist had said about visualization.

  She thought about lovers past, about how they’d worshipped every inch of her body, making her feel like the princess she’d longed to be ever since she was a child. If she were honest with herself, which only happened about once a year, so she figured she was due, she wanted that again. All that self-help mumbo-jumbo about independence and self-sufficiency sounded good for those “Where are they now?” shows she kept being asked to do, those programs that implied, if not stated outright, that her life as she knew it was now over.

  And then somehow, mid-thoughtthere was Braden, all of twenty-two-years-old old Braden, who could have pretty much any girl he wanted, her employeeoh so wrong for her, yet just right. He came up behind her, his strong hands reaching to claim her, to rub her neck, which all of a sudden she noticed was throbbing. She’d jokingly called his job a “right-hand man,” because it was more than just being an assistant, but just then, he was making it clear that it was also a two-handed job. The pressure eased from her shoulders, flowed into him, and Sheena felt him literally pull all her worries away from her.