Cougar: An Erotica Collection. Elizabeth Coldwell
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away.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ my friends muttered later as they piled back into their Lexus because there was no room at the inn. ‘I guess you can take the career girl out of London, but you can’t take London out of the career girl.’
Like the meerkat says – simples. People flock here because I give them what they want. So, not only the extra draw of a studio and painting tuition for budding artists, but also food, and lots of it. People have to eat, don’t they, especially on holiday? As well as all-day breakfast, I do a wicked cream tea. And people have to drink. My garden bar is full every evening, cosy in winter, out on the terrace last summer.
They have to sleep, don’t they? I’ve got rooms. Exposed beams, four-posters, chintz. Everything you’d want from a chic B and B off the beaten track. And since the summer, when it was mostly families, there’s been a rash of youngsters, art students arriving in groups. Boys, mostly, the odd smattering of girls. Word of mouth apparently, and my inviting website. They come here to get away from parents, from college. They come to learn to paint. To get stoned. Oh, and they come here to –
‘By the way,’ my ex-secretary shouted as the car pulled away. ‘Where did you find the young hunk handing round the cocktails?’
– get laid. I was going to say they come here to get laid.
Forget the bastards I left behind in London, the hungry husbands I have to fend off here. What I’ve discovered down here is boys. Old enough to have driving licences, obviously – hell, what do you take me for? – but still cute, fresh-faced, uncomplicated. They don’t want much at that age. Just food, friends, sleep and sex. They’re permanently hard at that age, aren’t they? Permanently ready. And permanently grateful.
So where did I find my young hunk? Sniffing my knickers.
It was a breezy autumnal afternoon and I was prowling about in an old maxi skirt and flowery blouse tied round my middle, watering, cleaning, cooking, rearranging the art work. The students had gone to the sand dunes to paint the sea birds.
Except someone was in my garden, fingering my washing. A tall boy I’d seen earlier. I stepped out on to the wet grass, poking my bare toes through the rustling leaves just as he lifted my knickers to his face and inhaled.
‘Oh, God! Didn’t know anyone was there. Got left behind.’
Such a deep voice. Such a deep blush.
‘I can drive you down to the beach to find the others.’
I swayed towards him, cold air whistling over my skin where my shirt was unbuttoned. I’d got hot while baking scones.
‘Rather stay here. Didn’t feel too good.’ He was breathing hard and staring straight at my breasts, bulging in their dark-pink bra. He yanked his jeans up by the waistband, but not quickly enough to hide the outline of his prick, which was trying to stand straight up in his pants.
I came closer and laid my hand on his forehead.
‘Maybe you should have a lie-down.’
His face was so smooth, golden spikes of stubble pushing through his chin and cheeks. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping. He could easily shove me away but he glanced up, brown eyes smouldering. Quarter boy, three-quarters man.
It had been nearly a year since I’d been fucked. I wanted him, badly. But he was a punter. And I have an open-house policy. Anyone could walk into this garden.
As I was about to turn into the house, he lifted his hand, pushed my blouse to one side, and touched my left breast. It was juddering with my crazy heartbeat. He moved his hand over the lace. I laid my hand over his to show him I liked it. He pressed harder. Then I licked my finger, ran it down the crack of my cleavage, stroked the soft swell, then pushed the bra down to expose my breast and to show him how my finger, wet from my mouth, was teasing my nipple.
He followed the movement, so now his finger was inside my bra, too. He circled that nipple, then hooked his thumb over the bra to push it down. Now they were both out, proud, tingling in the cold air. Nipples stiff as nuts to show him my excitement.
I came to my senses and walked into the house, pulling my blouse closed.
‘I think maybe I do need that lie-down,’ he croaked behind me.
Desire stirred in my belly. Think quickly, but carefully.
‘More peaceful up in my room,’ I murmured, rearranging some lilies in a vase. ‘I mean, in case the others come crashing back and disturb you.’
I started to walk up the crooked little staircase that leads only to my own private quarters.
‘All women should be motherly, and sexy, like you.’
I started to blush like a schoolgirl and laughed, much too loudly. I nonchalantly opened the door to my private quarters.
‘I could put you across my knee for saying things like that, boyo.’
‘I’d much rather take you across mine.’
Wow. These boy-men have a way of pulling the rug out from under you. One minute helpless babies, the next coming on like a practised lothario. The way he said it, his voice so low and rough and rude, was all the more thrilling for being so unexpected.
I responded in the best way I know, which was to beckon him into my bedroom under the eaves.
My B and B is immaculate, but from the mess you’d think a slut lived in the attic. And you’d be right.
By now I was creaming for him. My breasts were aching to be sucked, nipples hardening just thinking about it. I didn’t know if he was following me, but still I checked my reflection. I looked like a gypsy. My hair had fallen in messy ringlets round my flushed face.
I wriggled out of my skirt, let it drop to the floor, and there he was, behind me in the mirror. My hunk walking right into my bedroom and flinging himself down on the sofa.
‘You said I could lie down?’
I nodded, swaying towards him. A button popped comically off my blouse as if unable to contain itself, or my cleavage. He was right there, his hands on my buttocks, pulling me against him. His nose pushed into the soft give of my pussy lips, barely concealed under my silky knickers, and I parted my legs a little. He closed his eyes and sniffed at my pussy, then ripped the tiny knickers off with his teeth. Three-quarters man, one quarter boy. Then I felt the tip of his wet tongue. Like he was striking a match on my clit.
I froze, but he mistook my silence and hesitated. I gently touched the top of his head, and that was it. He grabbed me round the waist and tumbled me on top of him. I landed, skin on skin, my blouse dropping off my shoulders like falling petals, and now I could feel all the warmth of his gorgeous young body spread out under me but mostly the battering of his heart and the urgent hardening of his cock inside his jeans.
I tried to land on my hands and catch my own weight, rather than knock my elbows into his face and ruin the moment, but it was my breasts that fell forwards, bouncing against his face. I languished for a moment, then raised myself up to look at him.
He was mine. All mine. My prize on a cold, lazy day. A feast of young manhood laid out on my sofa, comfortable as you like, not going anywhere, any doubts knocked out of the ring by the force of his lust. I was rubbing myself against him without knowing it, hungry to get him inside me. Everything about him was irresistible, his eyes, his full lips, the little bubbles of saliva at the corners like a kid impatient to tell you something, the pulse pummelling in his tanned neck.
And that big young cock barging up in his shorts. Any minute now, at a time I was going to choose, I was going to have a damn good look at it. I was going to touch it, hold it. I wouldn’t be able to help myself sliding on to it –
It makes me horny even now, can you tell? Remembering the sight of him, the smell, the heat burning off him that first time. I wasn’t his first, but I was going to make sure he’d never forget me.
‘Oh, my God, those tits,