Cougar

by Lily Harlem

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘But surely you can have anyone, any young bimbo you want.’

  ‘For the record, bimbos don’t do it for me. I like an independent woman who knows who she is, what she wants and isn’t afraid to work for it.’

  ‘And that’s me?’

  ‘Too damn right it is.’ He kissed over my cheek, settled his lips at the shell of my ear. His breaths were hot and hard, like a storm blowing right through me.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said, pulling back just far enough to look at my face. ‘Which was your favourite part of the movie? What did I do best?’

  ‘I, well … I’m …’

  ‘Quit pretending you didn’t watch it, because I know a hot-blooded woman like you wouldn’t have been able to resist.’

  OK, I was rumbled and, let’s face it, I’d only watched the movie – he was the bloody star of it. What did it matter if I confessed to having seen it?

  I wound my hands up and over his shoulders and linked my fingers at his nape. Pulled in a deep breath laced with his intoxicating cologne, and harnessed my courage. ‘I liked it when you fucked her with your mouth.’

  He grinned. It was kind of an arrogant tilt to his lips, but at the same time so damn sexy my pussy actually trembled.

  ‘Yeah, that’s a speciality of mine,’ he said.

  Suddenly he dropped to his knees and I was left looking at the top of his head, studying the little whirl of hair at his crown.

  He slid his hands upwards, scooping my skirt and letting the material gather at his wrists.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Anyone could come in and see you doing that.’ I glanced at the door.

  He reached and placed his palm on the wood. Shoved it so hard the door slammed shut with an ear-splitting bang, and a framed picture of dogs playing pool shifted on its nail. ‘There, now your skirt has no need to fear being caught inflagrante delicto.’ As he spoke he slid it right up, so that it sat like a belt at my waist.

  ‘Jared,’ I gasped. ‘What are you doing?’

  He looked at me, licked his lips and grinned. ‘I’m going to give you a personal demonstration of my best performance.’

  If my knees had been weak before, now they were positively noodle-like. What the hell was I doing? Could I really let this gorgeous young man go down on me in the back of my shop?

  Like hell I could.

  He tugged my knickers below my knees and eased apart my thighs. Pressed his mouth to my lower abdomen, softly, reverently, the light sprinkle of stubble on his chin slightly scratchy.

  A juddering sigh escaped my lips and I slotted my hands into the thick, warm strands of his hair. Letting it mesh around my fingers and tickle my knuckles.

  His attentions headed south and he kissed through my patch of pubic hair, tugging the roots slightly and creating a tingling sensation that travelled straight to my clit.

  ‘Mmm, you smell divine,’ he murmured, burrowing his nose further in and nuzzling it side to side. He pulled in a deep breath, his shoulders shifting as his chest expanded.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said. The erotic image of him filling his lungs up with my scent was almost enough to make me come right then.

  ‘You smell of woman and desire,’ he said, sliding his hands up and down my thighs, hips to knees, knees to hips. ‘Perfect.’

  Suddenly he ducked and arrowed his tongue through my soft folds, lapping and swooping, almost urgently.

  ‘Ah, ah.’ Pleasure shot through me. Pleasure and disbelief and, as he said, desire. I could feel my pussy dampening, a hot wetness seeping from me. And he was lapping at it eagerly. Groaning his approval as he did so. His warm, firm tongue was divine on flesh that had been neglected for so long. Searching and stimulating, drinking from me as though I was a honeyed treat.

  I tightened my grip on his head and parted my legs further, giving him unhindered access.

  Another few seconds and he found my clit.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said panting. My knees buckled. I struggled to remain upright and was glad of the support of the wall behind me.

  He was exploring my right inner thigh with his fingertips, winding upward, stroking and caressing. My pussy clenched; it felt like a gaping hole that needed filling. Jared must have sensed my need because his fingers circled my entrance, spreading my moisture around, teasing and fondling.

  ‘Please,’ I murmured, ‘oh, please, inside.’

  He stretched my pussy with his big long fingers, two at least pushing in, easing me open.

  My spine curled and I squeezed my eyes shut, gripped him with my internal muscles. Electric whips of sensation burned through my core. He was working me with his tongue, fucking me with his fingers. For a moment I imagined I was that beautiful woman on the DVD being serviced as I lounged by a pool in the sunshine. I was glamorous and rich and living in LA. My body young and lithe, my skin flawless and smooth. Thinking nothing of wearing a bikini from dawn to dusk.

  And the Californian sun could well have been heating me, for my body was feverish, sex-sweat pricking at my flesh. The blistering pressure was growing and building. I gripped his hair and thrust my hips in time with his penetrations. Forgot about that woman in the sun and became me again. The star of my own smokin’ porn movie with Jared as my co-star.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m going to come,’ I moaned, throwing my head back against the wall and staring up at the dusty lampshade.

  He reached up and grabbed my breast, squeezed and massaged, plucked at my nipple through my blouse and bra.

  The nip of pain tipped me over the edge. I was there, teetering on the precipice of an almighty orgasm. So much better than any at my own hand. My breath caught, my heart thudded, every muscle in my body tensed.

  He shunted into me even higher, sped up the rotations over my swollen clit and palmed my breast in a big hard grab.

  Bliss flooded my soul, my torso slumped forward and my pussy gripped and spasmed around his fingers. A cry echoed around the room and it wasn’t until the tail-end of the noise that I realised it came from me.

  Jared stayed with me, expertly working my pussy, carrying me to the end of my climax and then bringing me gently down.

  My breaths were hard to catch and moisture popped all over my body. I could barely focus on his features when he finally stood and withdrew his fingers. My vision was blurry, my brain in a dazed state.

  He grinned and wiped his shiny mouth on the back of his hand. I caught a whiff of my arousal – my come.

  ‘So,’ he said.

  ‘So what?’ I reached for his upper arms and fisted his T-shirt, needing the extra support for my floaty body.

  ‘Was that my best performance?’

  I grinned and then giggled, quite giddily. ‘Definitely, as far as I’m concerned.’ His handsome face came back into focus. He was flushed, his lips a little puffy and the skin around them pink and moist.

  ‘Good.’ He dropped a musky kiss onto my mouth then stepped away, forcing me to release him.

  Instantly I felt cool, the loss of his body heat like a cold draught. I shivered and failed to suppress a final blissful tremor as it wound up my spine.

  Reality hit. Hurriedly I pulled up my knickers and straightened out my skirt. Shoved my hair behind my ears and realigned my bra and beads. How I must look I had no idea.

  Jared reached for the door handle, his movements as smooth and graceful as ever. ‘So do you think you could bring the DVD in for me tomorrow?’

  ‘I, um, sure. Of course.’

  He walked out of view. ‘Jared,’ I called, tottering forward, my quivering thighs only just doing as instructed. ‘I, but … I mean … why?’

  He grabbed his jacket and turned, reached for his shades. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did you, you know, just then, do that?’

  His gaze latched onto mine. ‘Let’s just say I like to keep my fans happy and you, Miss Fenchurch, are someone I’ve always wanted to make happy.’

  Confusion wriggled through my mind. I clutched my necklace and twi
sted it like a rosary. Trying desperately to figure out the puzzle. ‘You say that like you’ve known me for a long time.’

  He pointed to the jar of mint humbugs next to the till. ‘When I was a kid you used to give me a sweet whenever you helped out my mam, which was a lot.’

  ‘Your mam?’

  ‘Petunia Kirkwood.’

  ‘Oh, Petunia, yes, of course.’ I dropped the beads and clasped my hands to my mouth. ‘Bloody hell, you’re little Johnny Kirkwood? I would never have – God, it’s been so long since your mam told me you were heading to LA with stars in your eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess it has been a while.’ He slotted his shades on and opened the shop door. The bell tinkled as a self-satisfied grin spread on his face.‘ I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he said.

  And just like that little Johnny Kirkwood, who was not so little any more, was gone.

  Sighing I sat on my chair, my nether regions swollen and damp. I couldn’t help but wonder if tomorrow, when he came back for his porn, there might be a repeat performance.

  And, if that was a possibility, I would have to watch the movie all over again, just in case he asked if I had another favourite scene and offered me a personal performance.

  B and B

  Primula Bond

  My friends swore I’d be bored stiff in the countryside. A year ago Soho was my stomping ground. Bars and clubs my natural habitat. Conference calls my mode of communication. But a girl can get tired of the stress and grime, tube trains and flight paths, impossible deadlines and demanding clients.

  One-night stands were my sex life, fuelled by frustration, wine and the potential for danger. But a girl can tire of thumping hangovers and meaningless fucking, especially when she hits forty.

  So when my fairy godmother bequeathed me her chocolate-box cottage and thriving bed-and-breakfast business I shocked everyone by upping sticks and moving to Camber Sands. People even laid bets on how soon I’d tire of green fields, oast houses, gossiping neighbours and the slow grey roll of the English Channel.

  The arrival of a slick, single city girl in a village full of retirees and young families certainly wasn’t greeted with fanfare. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my red lippy and loud laugh, my vociferous reluctance to bake cakes or join the flower rota. I was viewed with suspicion as I struggled to keep my godmother’s hollyhocks and roses going, the tourists arriving and the husbands at arm’s length.

  But when the London gang turned up unannounced on the first anniversary of my move they didn’t find me alone and palely knitting. Oh no. They found themselves gate-crashing a raucous gathering of apple-cheeked locals singing along to X Factor and getting rat-arsed on my vodka cocktails.

  ‘Us backwater types thought Sara was like the woman from that film, Chocolat, springing from nowhere,’ the vicar, who also teaches street dancing in the school hall, confided once my shell-shocked mates were parked in the inglenook fireplace. ‘She was like a beautiful alien, but now you can’t keep people away.’

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ my friends muttered later as they piled back into their Lexus because there was no room at the inn. ‘I guess you can take the career girl out of London, but you can’t take London out of the career girl.’

  Like the meerkat says – simples. People flock here because I give them what they want. So, not only the extra draw of a studio and painting tuition for budding artists, but also food, and lots of it. People have to eat, don’t they, especially on holiday? As well as all-day breakfast, I do a wicked cream tea. And people have to drink. My garden bar is full every evening, cosy in winter, out on the terrace last summer.

  They have to sleep, don’t they? I’ve got rooms. Exposed beams, four-posters, chintz. Everything you’d want from a chic B and B off the beaten track. And since the summer, when it was mostly families, there’s been a rash of youngsters, art students arriving in groups. Boys, mostly, the odd smattering of girls. Word of mouth apparently, and my inviting website. They come here to get away from parents, from college. They come to learn to paint. To get stoned. Oh, and they come here to –

  ‘By the way,’ my ex-secretary shouted as the car pulled away. ‘Where did you find the young hunk handing round the cocktails?’

  – get laid. I was going to say they come here to get laid.

  Forget the bastards I left behind in London, the hungry husbands I have to fend off here. What I’ve discovered down here is boys. Old enough to have driving licences, obviously – hell, what do you take me for? – but still cute, fresh-faced, uncomplicated. They don’t want much at that age. Just food, friends, sleep and sex. They’re permanently hard at that age, aren’t they? Permanently ready. And permanently grateful.

  So where did I find my young hunk? Sniffing my knickers.

  It was a breezy autumnal afternoon and I was prowling about in an old maxi skirt and flowery blouse tied round my middle, watering, cleaning, cooking, rearranging the art work. The students had gone to the sand dunes to paint the sea birds.

  Except someone was in my garden, fingering my washing. A tall boy I’d seen earlier. I stepped out on to the wet grass, poking my bare toes through the rustling leaves just as he lifted my knickers to his face and inhaled.

  ‘Oh, God! Didn’t know anyone was there. Got left behind.’

  Such a deep voice. Such a deep blush.

  ‘I can drive you down to the beach to find the others.’

  I swayed towards him, cold air whistling over my skin where my shirt was unbuttoned. I’d got hot while baking scones.

  ‘Rather stay here. Didn’t feel too good.’ He was breathing hard and staring straight at my breasts, bulging in their dark-pink bra. He yanked his jeans up by the waistband, but not quickly enough to hide the outline of his prick, which was trying to stand straight up in his pants.

  I came closer and laid my hand on his forehead.

  ‘Maybe you should have a lie-down.’

  His face was so smooth, golden spikes of stubble pushing through his chin and cheeks. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping. He could easily shove me away but he glanced up, brown eyes smouldering. Quarter boy, three-quarters man.

  It had been nearly a year since I’d been fucked. I wanted him, badly. But he was a punter. And I have an open-house policy. Anyone could walk into this garden.

  As I was about to turn into the house, he lifted his hand, pushed my blouse to one side, and touched my left breast. It was juddering with my crazy heartbeat. He moved his hand over the lace. I laid my hand over his to show him I liked it. He pressed harder. Then I licked my finger, ran it down the crack of my cleavage, stroked the soft swell, then pushed the bra down to expose my breast and to show him how my finger, wet from my mouth, was teasing my nipple.

  He followed the movement, so now his finger was inside my bra, too. He circled that nipple, then hooked his thumb over the bra to push it down. Now they were both out, proud, tingling in the cold air. Nipples stiff as nuts to show him my excitement.

  I came to my senses and walked into the house, pulling my blouse closed.

  ‘I think maybe I do need that lie-down,’ he croaked behind me.

  Desire stirred in my belly. Think quickly, but carefully.

  ‘More peaceful up in my room,’ I murmured, rearranging some lilies in a vase. ‘I mean, in case the others come crashing back and disturb you.’

  I started to walk up the crooked little staircase that leads only to my own private quarters.

  ‘All women should be motherly, and sexy, like you.’

  I started to blush like a schoolgirl and laughed, much too loudly. I nonchalantly opened the door to my private quarters.

  ‘I could put you across my knee for saying things like that, boyo.’

  ‘I’d much rather take you across mine.’

  Wow. These boy-men have a way of pulling the rug out from under you. One minute helpless babies, the next coming on like a practised lothario. The way he said it, his voice so low and rough and rude, was all the more thrilling for being so u
nexpected.

  I responded in the best way I know, which was to beckon him into my bedroom under the eaves.

  My B and B is immaculate, but from the mess you’d think a slut lived in the attic. And you’d be right.

  By now I was creaming for him. My breasts were aching to be sucked, nipples hardening just thinking about it. I didn’t know if he was following me, but still I checked my reflection. I looked like a gypsy. My hair had fallen in messy ringlets round my flushed face.

  I wriggled out of my skirt, let it drop to the floor, and there he was, behind me in the mirror. My hunk walking right into my bedroom and flinging himself down on the sofa.

  ‘You said I could lie down?’

  I nodded, swaying towards him. A button popped comically off my blouse as if unable to contain itself, or my cleavage. He was right there, his hands on my buttocks, pulling me against him. His nose pushed into the soft give of my pussy lips, barely concealed under my silky knickers, and I parted my legs a little. He closed his eyes and sniffed at my pussy, then ripped the tiny knickers off with his teeth. Three-quarters man, one quarter boy. Then I felt the tip of his wet tongue. Like he was striking a match on my clit.

  I froze, but he mistook my silence and hesitated. I gently touched the top of his head, and that was it. He grabbed me round the waist and tumbled me on top of him. I landed, skin on skin, my blouse dropping off my shoulders like falling petals, and now I could feel all the warmth of his gorgeous young body spread out under me but mostly the battering of his heart and the urgent hardening of his cock inside his jeans.

  I tried to land on my hands and catch my own weight, rather than knock my elbows into his face and ruin the moment, but it was my breasts that fell forwards, bouncing against his face. I languished for a moment, then raised myself up to look at him.

  He was mine. All mine. My prize on a cold, lazy day. A feast of young manhood laid out on my sofa, comfortable as you like, not going anywhere, any doubts knocked out of the ring by the force of his lust. I was rubbing myself against him without knowing it, hungry to get him inside me. Everything about him was irresistible, his eyes, his full lips, the little bubbles of saliva at the corners like a kid impatient to tell you something, the pulse pummelling in his tanned neck.