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.

Gracefully she wrapped her manicured fingers around the base of his cock, lowering her mouth to it again. His head went back as she sucked slowly, fingertips brushing his balls as she sucked him almost lazily, obviously in no hurry for him to get off.

She pulled back. Dropping onto her heels, she scooted several inches away and gave him an innocent smile.

“Play for me,” she said.

Disoriented, James hardly understood what she meant right away. Then his gaze shifted to the array of guitars lined up neatly on their stands behind her. Was she serious? He stared at her. She batted her eyelashes innocently, but he was familiar with the resolute look emanating from those blue irises. With a restrained half-grunt, half-sigh, he pushed himself up from the couch and walked awkwardly, his dick as hard as he could ever remember it being, to the row of guitars. Picking up the black and white Stratocaster, he fastened the strap and
grabbed a pick.

As soon as he was in position, his concentration returned. Even with Grace on the floor half-naked in front of him, the guitar in his hands had the same effect it invariably had on him. Almost to himself, he started picking out a tune. Seconds later he played the opening notes to Clapton’s “Layla,” a song he didn’t cover much live but knew was one of Grace’s favorites. Eyes on the strings, he moved his foot to the distortion pedal, altering the sound in the room as it wailed around them.

She watched him. Wet. It wasn’t that she wanted to stop sucking his cock — on the contrary. It was that she wanted what was in him when he played. She had watched him on the guitar countless times; there was no time that was any less breathtaking than any other. And she wanted that.

Grace’s pussy tingled as she watched the intangible consume him. She lay back on the floor, jeans still undone, no top. As his fingers worked the strings and the piercing chords filled the room, she ran a hand lightly up her stomach to one breast. The other one joined it as she squeezed her tits lightly, bending her denim-clad legs and twisting her hips. The carpet was soft beneath her; she ran the soles of her feet along it, then ran one leg up the other and crossed them, hands still over her breasts. She wanted her jeans off, but she would leave them for now.

She watched as he switched melodies, adjusting the strings and tuning the instrument as she rolled onto her tummy. Her breasts pressed into the soft carpet underneath her as she looked up at him. The notes from the guitar solo she had heard him play dozens of times shot through the room like pinballs, ricocheting and colliding like an aural kaleidoscope at the command of his fingers. She heard the song as it was released into the room, but she knew it all came from something deep in his core that burned through him first. And that’s what she was craving.

He glanced down and met her eyes. Her blond hair fell softly over her shoulders above the expanse of bare skin visible to the top of her jeans. James looked at it, abruptly mesmerized, as his fingers moved over the strings of the guitar in his hands as if on their own. As he ran his eyes over her, he realized vaguely that the amplifier needed to be adjusted. But he had no desire to break the gaze he was holding and move over to it.

Smiling, Grace rolled back over like a cat, exposing her breasts and dropping her head back to the floor. Arching her back, she placed her fingers over her nipples briefly before running her hands down her body.

“Keep playing,” she said softly.

He suddenly realized he had stopped. Gritting his teeth, he reigned his attention back from his throbbing cock and somehow tore his gaze away to go to the amplifier. Adjusting the volume for a moment, he closed his eyes and relaxed into what flowed through him, hearing it externally as it materialized via the Fender in his hands. Reopening his eyes, he turned to Grace on the floor.

Her eyes were closed too now. Her hand had slid down between her legs, and she was massaging herself slowly through her jeans. As he watched, her hand snaked back up her belly and slid beneath the open zipper. Her back arched as James watched her wrist move rhythmically above the denim.

She opened her eyes when he stopped playing. The shiny surface of the guitar was smooth under his hand as he slid it up to grip the neck and lifted the strap over his head. Gently he set the instrument back on its stand, moving slowly to retain control of himself as he handled it. When it was secured, he turned to Grace, lying topless on the floor, one hand down her open jeans.

In an instant he was on top of her. She moaned, partly from surprise and partly from arousal, as he devoured her neck, one hand holding her hair. With his other hand he was already wrestling her jeans down. No panties. Pulling away slightly to yank them the rest of the way down and pull a condom from his pocket, he tossed her jeans aside and lowered himself back on top of her. She gasped as he entered her. Kissing her hard, he grabbed both her hands and pressed them to the carpet above her head. Writhing beneath him, Grace wrapped her legs around him and bucked her hips, making him have to slow his rhythm to keep from coming.

James let go of her hands and held her face as he kissed her gently this time.
She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed with her body, rolling them both over and sitting straight up on him, riding fast as she grabbed her tits again, squeezing them as she bounced on his cock. Gently he pressed his thumb against her clit, and her volume increased.

As she came, she fell forward, bracing herself with her hands on the carpet, tits in his face, her arms eventually giving way as she fell on top of him. He grabbed her hips and fucked her hard, her whimpered moans in his ear as he pumped into her and came himself, adding to her noise in the room that moments before had been consumed by the screaming sound of his guitar.

Grace rolled off of him onto the floor. Blue eyes brimming with the innocence
of water, she looked up at him and smiled.

“Do it again.”

He moved toward me.

“Stop,” I commanded, looking into his eyes and dropping my smile. Surprised, he obeyed. With my knees bent so my patent leather pump-clad feet were right above my ass, crossed at the ankles, I continued, “Take off your clothes.”

He raised his eyebrows. I met his eyes evenly. After slight hesitation, he pulled his shirt over his head. He reached for his belt and unbuckled it slowly. I met his eyes as he undid his pants and let them drop. I lowered my gaze to his hard cock as he slid his boxers off. Then he stood, naked, awaiting further instructions.

“Come over here,” I said.

He walked to the foot of the bed and made a move to join me.

“Stop,” I said again. He stopped, standing close enough to be touching the bed.

I wriggled a little so that I was close enough to touch him. When I was, I propped myself up on my elbows and reached out to touch the tip of his cock with my tongue. He gasped and reached for me.

“No.” It was my hardest command yet. I looked up at him, my blue eyes ice. “Put your hands behind your back. Keep them there until I tell you that you can move them.”

He obeyed.

I reached again for his cock, wrapping my lips around the tip this time before withdrawing and kissing it softly. I heard his breathing grow deeper. When I looked up at him, I caught him looking at my ass, the black g-string giving him an almost complete view. I uncrossed my ankles and lightly kicked my feet back and forth a few times, the heels of my pumps clicking together softly. He inhaled audibly and brought one hand around to touch my hair.

“No,” I snapped, pulling back immediately and glaring up at him.

“Sorry.” He spoke his first word since entering the room and quickly returned his hand to its place behind his back.

“Don’t let it happen again.” I didn’t smile.

My hands still clasped against the opposite elbows on the bed, I reached for his cock again with my mouth and took it in. Pulling back off, I reached my tongue down to his balls and licked all the way up his shaft to the tip before taking the entire length into my mouth, sucking slowly. After several moments, I backed up.

Rising to my knees, I met his pleading gaze and smiled just a little. Slowly, I unwound my body and returned to the position in which he’d found me — lying on my back against the pillows. The tight bustier style of the teddy pushed my tits up and together beneath an edge of black lace. I saw in his eyes the desire to grab each side of it and rip it right off of me.

Smiling openly now, I spread my legs as I looked at him and ran my hands over the fishnet and lace tops of my stockings and up the inside of my thighs. My right hand strayed to my pussy, and I ran my fingers across the strip of blue stain there. Moaning, I arched my back as I stroked my clit. As he watched, his hands still behind his back, I slipped a finger beneath the fabric and unsnapped the crotch. Immediately I slid a finger into my wet pussy, biting my lip with pleasure.

Squirming beneath my own touch, my breathing grew heavier. Since I knew what he was thinking, I said to him just to be sure, “Don’t move until I give you permission — no matter what I say when I come.”

He swallowed and stared at my pussy.

I continued the motion until my body tensed, and I cried out as I came, wetness dripping down the insides of my thighs. “Oh God, oh God, oh God, fuck me baby,” I gasped as my body shook. As my breathing steadied, I looked at him.

“Get over here and fuck me. You’re in charge now baby — you know what to do.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. My legs were still spread, and as he practically leapt across the bed and accosted me, he grabbed the fishnet around my ankles and lifted them in the air, then pushed my legs back against my body. I sat up to kiss him; before I even lay back down, he sank his cock into me and started pumping hard the way he knows I love it.

“Oh yeah baby, fuck me. Fuck me — ram that big cock into that wet pussy,” I panted, and he pumped harder and faster. “Hold me down and fuck me,” I begged. He grabbed my wrists and shoved them down onto the bed over my head, pounding me hard.

Kissing me deeply, he pulled back slightly and ran his tongue over my lips. Shivering, I kissed him again and then wiggled away from him just enough to let me turn over.

“Fuck me from behind,” I whispered in his ear before dropping down to my hands and knees. He pushed his cock into my waiting pussy and gripped my hips as he fucked me hard and fast. He smacked my ass, and I screamed in pleasure. Grabbing my shoulders, he pushed himself deep inside me as he grunted in my ear. Then he rose back up and reached for my hair. Holding a fistful with one hand, he spanked me again with the other as I wailed incoherently into a pillow, gripping it tight with both hands as he came inside me.

The tops of my tits, still bursting from their tight confines and now slick with sweat, heaved as I turned over and caught my breath. I rose from the bed and crossed the room to the bathroom.

“So, what brings you here, baby?” he asked, the surprise in his voice finally surfacing in lieu of the constant stimulation that had subverted it.

I looked back at him without pausing. “You just gave it to me,” I answered just before I disappeared into the bathroom. I came back out and headed for my clothes laid out on the upholstered chair in the corner.

“You flew halfway across the country just to fuck your husband, huh?”

“I did indeed. My flight back is in three hours.”

“This is not exactly an incentive for me to stop taking last-minute business trips.”

I paused as I pulled my shirt over my head, smiling to myself. Then I shrugged. “If you want to continue to give me reasons to punish you, you’re more than welcome to.”

I would get to try out those new vinyl boots I’d secretly bought in no time. I finished dressing and picked up my bag, smiling as I turned to him.

“How are you getting to the airport?”

“There’s a car picking me up in 10 minutes. Your boss arranged for it, actually. I called her this morning to ask for the hotel info and your schedule.”

“You don’t say.”

“Mm-hmm. She was very helpful after I told her how horny I was.”

He turned to me sharply, wide-eyed. I smiled and gave him a kiss before turning toward the door.

“See you at home!”