The Cougar Book

by Jolie Du Prè

“If you just bend over like you were, I could rub the head against your lips.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to kiss it and make it better?”

  “The other lips, please.”

  She eyed his manhood and bent back over, prepared to jump back up should he try to put it inside her again. A child is something she just didn’t need. But he remained true to his word. He rubbed the length of her, pushing the little button at the top on every pass, driving her crazy once again.

  Then the pain hit her.

  He entered her. She could feel his girth inside, but he’d gone in the wrong hole. She’d never been taken there before and it really hurt. She wondered if he just . . . missed. He left it sitting in there while she moaned. Her body tensed and clenched down around it. Still he didn’t move.

  Carol relaxed and it didn’t hurt quite as much. Harry began to slide in and out, gently at first. She noticed it felt pretty good. Rocking with him, his testicles slapping against her the whole time, she felt another moment coming. Harry pushed harder, banging his belly against her backside, burying himself completely into her each time.

  When the ecstasy hit her, Carol thought she lost consciousness for a moment. When she regained it, she lay on the floor and there was a bit of a mess, but she felt used and satisfied. Harry had put himself away and quickly pulled up his zipper. He left the room without a word.

  Carol stood and fixed herself as best she could. She double-checked the floor for purse fodder, or anything else, and quietly left the room, closing the door behind.

  That evening, as the ecstasy began to wear off, guilt over what she’d done quickly swept in to take its place. How could she seduce a young boy like him? Okay, sure. He was over eighteen, but compared to her that’s still a boy—young enough to be her son.

  “What am I going to do?” she asked the face on the pillow.

  Oddly mixed in with the remorse, she felt the need calling to her from below. The two opposing emotional states resembled two colors of paint swirled together, with no way to ever separate them again.

  Even as she struggled with the morality of her earlier actions, her hand involuntarily snaked down to perform its assigned task. The sheets parted willingly, as did her legs. Before she realized, her fingers did their intimate dance around her entrance and she began to breathe deeply. Her eyes closed. All thoughts of remorse escaped.

  At the office she felt very self-conscious. Everyone must surely be aware of what she and Harry did. Of course it had to stop. She forced her mind to focus on the mounting pile of work before her, hoping not only to get things done but keep her mind from wandering back to him.

  But soon enough—it seemed to happen so quickly because time flew as she remained busy—Harry walked in to deliver the interoffice mail. Carol forced her eyes to remain on the desk in front of her, as though she focused on no one thing. She bravely fought to control the images flowing through her mind.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Blake.”

  “Harry.” She didn’t mean to be short with him, but she felt sure she’d lose control if she interacted with him too much.

  Apparently taking the hint, he dropped her mail in the tray and left without a word. Carol congratulated herself for the small victory. She’d worn a pant suit today to add protection—not from Harry but from her own desires.

  Despite her extensive precautions and her strong mental focus on other things, her hips danced slightly in the chair, swinging from one side to the other. One might think her swaying to music, but the material in her clothes rubbed against her in a tantalizing way. Without realizing it, she brought herself to a quick orgasm right there.

  She got up and headed for the rest room once again. Just as she opened the door, she saw Harry enter the store room. She hesitated. The hallway was empty. She double checked and triple checked. When no one came, she let the restroom door slip from her hands and she made her way to the store room. She quietly slipped in.

  Harry showed no signs of noticing her entrance. He worked with his back to the door and did not turn when she approached. She slid her hands around his waist and to the front of his pants. She opened them and released his meaty stick. Harry inhaled quickly but stood still as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  Overcome with desire, Carol dropped to her knees and forced Harry to turn so she could have access to him. She rubbed and kissed and he quickly rose to the occasion. She pounded away like a pro, using her lips and tongue and one hand to finish the job and give him a happy ending. With her other hand she found another moment of bliss inside her own pants, but she didn’t miss a beat on Harry. She finished him off and this time there wasn’t a mess to clean up. She’d seen to that herself.

  She rose and left without a word as he had the day before. She made her way discretely back to the ladies’ room. There may not have been any of Harry’s mess to clean up, but she still had one of her own. Plus she had to remove the dust and dirt from the knees of her pants.

  Back at her desk—more or less pulled back together—she began rifling through her mail and noticed something small fall out. She looked closely at it. A small white business card with only a hand-written address on it, somehow she knew it was Harry’s. He was inviting her to his place.

  Well, that’s never gonna happen.

  After work, walking from the parking garage to her apartment, the twist of material between her legs drove her to the brink of ecstasy once again.

  Christ! I can’t even walk anymore. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me.

  Horror words like “nymphomaniac” and “slut” drifted through her head. Clinical issues that could cause neuroses or even physical problems seemed suddenly clear and defined in her mind, as if a medical encyclopedia had just opened up in her head. But somehow, even though the encyclopedia kept pointing its accusatory finger at her, she felt normal and healthy.

  As she struggled for the key to her front door, the little white card fell out and flitted to the floor like a leaf from a tree. She recognized it immediately, even before she bent to pick it up. She stared hard at it, turning it over and over.

  Now how did THAT get here?

  Although she couldn’t remember actually doing it, Carol felt sure her hands had involuntarily slipped the card into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Those hands of hers were getting out of . . . hand. She chuckled.

  Inside her flat, she quickly disrobed and took care of the business she often did, disposing of any immediate desire to seek out the address on the card. Nevertheless, as always, the satisfaction fleeted so quickly and left her wanting something more. Something real. Something hard.

  A toy? No. They were old news. She wanted something new and fresh . . . , and young. Sometimes she could hardly believe the thoughts that ran through her head. Nothing could come of this except trouble, she felt sure of it. He was so much younger than her and in the office—that always asked for trouble.

  But you don’t have to do it at the office. Now you know where he lives.

  It sounded like a voice in her head, although she recognized it as her own. Had she spoken out loud? Carol thought not. And yet . . .

  Before she had an opportunity to make a choice, she found herself walking the six blocks to the address on the card. She looked down to see what she wore; hoping she’d bothered to dress before she left.

  A slinky, short number, the color of bright peaches, hung from her shoulder, clinging to her curves. Not entirely flattering. She could feel a breeze which told her she’d not worn any panties. The peaks from her chest suggested no underwear at all. Not a safe way to walk the streets in the city. Fortunately he lived in a safe neighborhood.

  Her legs ached and she’d caught a permanent chill, as her high beams attested, and yet she couldn’t remember the passage of any time. She stood at his door and knocked, brazenly. At that moment, she decided. Slut probably suited her more than she would have liked. Nothing could be done about that now. The itch had driven her here and footsteps already appr
oached in response to the knock on the door.

  “Mrs. Blake?” he asked with complete surprise.

  Carol didn’t know why he would act like he hadn’t stuck his card in her mail, but she could play along. If that’s the way he wanted it. Maybe he had nosy neighbors.

  “We are not dating.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, standing aside to allow her passage inside.

  “We are F-buddies, that’s all,” she added, stepping over the threshold and into his warmly decorated apartment. “As long as you take care of business for me, I’ll take care of business for you. Then we go our separate ways. Understood?”

  “Mrs. Blake, I—”

  “If I get any feeling that you’re falling for me,” she interrupted, “I’ll leave right away. Do I have to leave already?”

  “No.”

  “Are you falling for me?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She passed her eyes around the room. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Which way is the bedroom?” She moved to put her hands on her hips but decided it might look confrontational so she let them slide down her hips. The effect on Harry was quite impressive.

  He mumbled something she couldn’t understand and pointed. She followed his finger and found the room she sought. The bed had posts, not girlie but dark wood with intricate carvings. Quite expensive looking for a mail room clerk. Her curiosity must have shown on her face.

  “My dad left me some of his furniture when he died.”

  Carol gave the matter no further thought. In one fluid motion she slid her dress up and over her head, leaving herself completely nude for his viewing pleasure. If this was only to be a kind of business arrangement, she saw no need to waste time on useless pleasantries.

  She stepped up onto the foot board of the bed—her head nearly touching the ceiling—and spread herself out as if tied, grabbing the top of the posts. Standing on the footboard, she faced the bed like a sensual X between the two posts, waiting and open for his easy access. Though initially the aggressor, she became submissive, a willing slave to whatever deviance he wanted to perform on her body.

  Facing the bed, she could not see as he approached. This lent an element of surprise and arousal to the encounter. Her feet hurt, as she stood waiting, longing for his touch, anticipating it, but not knowing exactly when it would happen. She could smell her own desire and she knew he could too.

  When his tongue touched her, she looked down toward her feet and saw his eyes looking up at her through her thin pubic hair. Although he must have had his back arched at an awkward angle, his warm breath in such an intimate place sent her head reeling and she didn't want it to stop. She threw back her head and squeezed her eyes tight shut as she reached for a crescendo, her nose gently brushing the ceiling tile. She felt sure it would be only one orgasm of many that night.

  Her head hanging back, she stared at the ceiling through nearly-closed lids, barely hanging on to the posts, as a wave of pleasure surged through her. She felt her own juices flowing and he didn’t stop, making sure to clean her as she’d done to him earlier that day.

  Carol swam in her mind’s ecstasy as he stopped and moved back behind her. She could hear him struggling with his clothes. The moment, the anticipation, stretched out for what seemed like an hour. He stepped up on the bed’s foot board right behind her. Reaching around, he held onto her breasts, pinching her nipples. She wiggled in pain and pleasure.

  He found his mark with his cock and entered her back door once again. It went in easier this time, she noticed. Less of the pain, more to the pleasure, she welcomed his advance. From this angle, he hit her pleasure center deep inside. She began to build up once again. But something odd happened, something that startled her.

  She could feel Harry’s tongue inside her again. So who was inside her? She managed to turn her head and saw Harry’s smiling face over her left shoulder. Everything going on at once sent her reeling further into ecstasy, and she lost track of her surroundings. An orgasm like a sonic boom blew through her before she had a chance to object.

  Harry had another guy there, perhaps a roommate. While she felt embarrassed, the thought of two, hard . . .

  When she managed to look down, she saw a pair of beautiful eyes and long, shining, black hair between her legs. Carol pulled away quickly and lost her balance, falling to the bed. When she looked back she saw Harry and a petite, attractive girl standing there, both naked.

  “Wha..? Who..?”

  Harry smiled. “This is my girlfriend, Alyssa.”

  Carol felt mortified. “You mean . . . a girl licked me?” Carol sat upright on the bed, hugging her knees.

  “So you’re the woman who took care of my boy while he was at work?”

  “I never knew he had a girlfriend.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “I-I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. That was the first day in a long while he came home in a good mood. Normally, he’s so frustrated from being run ragged by people who think they’re better than him. But yesterday he came home with a smile and took me to bed. I thought he might be cheating on me. But I guess he just had a cougar giving him the treatment.”

  “Cougar?”

  “You know,” the girl continued, “an older woman after a young guy. You did him up nice, lady. Thanks.”

  Is that what I am? A Cougar? I’m not sure I like that word. Then again, it does describe what I’ve been doing.

  “But you’re a girl. And you licked me.”

  “You liked it,” her smooth voice cooed. “I could tell.”

  “I’ve never been with a woman before. I like men.”

  “You want me to do it again, don’t you?” Alyssa whispered, almost singing.

  “I . . . no . . . I . . .”

  Alyssa grabbed one of Carol’s ankles and Harry grabbed the other. They pulled her apart like they were about to make a wish. Carol’s head fell back onto the pillows as both heads worked between her legs and both tongues swiped at the tender flesh there.

  Carol’s eyes closed and she lost track of all time.

  Deep Waters

  Shanna Germain

  “We’ll see dolphins for sure today,” The Boy says. His name is not “The Boy,” of course. He’s told me what it is, twice I think, but for the life of me, I cannot remember. His hand is on the motor, jumping a little with each sea wave. He stands in the back of the boat, the wide, practiced stance of someone who spends more time on water than on land, maneuvering the boat with an ease that appeals. I’ve always liked men who know their tools, who are good with their hands.

  “Dolphins? What makes you think so?” I feign interest in the dolphins. No, that’s not true. I am interested in the dolphins. Somehow it just hurts to admit it, after all this time spent not caring about much of anything. To know that I shouldn’t be doing this alone, to feel this bright spark of interest is like a jellyfish sting against my brain. I want to submerge it, blot it out.

  The Boy takes one hand off the motor and points to the horizon line. He says something, but I cannot hear it over the motor and the waves and the whirlpool of my own brain. I’ve never had good eyes—glasses in grade school, and contacts from then on, as soon as I could afford them—but my ears have always been sensitive. Perhaps overly so. I have a sudden fear that my hearing’s going. Brought on by middle age. Or grief.

  I settle for watching his lips while he talks. He has plump lips, sunburnt just at the bow on top, the very center. I lean against the back of the boat, wrapped in a dark blue terry robe, almost like a bathrobe, but called a “beach cover” and twice as expensive, over my swimsuit, watching him through my sunglasses. He is blonde and sun-bronzed, boy-muscled. I saw his eyes, briefly, when we passed through the shade trees on the way to the boat. He lifted his sunglasses atop his head—they are golden-brown. Nearly as gilded as his shoulders. Something swings from around his neck, thuds against his bare chest with each wave we hit. It’s a medium-thick silver chain wi
th a shield-shaped pendant. A crest? I’m not close enough to tell.

  He’s still saying something, but I can’t hear and I don’t know if I care enough to ask for a repeat, so I sit back as he steers the boat, letting the waves crash over me when they’re strong enough to rise above the sides, sprinkling water over my pale, sunscreened arms.

  I lean back and tell myself it’s okay, that I can afford this. All of this. This private boat on nearly-uncharted waters. This young boy, shoulders burnt by sun and salt, his bleached lengths shifting around his pretty, unlined face as he motors us through the softly lolling waves. I can afford it without thinking twice.

  Of course I can. I am Sam McCade’s widow. The one who was only in it for the money. Twenty years. Twenty years of marriage to you, Sam, and fucking, and the way you looked at me sometimes when you thought I wasn’t watching. And still they said it. Those glass-green eyes of yours; hooded and dark all the time with desire weaving together into a web of love and lust. It was the same look you had sometimes right before you came, when you’d cup my face with you palms, saying my name again and again as you drove yourself between my soaked thighs. And still. It was all about the money.

  The sun’s breaking through, battering on my shoulders and legs despite the wind, and I peel away the cloth robe to let the warmth sink into my pale skin. The Boy cocks his head at my gesture, thick lips parting slightly. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me behind those dark glasses, and if he is, what he might think. He doesn’t know who I am—or more likely, he does. News travels like blown ash in small, non-tourist-ridden Hawaiian towns. Especially when a man as publicized as Sam comes here to die. Alone. By choice.

  Whether the boy knows who I am or not, I know what I look like. I know that not eating and too much walking have cut down my curves some, made me leaner than I should be; my calves long and tightly sinewed, my stomach concave. I never wanted to be one of those Madonna-women, all odd muscles and tendons where there should be curves, bearing those skeletal smiles. Sam, you never wanted me to be that either.