My eyes were slits of pleasure as she worked my cock with her mouth. Warm and wet, her tongue swirled miracles along the underside of my shaft, her lips closed tightly, pumping forcefully. Soft fingers traced circles between my legs; soft hair brushed my thighs. I was close. I could feel my release boiling.
Opening my eyes, I looked down at the beauty between my legs. Her sun-kissed brown hair—shiny in the morning light streaming through the windows—was tucked over one ear, the rest spilling languidly across the other, across her naked shoulder to the small brown nipple of her left breast. Her soft brown eyes danced as they met my own eyes and my body shuddered.
So beautiful. High cheekbones. Long lashes. Full lips. Lips that knew exactly what to do as they slid along my length.
And once again, my heart skipped as I watched Mrs. Price between my legs. It was fucking Jerry's mom! As though she were reading my mind, the brunette pulled briefly off my cock to smile, the corners of her mouth turning up, her eyes brightening even further. She continued to stroke my saliva-glistening shaft with one elegant hand before winking and dipping her head back down, swallowing me up. As I felt the head of my erection enter her throat, my breath caught.
She sensed my coming orgasm and pumped me faster. So good. So close. "I'm going to—"
RING RING!
"I'm going to—"
RING RING!
As the burning hot pleasure erupted from my cock, I was jarred from my sleep, disoriented, as my boxers quickly filled with my warmth.
"Oh fuck," I said aloud, my mind reeling, confused as I clawed for the alarm clock. What time is it? I wondered, finding the sound didn't go away, no matter how many times I pounded the snooze button.
As my senses slowly returned, I realized that it was not my alarm clock that was making that god awful sound, but my cell phone. Scrambling now, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of cum trickle down my leg, I got to the phone just as it stopped ringing.
One call missed. "Via 19."
Shit, the restaurant had called. And then it dawned on me. The time. 7:05. My shift was starting! Had started five minutes ago!
I was out of bed as though someone had thrown a bag of live vipers into it, a two minute shower, a three minute dress job, and to the Metro. Unfortunately, the DC Metro wasn't the most punctual transit system at the best of times, and my ride into the city today was particularly delayed. Fate's way of saying, "Fuck you."
I'd only been at this job for about a month and a half, starting it just after the New Year as a way to supplement my income before my upcoming graduation in June. College wasn't cheap, and while my parents had agreed to pay for some of the tuition, it was up to me to make up the difference. But high school and working nights didn't always work well together, and I found that I used most of my free time (between 3:30 and 6:30 weekdays, a little more on the weekends) sleeping or doing homework.
Of course, sleeping wasn't always that bad. Especially when I had dreams like the one I had just been having. I had fantasized about Mrs. Price since I was old enough to fantasize, and the one I had just been having was nothing new—although maybe a bit more intense than usual. Jerry and I had been friends and neighbors since we had been children and his mom was nearly a second mother to me. Nearly.
Jerry went off to college last year and since then, I had only seen Mrs. Price on a hand full of occasions, not nearly enough.
A train pulled up and suddenly, thoughts of the pretty brunette mother fled my mind, replaced once again by the anxiety of getting fired.
Via 19 is an upscale French place nestled just off 19th and N in a quiet little neighborhood, just south of Dupont Circle. Its patronage is on the higher end, its atmosphere is soft and quiet, and its management is... uncompromising. I found that out as I was told to turn in my work uniform before I even had a chance to explain.
"You can use the back exit on your way out," Mr. Blanc said in his snobby French accent.
Sighing, I tried one last time to explain. After all, this was the first time I'd been late. Surely he could—
"No!" he said, nose up, head shaking.
"Fine," I said as calmly as I could. "If you're not even going to listen to what I have to say, then I have no desire to work here. Good day." And with that, I unbuckled my black trousers, pulled them off, unbuttoned my black shirt, handed them to an open mouthed Frenchman, and marched towards the bus doors leading into the restaurant.
"Wait!" Mr. Blanc exclaimed hysterically as he saw where I was heading in just my boxers and t-shirt. "Go out the back!"
I ignored him, pushing through the doors and passing Cheryl, a pretty server who I'd had a small crush on since joining. Her mouth dropped open, words failing her.
It was only when I had actually entered the restaurant proper, doors swinging shut behind me, kitchen noises growing muffled, that I realized just how embarrassing this situation could be. Not just for Mr. Blanc—which was the goal—but for myself. I had failed to take into account two things: one, that taking off my shirt and pants and walking through a room full of strangers was going to involve me and, well, a bunch of strangers; two, that the date was February 14th, of all days. Valentine's Day. Via 19 was normally crowded on a Saturday night, but tonight it was brimming, with a packed vestibule of people waiting to be seated, as well as a bar area (located between myself and the door) that was also quite busy.
A hush fell over the crowd as more and more people looked up. At me. Boy was my face red. At least no one here would recognize me, I told myself, taking comfort in that anonymity.
Of course, the moment I thought this, I spotted, in the corner, Mrs. Price. Of all people, my gorgeous neighbor! My heart sank as our eyes met. Even from across a dimly lit room, she was beautiful. The delicate, cover girl bone structure of her face glowed in the candlelight, her lips glossy and her long hair shining and smooth. She put a hand to her mouth, to cover the smile that was forming at the tips of her lips. My face burned more. I walked to the door quicker, eyes on the ground, ears on fire.
"I'm sorry for the disturbance. Everything's fine," Mr. Blanc was saying somewhere behind me. "This crazy man no longer works here." I was hoping that everyone was looking back at my former boss as opposed to me, but I dared not look up to check.
When I nearly got to the door, I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. With my head down, all I could see was the lady's legs, long, slender, and bare. A short white skirt hung around the middle of her thighs. I knew who this was the second I saw those legs. I hadn't been fantasizing about them for years for nothing.
Mrs. Price was even more breath-taking this close to her. Her white dress was simple and elegant, hugging her slim body just tightly enough to let you know that she had a good one. The purity of the whiteness contrasted with the light tan of her skin, her bare arms, the smooth lines of her long neck and collar bone. At last, my eyes alighted on her own, large and brown, beautiful. Even in her late 30s, she had managed to fight off the presence of wrinkles, and the way she wore make up was to emphasize her high cheekbones, her graceful nose, and her soft lips—very different from the girls my own age, who didn't understand the proper way to apply mascara, thinking that more was always better.
"Hey, Danny, rough day?" she asked, a hint of that smile in her eyes. My face colored and I didn't say anything.
"Come on, let's get out of here. It's too cold for you to go walking outside like that..." She made a quick gesture to my bare legs, but kept her face solemn. The valet brought her Mercedes up to the curb. I knew him and he gave me a smirk as I got into the plushy interior of my neighbor's car.
I couldn't help watching Mrs. Price's long legs as she slipped into the car, noticing the tall white pumps she'd worn, and the way her dress slid up just a bit on the leather seats. Tossing her jacket to me, she said, "Here, cover up before you freeze to death."
"Thanks," I stuttered, having just noticed that the cold had some effect on her as well: the tiny bumps of her nipples making an appearance on the ends of her small, perky breasts. I looked away before she caught me staring.
"I'm sorry to cut your night short, Mrs. Price. Did you even get a chance to order?"
"No, but that's okay, I was thinking that I was just about finished with that place anyway..."
Then something occurred to me. "Your date!"
She laughed to herself. "I think he'll understand," she said quietly. Mr. Price had died just over five years earlier driving just a little too fast on an icy road. No one else was injured. I hadn't known Mrs. Price was dating again, and in a strange and irrational way, it made me a little jealous.
"Um... if you don't mind, could you not drop me off at home just yet? I don't really want to deal with my parents at the moment."
She looked at me from behind the wheel, appraising me, then nodded. "Sure, but I'm not dropping you off at the Metro like that. You have a girlfriend I can bring you by?"
I shook my head. Then joked, "I'm saving myself for you."
Her neatly trimmed eyebrows shot up. "Is that so, young man? Then you probably should stop calling me Mrs. Price." She chuckled. "Well, I only date men who wear pants." Then, staring at me, she added, "Most of the time."
I actually gulped here. Something important had happened here. I had just grown up a little in Mrs. Price's eyes. I was now privy to her more "adult" jokes.
"Well, I'm afraid I can't do much about that."
"Why don't we go swing by my place and you can wear a pair of Jerry's jeans. He's about your size, right? And then we can go and grab something to eat. How does that sound?"
"Sound great, um, Morgan." Her name didn't sound right coming out of my mouth, even though it was the name my mom used all the time.
I thought that Mrs. Price was going to change out of her formal dress, so I chose a pair of Jerry's jeans that he'd left behind when he went to college. Splashing water in my face, I regretted not having shaved. Having dark, shaggy hair was nice, but because my hair was so dark, I had to shave it daily or else develop a wicked five o'clock shadow.
When I came down, the mother-of-one was standing there, her long, sleek black coat over that same white dress. Her hair, I noticed for the first time, looked professionally styled. Normally straight, her soft brown hair fell in ringlets, pinned up and away from her swan-like neck, a Southern belle.
We went to a local pizza place for dinner, making an odd couple: her in her short silk dress, me in my jeans and t-shirt, sitting on either side of a red and white checkered table. But despite the potential for awkwardness, things were relaxed.
"So, how are things with you, Danny?"
We talked about my life, about school, about the schools I wanted to go to. And the whole time, I was staring into those large, beautiful eyes and thinking that she looked sad.
"Is everything alright, Mrs. Price—er, M-Morgan." The name still stumbled stubbornly off my tongue.
She smiled at my slip, and nodded. It was weird, but for one second, I felt that her smile was meant only for me. "You know, I have this tradition," she began, exhaling as though releasing something pent up over many, many years. "Just over five years, Jim was killed." Her eyes flashed with pain, but she continued. "I was... a mess in the days after that. I real... mess. I refused to acknowledge that he was gone. And then, the call came from Via 19 for our Valentine's Day dinner reservation. That was when the reality finally sank in. He was gone, and we'd never have dinner out together. We'd never cuddle in the mornings. We'd never argue, and make up." Her eyes were glazed, far-away. "I... forced myself to go to that dinner. I ate by myself. It was my way of dealing with it. And you know what?" She was looking at me again. "It worked. So every year after that, I went there on Valentine's Day." With a nod, she was done.
Silence descended and the pizza came. I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry to disturb your... tradition with my scene."
And one more time, that smile emerged, warm and full, touching her eyes and enveloping me. She shook her head. "No, Danny, don't worry about it." She reached across the table and covered my own hand. Her palms were soft, her fingers delicate and warm. "It was exactly what I needed. I need to move on with my life. It's been over five years, you know? And I'm only 37. I'm not ready to stop enjoying life just yet."
She sat back then, took her glass of red wine, and toasted, "To renewal." Then, "To Valentine's Day." I held up my cup of Coke. She laughed at this, sipping her wine, and said, "I must look old and pathetic to you. How old are you? 18?"
I nodded my head. "Yeah, 18, but I don't think you seem old and pathetic. You're... gorgeous."
"Thanks." She averted her eyes.
I stared at her, shaking my head as though she still didn't believe it. "I'm serious... Morgan! I wish that I could get someone as beautiful as you to even look twice at me."
"Don't think you'll have any trouble there," she mumbled under her breath.
"Excuse me?" I asked. My ears must be tricking me. Did she...
"Danny," she said, looking me straight in the eyes once again, "I don't know if you know this, but you're a hunk. I can't believe you don't have a girlfriend. I can't believe you don't have girls crawling all over you."
Now it was my turn to blush and look away. For this stunning older woman to be telling me that I was a hunk was absurd. So, possessed by this absurdity, I blurted, "So, um, will you be my Valentine?"
Her smile spread wider. Her teeth were perfect, pearly white and perfectly straight. "I would be honored." She laughed delicately. "What are my duties, as your Valentine?"
I laughed. "Well, first of all, you'll have to split a chocolate brownie Sunday with me."
Laughing, she said, "So, you're trying to get me fat?!"
I looked at her slender body and joked, "You could use a little bit more meat on you."
"AH!" she said in pseudo-anger. "Anything else?"
"Let's see... how about a massage?" Where did that come from?
"Done. Anything else?" Whoa... how far could I push this joke?
"Your bedroom or mine?" Some of that bravado that had overwhelmed me at the restaurant had returned. But I smiled, making sure she knew I was joking.
"I think that mine would be more convenient. No chance of your parents bursting in and interrupting us." She, too, was smiling, but there was something more to her tone than playful flirting. "You know, I haven't slept with someone since Jim? It's been over five years!" Then, realizing what she had just said, she blushed. "God, I can't believe I just said that! I should stop drinking these." She held up her glass of wine.
I felt embarrassed for her, but also privileged that she felt comfortable enough to tell me that. "Five years? Wow, I should stop complaining about my six months."
She covered her mouth as she burst out laughing. It was wonderful to hear her so happy. "Maybe we really should go back to my place. HA!"
The dessert arrived, one plate, two spoons. I even got to spoon feed her, watching her soft lips close over my spoon, sucking the ice cream off slowly. I shivered. "Let's get out of here."
The drive home was filled with the same comfortable, flirtatious banter that the dinner was. Thoughts of the evening, of her lonely Valentine's Day dinner and my disastrously embarrassing display, were distant history. She pulled into her driveway. The evening was over, yet I didn't want it to be. I felt so full of energy. I felt like I could run for hours and hours, shouting at the sleeping homes on either side of our quiet suburban neighborhood how wonderful the world was.
"Thanks for a great evening," I said, starting to head off towards my own sleeping home, when she grabbed my hand. Once again, I shivered as I felt her soft hand on mine.
"I owe you a massage," she said, pulling me playfully towards her house. "Come on in."
As she unlocked the door, I felt a rush that normally accompanies doing something bad: the first drag off my first joint, stealing cigarettes from the 7-11, breaking into the school after dark with my ex- to fuck on our English teacher's desk. The thought of that encounter, of sex in general, brought heat to the back of my neck and the tops of my ears, and I felt my cock stir in my pants.
Inside, she kept most of the lights off, switching on a small lamp beside her couch. "So... take a seat over there." I went to the couch where she'd pointed and looked back over my shoulder. She stood there, tall and slender, in the shadows, slipping out of her white heels, then releasing her hair. The curled waves of light brown fell around her shoulders before she pushed them over her ears. Maybe it was the elegance of her dress, maybe it was the way she held herself, the sureness of her movements, but even in the low light, there was no mistaking that Morgan Price was a woman, not any of the girls I had ever been in this situation with.
Padding quietly across the room, she sat softly behind me. "How's this feel?" she asked as her long and firm fingers when to work on my shoulders and neck. I responded with a sigh. It felt great, actually. "You're very tense, young man," she laughed. "Is there something that's making you nervous?" Possibly the semi-hard erection I was sporting in my pants, and my fear that she'd see it. "This night has been so wonderful, Danny. I haven't been this happy in... years." Her fingers began to work themselves out along my broad shoulders. "I feel very comfortable with you." She was whispering in my ear now, startlingly close. I could feel her hot breath; I could smell her light perfume.
When her lips brushed across my neck, I sighed, a weight was withdrawn from my whole body and at last, I relaxed. Butterfly kisses along my neck, at the opening of my t-shirt. Then her hot lips were gone. I looked over my shoulder at her, right into her eyes. She was smiling, her eyes warm with resignation. "I shouldn't do this, but it feels so right..." she whispered, her lips inches from my own.
Our lips melded into one, our slick tongues quickly finding one another, dancing playfully within her wet mouth. I reached behind me, encircling the back of her head with my hand so I could draw her closer. I felt her soft breasts against my back, and her hands soon worked their way up under my shirt, across my flat abs, over the hardness of my chest. I felt her sigh into my mouth as her hands explored the contours of my muscles, and I grew rigid with that exploration.
But I needed more. My hormones were taking charge and I needed to touch this incredible creature behind me. I twisted into her, pushing her back against the plush couch cushions, my lips and tongue never leaving hers. I ran a hand down her body, feeling her warmth beneath the thin silk of her dress: her ribs, her soft waist, her athletically slim hips. Down along her thigh, I sought out the skin of her long legs.
Her thighs felt like warm silk, supernaturally soft, and my fingers moved up under the hem of her dress of their own volition. She felt my hand and her kissing intensified, her tongue pushing against mine, seeking the back of my throat. Her own hands began to claw my back under my t-shirt, grasping at the bottom and lifting it up and off. We broke our kiss long enough to pull that shirt over my head. I caught the look in her large brown eyes. They smoldered.
My hand crept higher and higher, the other cupping her small breast, feeling the thin lace of her bra and the hardness of her nipple through that. She gasped, a groan forming in the base of her throat as my hand moved up and over her ass.
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