Good Vibrations Magazine

And so am I what they call a “cougar,” the young Mitch wants to know?  And I can only smile.  Mitch thinks he’s cool, thinks he’s tough, thinks he’s “on to me” in all his 25-year-old wisdom.  And it’s true, he is a little older than the many of the ones I’ve often gone after.  But he’s not the oldest I’ve tackled — not by far.  Because while yes, I certainly am what they call a “cougar,” I’ve done my share of men my age too.  And older.  Because more often then not, I like to take whatever cock comes my way.  Fortunately for me, plenty of it keeps seeming to.

I do have a special fondness for the young ones though.  Mitch smiles impishly, thinking he’s just been bold in showing his knowledge of the term and calling me on it.  I laugh internally.  Maybe he has been bold.  More bold, perhaps, and more knowing, indeed, than some of the 21- and 22-year-olds I’ve picked up on college campuses, bars, restaurants who seem more scared than anything else as I walk up and ask them if they’d like to fuck me.  While it has initially seemed to petrify some of them, I haven’t yet had one turn me down.

At times I know they’re already hard, and I want to reach down and grab the stiff cock ready to slide into me and stroke it right there, in the middle of the grassy campus on a sunny day or the edges of a dim bar on a Saturday night or wherever it is we happen to be.  I want to shove up against them and stroke the hard length under their jeans and ask them if they want to be in my wet pussy right now like I’d like them to be.  I want to see that shocked look on their young faces as I murmur filth into their ear with their peers standing just a few feet away or streaming by on the way to class.

Some are better than others, naturally.  But I like to think that when I leave them, they’re even better than they were before.  I hope they’ve not only learned whatever technical knowledge they have with me, but that they’ve seen what they’re capable of.  That they know they can please a woman, and how incredible it is to do so.  It’s important, and it works.  It works to have a 36-year-old woman — not only a cougar now but certainly a “slut” in her pre-cougar-age days — brazenly want to fuck you, be obviously turned on by you, show you not only what she likes, but that you are capable of giving it to her.

And that’s why I hope, and believe, they’re better off after I’m done with them.  I’ve left every one of them with a smile and a kiss and a look meant to cement that feeling of confidence within them so they’ll know how to give one hot fuck to the next woman that comes along, and the one after that.  It’s almost as though I consider myself a kind of veritable jump start to sexual pleasure, setting off a series of sparks that turn to flames that turn to a collective sexual heat burning throughout society — a sincere, confident, knowledgeable one.  Which is exactly what makes it so hot.

I harbor no delusions that I started this on my own, of course.  I thank the countless cougars that came before me that educated the boys I fucked my way through college and beyond on, developing the roaring carnal desire that still drives me now and sends me back to those college boys to give back, if you will, and see that the lovely young sluts coming up after me get the same — if not better — variety of sexual, college-age bliss I did.  I’m certainly not one to fail to see the virtue of sharing.  The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned.  And I want everyone to be just as merry as they can be!

So Mitch believes he’s called the game.  And that therefore perhaps it’s over.  But while Mitch is cute, and charming, and is already out of college and on to grad school, he may still benefit from a slight shift in perspective.  It’s possible he thinks being a cougar is a less than worthy — indeed less than commendable and glorious — endeavor, or one he might not have use for.  I would beg to differ.  And thus I take on a new assignment, considering it almost my duty to offer him an experience that may enhance his perspective, make him that much more attuned to sexuality — his own, his future partners’, and the general sacredness of it and importance to us all.

“A cougar?  A woman who is older — say 36, which happens to be my age — who fucks younger guys?” I confirm to Mitch, who almost flinches at both my casual use of the word “fuck” and similar mention of my age, making it hard for me to maintain my curious expression over a lighthearted laughter — not mocking him, of course, but rather seeing what it is that calls so much for his use of me.

I stand up, say, “Why don’t you come with me, Mitch,” and back up from the outdoor table at the cafe near the law firm where he’s interning.  Mitch does indeed stand up and come with me, his previous surprise apparently leaving him flustered enough to not know what to say, and as I hail a cab I sense just a little bit of nervousness under that tough veneer.  And that’s okay.  It means what’s really underneath is starting to come out.  That’s part of the process.  He is likely in new territory, and that brings nervousness out of a lot of us.

In me, on the other hand, is heat.  The low, primal, carnal heat that I feel when I’ve connected, when I’m well on my way to a hard cock inside me and the rush of letting a young man know just how he’s making me feel — and if he’s not making me feel that way, showing him what he needs to do in order to.

First lesson: I’ll ask him if he has a condom.  If not, this experience should teach him to carry them more carefully.  One never knows when one might need one.

Second lesson: I’ll ask what he wants to do to me.  If he knows, I’ll give him the opportunity as such, and if he doesn’t, he’ll get to learn.  Mitch, it seems to me, will probably think he knows.  He’s probably used to being in charge, and I’ll see how that works for him — and for me.

But it’s not all planning with me either.  In general, what I really hope is that I lose myself in the experience.  That I find myself screaming blindly as an eager young cock rams into me, my tits flailing, heat exploding in my belly — in short, that it’s so fucking hot and hard and messy that I forget what I’m there to do.

Because then I do it even better.  If I get done a sweaty, breathless mess who can’t even remember her own name, I know that what I wanted to do has been fulfilled, and I didn’t even need to think about it.  The energetic exchange that occurred did something far more than any words from me could.  I’ll know that he’s a spark on his own, well on his way to creating orgasmic fire across the board of all the partners he chooses.  And I’m happy to have thrown on some gasoline.

My pussy is wet now as I sit beside Mitch in the back of the cab.  I want to rip his pants open and take his hard cock in my mouth right here.  But I’ll wait.  I want to see what Mitch does when someone openly offers to let him call the shots, when he’s put on the spot in a position he may be used to taking for granted or thinking he is “supposed” to have.  That could be because it just comes naturally to him, or it could be a bravado covering something inside him that may be helpful for him to recognize.  Either way, or even if it’s something else entirely, I’m ready with an interest, a smile, and a hot wet pussy.  All are his for the receiving.

I drop my hand to Mitch’s crotch and hear his surprised intake of breath as I grasp the rock-hard cock beneath his khakis.  I smile as I bring my hand back to my lap.  And he is mine for the taking.