A Happy SAD Story, with Sex

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(Note to Readers: The characters in this story are much older than 18. The sex is straight-female-and-male, with an unusual aspect at the end. It’s a short story, so you’ll know the aspect soon enough. This is an entry in the Summer Lovin’ contest.)

June 4. Right about the time that I’d hear from Margaret. Sure enough, earlier today I got an e-mail from her, which decrypted as follows:

>

Which I did, in terms specific to this ridiculous year:

>

If Margaret and I were the kind of people who could tolerate the presence of other humans for more than a few hours, I might enjoy living with her. Did I make it clear that we’re not that kind of people? We’ve chosen to live in northern Idaho, maybe five spitting distances from the Canuck border, alone in houses far from anybody else.

Like animals that reproduce seasonally, Margaret and I keep to ourselves most of the year, and spend the summer fucking. Without reproducing.

I moved here to get away from all the damn fools in the cities. What I got were other kinds of damn fools. White supremacists, and splinter religions giving rise to sub-splinters. Here, at least, I live 2.71 miles from the residence of the nearest humans. But I’m also on a part of the planet that goes through steep changes in daily solar radiation.

At the winter solstice, eight and a half of the day’s 24 hours are in daylight (if you can call snowstorms from a leaden cloud deck ‘daylight’). At the summer solstice, 16 of the 24 hours are in daylight. Shouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, but the insides of a Homo sapiens are governed by chemistry, and only a fool would deny that, or accept it passively. I took action to deal with it. So did Margaret.

I can’t stand inefficiency. Especially my own. My first winter here, eleven years ago, I accomplished nothing. I looked into the problem, and that led me to seek medical help. I accept that some people have knowledge that I lack. I pay them to use it for my benefit.

I allowed specialists to take samples and, worse, ask me questions about things that would normally be none of their damn business. This led to a diagnosis of seasonal affective disorder (SAD), and my purchase of headgear that bathes me in light. It mimics the solar spectrum.

The headgear worked. I regained efficiency in winter.

What I didn’t do was go along with the wheedling for me to get into a support group for SAD people. I let them whine together without me.

Turns out, my refusal is what led Margaret to find me.

She invaded my privacy by hacking. It’s as simple as that. She set up a bot to trace all purchases of SAD headgear within a hundred miles of her. The bot learned the buyers’ identities, then determined which of them joined support groups—and eliminated them from her search. When she was alerted to a middle-aged SAD male living alone, eighteen miles from her, refusing ‘support,’ she sent me this message, disguised as an update from the headgear manufacturer:

>

Among my many thoughts inspired by this, the most relevant was that she accurately surmised my condition. I was highly distracted during the summer, and I struggled to be productive. It made sense that winter depression could be part of a condition that included summer mania. If she had a solution, I was receptive to it, and if she were a crank, I would know soon enough and end our contact.

In response to my reply, she gave me a number for a voice line. I gathered that the number would not be traceable to her by the usual means. I recorded our calls. This was the first:

Margaret: “Yes, Mr. Ashby?”

Howard: “Please explain your proposition.”

M: “We must speak freely, Mr. Ashby. If you don’t respond positively, I will hang up. Do you understand?”

H: “Yes.”

M: “Are you able and willing to have sexual intercourse with a woman?”

H: “I require an earnest of your security of this information.”

M: “My name is Margaret Grimes. I admit to having sexual needs that are not being fulfilled.”

H: “I must gain knowledge on my own.”

M: “Call back once you have it.”

This was the second:

M: “Can we proceed?”

H: “Yes. I am able, and depending on the partner and the opportunity, I can be willing.”

M: “How do you satisfy yourself now?”

H: “By masturbating.”

M: “Is that enough?”

H: “Not in summer. Is that true of you also?”

M: “Yes. I propose that we meet at my residence and perform the implied experiment.”

H: “I accept.”

And so it began. Not the usual flowery exchange of love letters, but it got us efficiently to our goal.

***

The experiment succeeded, although that first summer we had a balky learning process The issues ranged illegal bahis from Margaret’s safety (my initial annoyance with her security checkpoints, her insistence that I watch videos of her martial arts skill) to what are referred to these days as ‘boundaries’ on certain kinds of sex.

In time, we agreed on do’s and don’t’s. It’s still rutting, messy and smelly, to make our brains spew dopamine and oxytocin. Afterwards, at home, I was more efficient and productive, and Margaret said ditto.

Also that first year, we learned to get along with each other. No surprise. Our attitudes are similar. Didn’t need much friendship, though, and we were both okay taking it for granted.

We get together, generally, three to five times a week. She demands that I give her at least two orgasms per session. If I get her to three, she rewards me with her excellent venison stew. If I don’t, she lets me open a can of whatever she’s got.

During her periods, sometimes she summons me anyway, and has me put on a condom and bang her butt. Other times, if she cramps too much, we video-sext, and I masturbate while she shows me her naked body writhing on her bed. “Your gonads are mine, Howard,” she said once. “There better not be any sluts showing up to sit on your pecker.” Yeah, right, but I don’t think she cares, as long as she gets hers.

I won’t claim that I do this only for my brain. Once I got back to doing it regular, I had a pretty good time fucking. There are still moments that make me go ‘yecch,’ but I get over most of them.

Because Margaret made this possible, I don’t resent her invasion of my privacy. So…she’d have no call to resent me writing this detailed account, to do with as I damn well please. Today she started some long-term planning, and I may need a bargaining chip in future dealings with my partner.

Here are some details. Margaret Grimes is her real legal name. She’s 47, and has never given birth. She’s about 5′ 8,” pear-shaped, putting on a little more weight every year. Her hair is long, curly almost to the point of frizzy, with gray streaks gaining ground on the auburn. Boobs big enough to sag. She wears glasses, often keeping them on during sex.

Fair’s fair. I’m 60 and have never married or propagated. I’m 6′ 2,” and the angular, bony physique is not paired well with a spreading pot belly. By 40, I was as good as bald. I also wear glasses, and sometimes keep them on during sex.

***

Today I stepped out of my 4WD at Margaret’s gate. Most people would call this day beautiful, with bright sun, breeze freshened by pines and wildflowers, and birdsong almost drowning out the whirring of the gun turret. I stood still until the face recognizer lit green, and the gate opened. I can’t argue with what a woman finds necessary, while living alone in the wilderness.

She wore a green t-shirt with paint smudges, and gray sweat pants. She handed me a cup of black coffee. We had a brief conversation as we caffeinated, mostly about COVID-19 cases in Coeur d’Alene and our options if we had to get supplies elsewhere.

Usually, when the cups are empty, we commence fucking. Today, she got refills for both of us, and she kept us sitting in her parlor.

“I’m breaking the routine,” she said, apologetically. That’s something that annoys both of us. “You’re now officially a geezer, Howard, and I have to defend my interests.”

“I had a physical in March,” I said, and then frowned as I added, “You could look up the details.”

“I only did that to you once,” she said, brow lowering, “and as long as you cooperate, I’ll never do it again.” Not waiting to see if I was placated, she got a pencil and a notepad. “How’s your cholesterol?”

“Good, so are the triglycerides, no meds.” Getting this done quick was my best option.

She nodded, then picked up something that was hidden in the coffee table clutter. A blood pressure cuff.

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Margaret,” I said, but let her wrap the cuff on my left arm.

“I don’t want a lover who could drop dead any second,” she muttered, starting the auto-inflation. When the values appeared on the display, she nodded again.

She returned the cuff to the clutter. “Now, you old goat, here’s a question that I hope will be hypothetical, this year.” She fixed her eyes on mine. “If you can’t get it up, will you use boner pills?”

“Yes,” I said at once. Sure, I’ve thought about that. If I weren’t in this ‘relationship,’ I would have said no, and to Hell with sex.

She smiled. “Thank you, Howard. My planning horizon is clearer. Now back to the routine.”

We went to her bedroom, shedding clothes.

Based on what Idaho looks like on a map, Margaret calls the far north Idaho’s penis, because of its upright and mostly parallel-line shape. illegal bahis siteleri She sees the rest of Idaho, which includes Boise, as the testicles. Today, she extended the metaphor to what the ‘penis’ impacts. In bed on her back, she spread her legs, hiked up her gut, and said, “I’m British Columbia. Fuck me, Idaho.”

As I pushed through her sweaty brown curls to part her labia, I said, “As a literal, physical action, based on plate tectonics, this would play Hell with the Rocky Mountains.” Her rings of vaginal muscles gripped my phallus, bathing it in wet heat, leading me to add, “and consider the lava flows.”

“It was a fucking joke, Howard,” she said, hands mauling her breasts.

“Yep,” I said, achieving full insertion. “A joke about fucking.” I supported my body with my right hand, freeing the left to join in the groping of her bosom.

“In that case,” she returned, glaring at me but getting short of breath, “the penis isn’t taking independent action, it’s following orders. The testicles drive the surge. A metaphor for the economic activity between the state and the province, and where the decisions are made in each.”

“So you’d rather be inseminated?” In a limited way I appreciated the humor in what we said, but I don’t smile or laugh easily. I now had an erection I could keep for a long time. From the fluttering of Margaret’s eyelids, I knew she was nearing an orgasm. Or maybe a stroke. If there is, in fact, a difference.

“Hell no! F-family history sh-shows my peak, probability of meno, m-menopause, in six years and f-five months. I d-didn’t, come this far, w-with a dormant, uterus, just to let it d-destroy, my life now.”

“There will still,” I said, feeling my neck cording, “be an emission. What’s the source?” I now had her right breast to myself, as she lifted her right arm to grip the back of my neck. I played shamelessly with her breast, spreading fingers around its loose bulk, thrilling to this juvenile act. “Your drugs will deflect the sperm,” I persisted, “but what about the semen?”

“The prostate gland of Idaho,” she declared around whooshing breaths, “is obviously Oregon.”

I thought briefly of making a case for Nevada or Utah, but moved on. “And the vagina of British Columbia,” I persisted, “is mostly woodland, like the penis of Idaho.”

“As always,” she wailed, “you suffer from male ignorance of female anatomy.” I assembled this as what she said, as it was spoken over perhaps two to three minutes, during which she also howled, moaned, and underwent spasms in her legs and trunk. I had taken her to one orgasm, while not yet succumbing. I wanted venison stew, without the nauseating indignity of getting her third pop by munching her carpet.

“The similarity in the landform at the border,” she said eventually, as I continued driving, “conforms to the fetal similarity of penis and clitoris, before the onset of sexual dimorphism.” Her hand on my neck was gentler now, caressing, but firm in its grip. Her look was softer. She was now under the influence of oxytocin, maybe a long while from her next arousal.

I gave in on the discussion of state-province fucking, and changed the subject. “Shall I keep going?”

“You can stop,” she said. “Don’t want to get sore. You want to spew?”

“Not now,” I said, pulling out, fighting to deny myself. I had gone nine months without fucking, but also without that stew.

She got me onto my back and lay halfway atop me. She squeezed lube into her hand and slowly stroked my cock. “This erection is a resource that must not be wasted,” she said quietly. Then she kissed me, with great skill, because I didn’t cringe from her tongue use. I even tongued back. The warmth of her relaxed body against mine led me to a state of alpha-wave contentment, despite an urgent boner.

“What’s on your planning horizon?” she asked.

This was Margaret, so I didn’t say it was none of her damn business. “I’m working on a new flow control valve—”

“You know that’s not what I meant. What’ll you do when your body betrays you?”

I took too many milliseconds before saying, “Put the barrel of a .45 in my mouth.”

“How ridiculously male. My carriage house has power, heat, water, internet, and room for a workshop. A month’s work would give it wheelchair accessibility. I’d charge you a fair rent. We won’t have to see each other in the off-seasons more than necessary.”

I said, “So noted.” Then I shifted so we made eye contact, and I nodded. This was enough to tell her that I saw merit in this option.

The discussion seemed unbalanced. I figured out why. I said, “I know CPR and first aid.”

“Good,” she said. Her voice was neutral, but maybe her smile wasn’t.

“You’re so eager for menopause,” I said, forcing myself canlı bahis siteleri to dwell on female concerns. “What if it kills your sex drive?”

“I’ll use a bucket of lube and fake it till I don’t make it,” she said. “I’d still have to deal with summer mania.”

Her stroking became quicker and firmer, and her skin along mine indicated muscle flexing.

“You’ve sobered up?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said, with a final kiss against the side of my mouth. “Is your stringbean body ready for this?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, half-wheezing, with extra swelling and firmness in my dick.

She let go, smeared what was on her hand between her legs, and mounted me. The box spring squeaked constantly as she humped, but I blocked out my sensory defensiveness. I drew in a large breath, to set my ribs and diaphragm where I’d need them, as she pressed her torso onto mine.

She ground and rotated her pubic bone on mine, stimulating her clitoris. I pistoned my full length into her quim.

Then she slid along my torso enough to bring her breasts near my face. “Suck, little baby,” she said harshly. I did, despite neck strain, with a mix of pleasure and disgust.

Would I be happier if I enjoyed pleasure without visceral abreactions and dumb-ass value judgments? Sure. Would I then be the person whose work gave him 29 patents that generate more than a hundred-thousand income per year? No.

Besides, the disgust faded, and the pleasure continued. It did for Margaret too. Soon her clit, compressed by flesh and rubbed in every direction, spurred her to a yell that gave me tinnitus. More fucking brought Margaret low moans, and spasms along my shaft. These effects were fading when the nipple in my mouth tightened, and she shrieked. Certain that I had achieved my goal, I dropped my now-painful stolidity, and gushed Boise-laced Oregon into British Columbia.

In time I became aware of her smile, nestled between her breasts on my collarbone. “Howard, you demon lover.”

I’m lousy at reading human expressions, in general. But I know Margaret well. Experience told me this smile was mostly pleasant, but might have also been smug. I wondered if she kept something from me.

She hoisted her upper body, and only then was I aware of the pressure that had been on mine. She held out a hand to be shaken. I clasped it. “Welcome to summer,” she said. “Make yourself at home in my pussy.”

“Thank you, British Columbia,” I said, mildly pleased by my reference to earlier joking.

“Hmm,” she said. “The CFL team in Vancouver is the B.C. Lions. That’s a pretty fearsome pussy.”

Again I conceded and changed the subject. “How’d I do?”

She separated our sticky, sweaty selves. “You set a new record, Howard. Four orgasms in all.”

I felt my facial muscles smile. “Excellent,” I said.

“This only means that I waited too long, and should have summoned you weeks ago.” She stood and stretched, which showed me white fluid oozing down her thigh. “I’ve made a lot of stew,” she said, smiling again as she moved towards the bathroom. “Now I won’t have to freeze it.”

I lay contentedly while she was gone, settling into my own oxytocin wave. Maybe what she said about the stew put the extra meaning in her smile. As the air cleared around me, I enjoyed the aroma from the kitchen.

***

As we were finishing our meal, Margaret said, “Things worked so much better this way. I might have passed on trying for three orgasms. You’re terrible at eating pussy.”

I had nothing to say to that. I savored the final morsel of stew in my bowl, observing that plenty remained in the tureen at the table’s center.

She knit her brow. “What should I do about the fourth orgasm, though? You deserve something special.”

“There’s some stew left,” I said, “but I’m full. Could I reserve it for next time?”

She stood, and beamed, as if she just had an idea.

“No sir! There’s another use for that,” she said.

Again, I know Margaret. This was not something she just thought of.

She strolled over to where I sat, and pivoted my chair away from the table.

To my surprise, she lifted away her t-shirt. “Howard, you had only one orgasm. Was that enough?”

“I, um, I—”

She bounced her breasts while she yanked down her sweat pants. She sang, “Summer is a-comin’ in!” Then she said “and cummin’, and cummin’…”

And with that happening in front of me, my one orgasm was no longer enough.

She knelt between my legs and unzipped my cargoes. “Time to feed the B.C. Lioness,” she said, dragging away the fabric (and mangling the joke beyond repair). My tool sprang vertical. “Don’t worry, you’ll still have what you need to entertain me for the rest of the summer.”

She reached to get the tureen. She poured into my lap the chunks of braised venison, potato slivers, peas, carrots, and rich gravy. The stew was at the temperature of her vagina at its greatest pleasure. Even if I were capable of speech, I would not have admitted how good that felt.

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