As I walked up to her porch the next night and rang the doorbell, she came running to the door within five seconds.

“Hey, stud,” she said as she put her left hand on the door, looking up at me naughtily.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I replied, smiling and kissing her soft lips, which were painted in a bright, blood-red lipstick.

“I thought maybe you found another geriatric elder to deliver water to, you had me worried,” she said playfully, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and looking seductively up into my eyes. She was more confident, more sure of herself than the previous night–she had some undeniable, powerful glow around her; a mysterious, conjured aura that I couldn’t exactly put my finger on.

“The eighty-year-old on my roster got caught up in a tragic water gymnastics accident, but I think I can settle for a little younger tonight,” I said, kissing her again, with tongue this time.

“Close the door,” she said with a grin as she broke away from me, turning around towards the living room. She was only wearing an oversized t-shirt, which barely covered the bottom of her ass.

“Don’t let it hit that cock of yours on the way in, stud,” she said, looking over her shoulder, dragging her fingertips against the wall, putting each foot in front of the other with the playful confidence of a first-rate runway model. She sat down criss-crossed on the couch as I entered, her flowing hair partly in her face. A half-drunk glass of wine was on the table next to her, and the television was on, playing some old, grainy movie with the sound on mute.

“Why don’t you pick a record out for us?” she said, pointing to the record machine in the corner. I looked over, where there was an undoubtedly expensive record machine, surrounded by a neatly organized assortment of bins filled with records.

“I think my old roommate’s family had that same–” I turned towards her as I spoke, and her white t-shirt was now lifted up above her tits, her legs were spread, and she was slowly rubbing her neatly-trimmed pussy. She bit her lip and began rubbing her nipples with her other hand as she stared back.

“Shut up and pick out what you’re gonna eat my pussy to.” She said it with the perfect cadence, the sensuous charisma of an actress of a vintage, bygone age; deadpan–without any muscle within her bright red lips coming close to resembling a smile. Her eyes were staring into me with the wild ferocity of a lioness who caught her wounded prey alone out in the open savannah, daring me to do anything but submit to her request.

“Yes ma'am.” I dropped to my knees next to the wooden bins, rummaging through the collection like I was trying to rescue my favorite, most beloved record from a raging house fire.

“Marvin Gaye good?” I shouted, not even looking at her, as I frantically placed the record down.

“Mmmm,” she moaned out. “You have good taste.”

“Oh, I’m about to,” I replied, crawling back towards her as the rhythm section and saxophone breathed into the room from behind me.

“Come here, my little pussyhound,” she said, as she spread her pale white legs even wider. Her bright pink, flowering pussy, with a perfectly trimmed bush, drew my mouth to it with inescapable gravitational force. She smelt like the ocean–and flowers, or some musky, ripe fruit freshly plucked from the vine of a perfect patch of untouched wilderness during a serene summertime rain shower.

“Ohh, David,” she moaned as I suctioned my lips against her clit and swirled my tongue clockwise, and then counterclockwise. I began suctioning my mouth on and off, with the puckering sounds reverberating around the room, seemingly drowning out the music.

“Ohhh, fuck,” she cried as I did it a third time. I began swirling my tongue in every direction, focusing on her clit, while occasionally sliding up and down her soaking wet, soft pussy lips. I reached up and lightly pinched both of her nipples with my fingertips, as I began to tongue her even harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . yes, right there, right there.” I looked up and her eyes were closed, her mouth agape with a strained face of transcendental pleasure that only urged me to tongue her even more fiercely. “Fuck me, I need you inside me,” she said, her body shaking as she grabbed my arms.

“Do you have a condom? I think I have one in the car if–”

“Fuck me raw, you coward,” she said, smiling and looking down at me. “Your cock has been all I could think about today.” I stood up and threw my pants off as she rubbed her tits, eyes closed, moaning as if my invisible ghost was still on his knees in front of her. I scooted her body sideways onto the couch cushions, as she pushed her legs up to my shoulders. She moaned as I rubbed my rock-hard cock up and down over her hood, finally pressing against her lips and pushing in.

“Ugghhh, yes, yesss,” she moaned.

The warmness swam over my cock with unbelievable pleasure, and I closed my eyes to a vibrant pitch-blackness of ecstasy, which became warmer, more vibrant with every stroke. I opened my eyes as I started fucking her harder and faster. She was in the same bodily heaven of pitch-black sensuality, eyes closed, moaning, holding her tits and occasionally calling out my name. I pulled out to rest for a few seconds, sliding my cock against her pussy lips. Without speaking, she quickly turned around into doggy, and I smacked her ass as she jiggled it up at me teasingly. With one foot on the ground and one foot up on the cushion, I began thrusting into her, giving her the full length of my cock, harder and deeper with every stroke. She began screaming out as I grabbed her hair.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . yes, yes, yes, yessss,” she shouted as I fully thrust into her. I pulled out and collapsed onto the couch cushion, giving my cock a break. I dragged my tongue against both of her holes, as she panted, recovering from the onslaught.

“You can put it in my ass if you want, baby,” she said, spreading her cheeks apart.

“Jesus, you just get better and better. Do you have any lube anywhere?”

“I went to school in Paris, remember? The Frenchies don’t believe in lubrifiant. Just spit a little and go slow–I want to feel you stretch me out.” I spat on her hole and inserted my finger gently as she moaned.

“You ready?” I asked, as I got back into position and rubbed my cock against her hole.

“Mmhm,” she said, looking back up over her shoulder, her eyes fluttering to the back of her head as I slowly pushed the tip in. I stroked in and out slowly, the tightness of her hole sending waves of pleasure up throughout my body.

“I’m gonna go a little deeper, okay?” I said as I began pushing my cock deeper with each stroke. Her hole loosened with each pump, and she began to moan louder as I fucked her harder.

“Yes, yes, yes yessssss,” she screamed as I pulled her hair. “Ohhhhh fuckkkkk.”

“I’m about to cum, turn around, baby.”

She sprang around and looked up at me with her mouth open as I stroked my wet cock over her face. Caressing my thighs up and down, she looked into my eyes with complete subservience and patience, like it would have been nothing but a distinguished honor to stare up at me for hours, waiting patiently for my cock to explode onto her.

“Ohh fuck,” I grunted with eyes closed, as my body convulsed and I shot my fluids directly into her mouth. I opened my eyes and looked down, and she swallowed while looking up at me, swirling the tip of my cock with her tongue. I grabbed her hands and brought her to my chest as we collapsed backward onto the couch together.

“I think I’m in love, Amy,” I said, smiling at her lovingly as I kissed her.

“You sure you wouldn’t fall for any old milf that would invite you into their house?” She said, smiling back.

“Woah, you know some lingo huh? I didn’t know the word ‘milf’ was in a geriatric’s vocabulary.”

“I think you underestimate the amount of porn this geriatric’s watched,” she said playfully, shoving my chest with her finger, and then gently nestling into my bare stomach and running her fingers around my half-chubbed, deflating cock. “I’ve had a lot of alone time the past few years. I go through vibrators like toothbrushes.”

“Why so much alone time?” I asked, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Why so many questions? I let you fuck my ass and now you’re interrogating me?” She looked up at me jokingly, with squinting eyes. “A milf just can't catch a break these days,” she said quietly, rubbing her hand against my sack.

“I thought my cock was gonna break a few minutes ago, that really was incredible,” I said as she began kissing my neck. “I can tell you watch a lot of porn–you have some skills, Amy.”

“Mmmmm, do I?” She said as she continued kissing the side of my neck with little pecks. “I might have to try some of my porn fantasies out on you then.” She slid her tongue up to my chin and kissed my cheek. “Or have you try them out on me.”

“Well I’m gonna have to pee if we’re gonna do anything else, unless you have a piss fetish you didn’t tell me about,” I said jokingly, lifting myself off the couch. As I looked back down she was biting her lip, already rubbing her pussy again. “Don’t tell me–do you really have a piss fetish?”

“I have a lot of things I haven’t told you about, dear,” she seductively whispered. The words left her lips with an unflinching stone-coldness that sent a shiver through my semen-depleted body. She lightly grabbed my half-chubbed knob, which was desperately trying to recover, and looked up at me with an intense stare. “I want you to fucking degrade me. I want you to come over and fuck me–use me like a crusty old worn-out fleshlight.” She began rubbing my sack with her other hand. “I want you to use me.”

“You have watched a lot of porn,” I replied, as I looked down at her looking up into me, her pupils actively dilating by the second; two submerged black beans surfacing in a fiery cyclone of mocha-brown espresso.

“Now pee on me, coward,” she ordered, rubbing her sweat-soaked tits with seductive, circular motions with her hands.

“Right here? Don’t you have a shower we–”

“Here. Don’t make me wring it out of you.”

With my bladder full, my half-chubbed sprinkler began splashing upon her chest as she closed her seductive hazel eyes in urinary lust, the hay-yellow liquid flowing down her tits and stomach.“Ohhh yess,” she moaned, rubbing her arms across her pale yogurt skin, stuck in a warm, piss-soaked reverie of pitch blackness. As the flow turned to soft, trickling drops, she arched her back and sank into the cushion while continuing to rub her body–seemingly floating above the wet couch and flowing puddle at her feet like a falling cloud hovering over a rising ocean.

“I haven’t had someone do that to me in so long,” she whispered serenely, still caressing herself with her eyes locked closed. “I forgot the warmth, the smell–the dirtiness of it.” A small grin cast over her face. “I missed it.”

Her aura became meditative, and after a few seconds, I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable being there–as if I was intruding upon some sacred inner practice that was for her and her alone. She finally opened her lids slowly, waking up from some other world my bursting bladder had awakened. She grabbed my hand, still in a daze, not meeting my eyes.

“Let’s go shower,” the piss-showered woman said aloud, swaying side-to-side with dreamy grace in an imaginary breeze; her eyes open but still half in this wet, earthly world, and half in the other.

​

I woke up to her vibrating elephant snore the next morning; our tangled naked bodies were enmeshed together in some awkward pretzel shape. Three emptied bottles of wine sat beside us on the nightstand, and my head suddenly felt like it had been bludgeoned by them. I turned to her; her eyes were closed, but I had partially woken her up.

“Hey,” I whispered softly, “I’m scheduled in a couple of hours. I’m gonna go back to my apartment and throw up. I feel like death.”

“Okay, drink some water sweetie,” she said, eyes closed; smiling serenely in my direction as I put on my clothes. A woman nearly twice my age without the slightest tinge of a hangover, while I was trying to keep my aching Jell-O brain from sliding out of my nose into a puddle.

“Do you want me to come over tonight?” I asked innocently, as I gathered my clothes off the floor and began dressing.

“I thought that was unspoken,” she responded sleepily. “I can cook you dinner if you pick us up some groceries.”

“Ah, so now you’re double-dipping. I knew you were using me for my grocery connections.”

“Between groceries and that cock of yours, I don’t know what else a gal needs.” She turned in a sloth-like slow motion to her nightstand, picked up a paper pad, and jotted down a few items in an impressive cursive font. “Just grab my card from my purse on the way out.”

“You better not be trying to poison me,” I said playfully, as I leaned back on the bed and grabbed her list. “Just know that if you kill me to cut off my dick and turn it into some plaster sex toy contraption I’m gonna haunt the fuck out of you.”

“Oooo, good idea. They have a pharmacy section, right? I might have to add a few things.” Her eyes were already gracefully shut again.

The morning was partially overcast, sending only a small delicate beam of light through the curtained window, creating a tranquil atmosphere of gloom in the room. Her bedroom was painted with a smokey gray hue, and her nude figure seemed to be floating in the center like a pale desert sun, sprawled out over white-trimmed azure sheets. Amidst my inner physical world of stomach-punching nausea, she looked so peaceful–with her rosy puffed-out cheeks, her wrinkled forehead, and her wavy hair spiraling in a vined mess over her little elven ears; a meticulously crafted gallery of breathing artwork, all in display towards me–until a severe thrashing of the head and a swift kick in the stomach interrupted the perfect peace.

“I’ll see ya tonight,” I whispered, bending onto the bed and kissing her lips.

“See ya, sexy,” she whispered back serenely.

Her purse was lying on a wooden table in the opening hallway. I hadn’t been through an older woman’s purse since my delinquent middle school days, when being able to buy a crumbling gram of seedy, dirt weed from an ankle-braceleted high schooler was a worthy cause for stealing from family members. I opened up the black bag, and lying next to a thick brown wallet was a small photo album, decorated with a red heart inscribed with the word Love in the center. Though I knew I shouldn’t have, an unshakable curiosity moved my hand forward, and I turned the cover.

An assortment of pictures of a slightly younger Amy and a blue-eyed man filled the pages. A picture of them kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower, a colorful shot of their wedding reception, them standing together, smiling happily in front of the very same house I was standing in. It was too much, I was hit with a piercing wave of guilt for even looking. Before I could put it away, I became entranced by his eyes. Some distanced sense of familiarity overcame me as he stared back. He somehow felt alive, as if the eyes were watching me and knew every intimate detail of my debaucherous retreat inside the home.

I suddenly heard the squeak of her bed, and threw the album back in her purse, grabbing the card as I lunged for the door.

“Had to tie my shoe, I’ll see ya!” I shouted, hoping to throw off any suspicion of my sneakery.

“Oh, I thought you already left. See ya tonight!” She replied from down the hall.

My mind raced as I walked down the driveway. There’s no way they’re still together. She would’ve confessed by now–and there’s no trace of a man anywhere in the house. No shoes, no clothing, nothing a man would have decorated the house with. He would have left some clue if he lived there. Maybe they just recently got divorced and she just forgot it was in her purse. Or maybe they have some sort of long-distance open relationship. Those progressive, open-minded affairs seem to be a trend older people are catching onto these days. Why did he look so familiar? Those eyes, those blue eyes–

I accepted that whoever he was, and whatever he had to do with her, ultimately had nothing to do with me. I had done nothing wrong, and Amy, from the first minute I meant her, seemed like such a genuine, honest person. It wasn’t in character for her to be blatantly desecrating her marriage with me.

I sat in my car, took a deep breath, and relaxed my shoulders. I gave myself the green light. If new details emerged, I would restrategize. I looked at that little shadowed spot on the lawn where they’d taken the picture together, he in a red flannel jacket with khaki pants, her in an olive green turtleneck. Her smile–it had such youth, such vibrancy to it; she looked almost like a different person in the photo. And him: his curly brown hair, his mature, bushy eyebrows; and his tunneling, dancing eyes–the unfurling, churning waves in those sea-blue, beaming eyes–