cougar rarity 1: unfinished

It was pretty obvious to the both of you what was going to happen from the minute she opened the door, but you know as well as anyone that the hunt is more fun than the kill.

You pulled up and rubbed your eyes. ‘What the fuck am I doing here’, you thought, ‘up this goddamn early to do this crap for some chick I’ve never even met?’ You slammed the car door hard enough to scare a crow poking around in the street; it fluttered up into the tree and screamed at you, making its displeasure known. And so you tromped up the steps, dutifully obeying your mother’s instructions. Go out, say your hellos, do some manual labor (pro bono, natch), and get the hell out of there. So naturally, you were unprepared for what was going to greet you when you knocked on the door.

And here you find yourself, staring into a lovely pair of eyes, attached to a lovely pair of breasts and a lovely pair of legs, all of it dripping wet and bundled up in a towel. You give her a quick up-and-down, not wanting to be rude, but certainly not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth. Her skin’s the color of cream, and there’s certainly a lot of it; her breasts could fill a mid-D, and they sag subtly in such an oh-so-perfect way that make them look even bigger. Her hair is done up in another towel, but a few purple strands hang down in artful curls. She’s got legs up to here, and the towel she’s got wrapped around herself is tight enough that you don’t have to work very hard to imagine the hills and slopes and curves and just-right amount of chub on top of the cardio-bunny muscles underneath it.

But what you keep coming back to is those eyes. Bluer than any other blue you’ve seen before. At times, they’re the color of a baby’s blanket; at others, the color of the sea. But looking at her now, in this moment, you see so many promises in those eyes the color of stormclouds.

She closes the door a hint, trying to preserve a hint of modesty, but you can see her eyebrow arch in a way that could only be called feline. “Are you Janice’s son?” Her voice doesn’t float through the air like a young girl’s; it almost seems to part the air around it, as though it has a mind of its own; Cutting through it, like a knife.

“I was just having a dip in the hot tub”, she continues as you nod, “and I came in for another drink. I thought you were the mail boy.”

She walks away, leaving the door open. Even if she had asked you not to, you doubt you couldn’t have followed the way those hips sway. Her back turned to you, you notice she has a tattoo on her shoulder: three four-sided diamonds. “Would you like one?” she calls out from the next room. “A drink, I mean.”

You politely decline, telling her that you’ve still got a few months to go before your twenty-first, and even hadn’t you, you’ll have to drive again soon. “Better safe than sorry”, she nods sagely. “Still, it’s too bad. Close the front door, would you, darling?” She busies herself around the kitchen, making a grand show of mixing her drink. “I went to bartending school, you know. I figured, why, I give them so much of my time, I might as well do it myself. Though, I must admit, I miss their flirting with this old lady.”

She leans back against a counter, drink in one hand, staring at you across the kitchen. Your mind races, having a hard time accepting that this is actually happening. You know how this ends. You’ve seen this movie.

She takes a sip, making sure you notice the way she puckers her lips. “Well, what are you doing so far away, darling? I’m quite sure I don’t bite. Although”, she trails off, covering the distance between the two of you in a single bound, “I should warn you, when I get a few drinks in me, I can get a bit... wild.” She punctuates the last word with another sip.

“So what did your dear mother say I needed done, hm?” You tell he that you were told there were some bushes in the garden that needed some work. That isn’t what your mother actually told you, but the game is fun to play on both sides. “Oh, did she? Well, she’s quite right. Come upstairs with me; I’ll show you. You can only see the bush from the bedroom, you see.”

You follow her up the stairs, wishing to God you knew her last name so you could make a The Graduate reference. She rounds the corner and goes into her room, waiting for you by the window. “Oh, dear. I can’t see it.” She walks behind you, letting a hand drag around your waist and over your ass and walking to the bedroom door.

“You know, I was watching a nature program a while ago. They said, if you lock two animals in a room together, they’ll eventually have sex.” You hear the lock click. A second later, you hear the towel hit the floor. “I told you you can only see the bush in the bedroom, darling.” And indeed you can see it: hairy, but not untrimmed. “I swear, porn is going to kill these off. All these girls shave bare, and I can’t fathom why. Can you, darling?” You shake your head.

“Oh, such a good boy to humor an old lady. Come here, let me get a look at you.” She steps toward you, running her hands over your shoulders, down your chest, over your hips, sliding over your ass and squeezing. “You smell good.” She leans into you, on her tip-toes, her lips a hair’s breadth from yours, and flicks out her tongue. “Mm. And you taste good, too. Like a boy. That’s good. I love making them into men.”

She grabs hold of your crotch, walking you back until you trip over the bed and fall down onto it. She crawls up along you, dragging her nipples over your stomach, tracing lines through the thin fabric of your shirt. The drops of moisture still clinging to her skin are soaking through your clothes as she deftly pops your fly open, straddling you and pinning you to the bed with her weight.

She stares down at you, hair hanging down in strands, brushing against your face with every involuntary little motion she makes. She smirks, eyes aflame with lust, but also something else; a feline, almost sadistic pleasure. She’s got you, and you’re not leaving until she decides she’s done with you. She sits up, spearing herself on you, driving you in to the hilt in one swift motion.  A low growl slips between her lips as she starts to grind, slow, powerful motions driving you wild. She takes your hands in hers, guiding them to her hips as she starts to buck. Each thrust, each slam, crushes you into the bed. Stroke for stroke, you meet her, pumping back up with equal fervor, crushing the air out of her in ragged gasps. A stream of obscenities and encouragements pours from her mouth, and her eyes never once leave your own.

“Sit up”, she barks. As you move to comply, she nearly tears your shirt apart, so desperate to get it off, she’s so desperate for skin-on-skin contact. Your limbs wrap around each other instinctively, and she holds you close as the two of you work in unison to move her body up and down against yours.