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Erotic story: Smoke, Mirrors, and Cougars

Hello lovely readers! You know how last week I mentioned I would have a new book review up this Monday? Well, the best laid plans of mice and men, etc, because I don't. So to make up for it, I'm posting an entire story from my collection A Bloom in Cursive! I absolutely adore this story and I hope you do as well.

I just ask that if you do like my story, please share it! (Email, social media, carrier pigeon, whatever works!) And if you are so inclined, you can find the print and ebook of my short story collection here.

Thank you for reading <3 XOXO -LV

Smoke, Mirrors, and Cougars

            I stand against the sink watching him mow the lawn out the kitchen window. He’s always been slight in figure, but the muscles in his arms are so sharply defined they shadow and swell as he wrestles the cantankerous machine to get the last bit around the brick patio. He wears his hair long, like most of the hippies do these days, but he has it pulled back in a ponytail.

            It is July, sweltering, and the glass of tea in my grip slips a little from the condensation. I imagine the slick sweat dripping beneath his collar, between his shoulder blades. I move the cold glass to my other hand and imagine the soothing relief I should bring to his labored muscles with my touch.  I become impatiently aroused. My clothes feel tighter, more clingy.

            Not that they aren’t tight enough already. I know it’s disgraceful, a woman of my age dressed like this, but I make an exception when a certain college boy comes calling to look after the lawn. Hello, Mrs. Patton – I got a job at the lumberyard but I can still do your mowing on Sundays, if that’s okay with you, of course, Mrs. Patton. With charm like that, who wouldn’t dress to impress?

            White pants that squeezed my backside, with the hem that belled out at the bottom how the kids like it. A light crocheted blouse, dark orange and brown, low cut. I thought perhaps not low cut enough, so I added some gold jewelry and a chain link belt that draped my hips. But my outfit did little to enhance my best feature. I twirl a lock of hair between my fingers, proud of the vivacious color – I’ve always loved red heads, Mrs. Patton.

            He finishes up around the patio and the beating hum of the mower dies into quiet. I take this as my cue to head out to the patio. Not too quickly, of course – I’m only politely interested in my lawn after all.

            But the fa├žade is as effective as glass and soon I’m bubbling and tripping over myself. The vodka in my tea hadn’t helped.

            It’s no big thing, Mrs. Patton – You know I love helping you out, Mrs. Patton. There’s still even gas left in it, Mrs. Patton.

            I appreciate it so much, Ethan. Don’t you need a five, or a ten, or a little extra to get you through this week?

            No, Mrs. Patton, we agreed you could just pay me at the end of the summer.

            Well, at least come in for something cool to drink, this heat is unbearable for anyone, even a strong young man like you.

            Thank you, Mrs. Patton, that does sound awful sweet of you.

            I make a show of bending over in the refrigerator to get the pitcher of tea. I swear I hear him lick his lips but he has nothing but a chipper discussion about the weather to comment on. I find a glass and pour the tea, handing it to him with a smile I hope is a bit more friendly than motherly.

            Don’t get your glass confused with mine, I say as I put the pitcher back. Mine has a little extra that a nice boy like you wouldn’t be interested in.

            I would be interested, he says, not asking but taking a bottle of rum, the one next to my vodka, and pouring a bit into his glass.

            My, my, you are full of surprises.

            Not to everyone, Mrs. Patton, not to everyone.

            He downs over half the glass, sweat glistening off the tops of his shoulders.

            Are you sure you don’t need a little extra, just to get you by?

            I don’t need money, Mrs. Patton.

            Oh, but there must be something you need, to get you by. You’re such a help, I would be lost without you.

            He contemplates the sip of amber liquid at the bottom of his glass.

            There might be something, Mrs. Patton, if you really think I do a good job.

            Oh, you do the best. What is it you need?

            Without a word he sidles up, reaches around and cups my ass with one strong hand, the heat of his palm glowing through the skin tight material. When I move my hips seductively in his hold he drops the chivalry and delivers a brazen smack to my backside that makes me jump.

            Well, then, young man, I think I know exactly what you would like.

            He sets his empty glass on the counter but I carry mine with me to the bedroom. As I turn, I put my hand out behind me, hooking two of my fingers with his. He knows I’m leading him only for the moment. My reaction to his touch sent out the message crisp and clear: I wanted him to be in charge.

            We arrive in the bedroom and I don’t bother to turn on the light. Summer sun filters through the lace curtains casting happy beams here and there. Certainly light enough to see but dark enough to cloak our secret.

            He gives a nonchalant look around the room and when he speaks the tone of his voice edges on sarcastic – What was it you were going to give me, Mrs. Patton?

            I immediately sink to my knees. Despite his cool demeanor, I catch a glimpse of a charming, school boy smile. 

            I slip my hands between his legs and feel the throbbing pulse through his jeans. I ponder undoing his fly with my teeth but think better of it. I didn’t anticipate the alcohol to go to my head quite so quickly. I stifle a playful giggle from my lips as I pull open the button on his jeans. Giggling, even drunkenly, would not be appropriate for such a serious, forbidden moment. He was twenty years younger, for god’s sake.

            I feel tingly as I unzip his pants and pull them, along with his underwear, down to his ankles. I hope I didn’t scratch him with my fingernails.

            I run my hands over the muscles of his thighs before I lean forward and lick a long, smooth line over his hip bone, and along the bottom of those rock hard abs. His taste is salty and even more intoxicating than the spiked tea. I am dizzy on top of tingly.

            It’s not difficult to spot how aroused he has become, I can feel it in his worked muscles, still in action, still pumping blood and energy and carnal desire. I silently curse my pants – too loose in the ankles, too tight in the crotch. But I have other things I really need to pay attention.

            I sneak both hands between his thighs and gently pull apart the slick slit for better access to the impeccable little nub of an eager clitoris. Before I could make a move his hand snakes through my hair and he shoves my face between his legs. I immediately begin lapping as provocatively as I could imagine while ignoring the swell of my own member between my legs. The tangy taste of sweat and sex feed the bulge surging beneath the tight, white fabric. It’s miserable… but pleasing him is my top priority.

            I fall into a rhythm, sucking at the hardened bead as he rocks gently into my mouth. He’s enjoying it, I can tell, as his grip on my hair loosens. I close my eyes and keep a steady pace.

            He pulls away from me suddenly, and I look up in surprise. He is ready to move on.

            I set my knees hard on the floor and clutch the backs of his thighs, my fingernails nearly penetrating a line of pinpricks on his skin. This is the part when I want to break, snap this scenario we have going, break it right in two. When he slowly lifts the sweat stained T-shirt over his head and reveals himself as my wife, my Samantha, her perfect, perky little breasts dipping with such a luscious curve in the sunlight that I almost can't keep a hold on the fantasy, on her fantasy. I'm all out of poetry, I just want to tackle her and fuck her brains out, fuck her until she’s crying, ‘yes, Craig, yes, right there’ and I’m so turned on my brains are leaking out of my ears. I'm on the brink of destroying everything with one look, one movement of who I am under this wig. If I can just hold on, it will be worth it.

            You're still Mrs. Patton, I repeat to myself. I chew my tongue, hold my breath, and make it through the explosion between my legs, a burst of wild heat tinged with pain. I don't know why I can keep it together nuzzling her sweet pussy but those tits just make me lose my mind.

            She – he – you're still Mrs. Patton, you're still Mrs. Patton – throws the T-shirt to the floor, like a dare. He puts his fists to his hips, pumping his wiry, muscled arms, his chest collapsing a little to showcase his abs. Now I know he's had enough. It's time to give it to me.
            He reaches a hand out, so gently at first but then hooks two fingers under my jaw bone, exerting just enough force on the pressure point that the rest of my body follows as he tips my head up to him. He pulls me forward with such command and my lips crash upon his mouth before the pain under my jaw even registers.

            Clutching my shoulder, he pushes me down onto the bed. The weight of his naked body holds me down as I wriggle beneath him. His kisses turn harsh, a grazing of teeth across my cheek, a nipping at my neck. He moves to straddle me and my legs begin trembling.

            His fingers move to the ties holding the front of my blouse closed. With each quick, erotic pull of the strings my hip huggers hug even more ferociously. In a moment of passion I reach up to caress his face and immediately regret the action. He clasps my wrists and forces them above my head. I have distracted him from his goal and I am certain he will make the most of the detour.

            He begins to rock his hips, his exposed genitals rubbing rugged against the bulge of my crotch. He knows this is driving me insane and begins a taunting assault. The only thing I can do is raise my hips to bring our bodies together more swiftly. The whole bed is bouncing, the headboard tapping a happy tempo into the wall above my head.

            My misery was only enhanced by the fact that she – he – smelled fantastic. An earthy scent with a clean, powdery undertone. The taste of arousal that sugared my lips served only to remind me that my hippie college cub was turned on, too, but there was nothing this cougar could do about it.

            He slows the movement with his hips and commences running his naked chest up and down my body. His hot breath touches my face and bared chest like butterfly wings. After only a couple passes I am left whimpering at his whim.

            Whether this is what he wants or he is simply bored I do not know but his attention snaps to the buttons of my fly. He sweeps away the gold link belt, the frivolous adornment obviously not doing a thing for him. He bursts the first button apart and a surge of excitement springs through me, only to recoil under the agonizing though – there are four buttons left.

            He teases between the buttons and the last tie on the blouse. When he finally eases me from the confines of the tight, white pants, his touch is gentle as he slides his hand up and down.

            My hands have been released but I don’t dare move them. He pulled my top open and ran his hands over my chest, my hardened nipples cutting into his palms. He gives a satisfied grin. I brace myself for more fondling but I am surprised as his hips buck forward and he moves his hands back to guide me into him. At this juncture I’m allowed to touch his knees as he throws his head back and takes it upon himself to do all the work.

            She has to know that at this point I stop pretending, but she’s far away now, in a place I can only imagine. Her eyes are closed and she rides me deep but slow, like heavy water lapping along the shore. I can feel the muscles on the insides her thighs tense and release. Her abs flex and I know she is using her whole body to fuck me. I can tell it is difficult without my help but she soldiers on, shamelessly immersed in her own world of ecstasy.

            I always want to know what she’s thinking in these moments but I have to let it go. It’s my pleasure she’s concerned with, some deep, dark fantasy about giving it to a redheaded MILF. Sometimes I’m a 50’s housewife. Others I’m a rich bitch socialite with an absent politician husband. She runs the costume department at the Orpheus Opera House and is always getting her hands on platform boots in my size, aprons, clip on earrings, and every shade of ruby red wig imaginable. But whatever the scenario, she won’t get off until I do.

            I want to move, thrust, torment the soft places that drive her crazy but I have to concentrate on getting off, remember that she’s the one giving it to me – whoever it is that I am. So I close my eyes and try to keep my hands still and focus all my energy into the succulent sucking and slapping around my throbbing cock.

            I feel the pleasure rising within me. I’ve been revved up for quite awhile, ready to burst, but there’s a lot going on. I let out little moans and hope she takes it as a good sign. The noise is more out of frustration for being thrown out of my usual role of being in control.

            But my penis is greedy, and her pussy is giving more and more. It feel like I’m grasping hopelessly at straws but I suddenly found the point of no return. My heartbeat drummed my temples and a rush of pleasure surged forth. Before I came I glance at the shadows that flecked across her cheekbones. She is smiling.

            I finish and she pumps into me a little longer but I feel the swell and release of her own climax. It is then I sigh and the tension falls from my body. Her body goes slack as well and she rolls off of me, taking a few moments to steady her breathing. I look over and utter our safe word.



            That means it’s clear for me to, well, be me.

            I pull off the wig and toss it between us.

            "Be careful with that, they don't know I took it."

            She reaches down next to her side table and procures a green foam head and starts fitting the wig onto it. I swear she could pull manikin heads out of her ass, I was always finding fake heads around the house. She makes sure the wig is safe and then pulls out a washcloth to get us cleaned up.

            As we wind down, it’s the same as any encounter, any quick fuck or long session of lovemaking. Some joking, some cuddles, some kissing. Some just being happy to breathe in each other’s company. Dressing up as a redhead Cougar might not be the most conventional thing in the world, but I was willing to try anything that made her so happy. And as she nestles into me, her warmth soaking into my body, I know in my soul, some things can never be just an act.

From A Bloom in Cursive by Leandra Vane


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