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Sharon

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Breeding

Combing through my memories, I guess I have to admit that I’ve had a pretty good life. I also have to admit that when I was younger I did much of my thinking with what I call my reptilian brain, located in the head of my penis. Women can be lustful too, of course. But, for better or worse, they are more likely to fall in love.

I married too young, at 21. No, she wasn’t pregnant. We were still in college, living together off campus, and we gave in to strong parental pressure. It was 1970 in a small college town, and our parents considered what they called our “shacking up” to be immoral and unseemly. It wasn’t long before I began to see that I had foolishly deprived myself of the varied sexual encounters my friends were experiencing. I was in the prime of life, at my sexual peak. I loved my wife, Penny, but I was troubled — what had I done? When spring arrived the following year, and with it the usual multitude of cute coeds in their light dresses and bare legs, I became fanatic with lust. I kept it to myself, often masturbating to fantasies when Penny was out.

Penny graduated that spring and immediately took a full-time job to support me, as I took summer classes to finish up. After the fall semester, I would have enough credits.

That was the summer I met Sharon. Penny and I had heard from a friend that a guy named Dennis sold good pot, and we were running low. One evening we just drove to his mobile home back in the woods and knocked on the door — it was that easy back then. When we told him who sent us, Dennis invited us in. He was tough looking, with a beard and tattoos — a motorcycle mechanic. He introduced us to Sharon, his “old lady,” who was wearing a short dress.

Sharon, who worked part-time as a checkout girl at the local supermarket, was slim, with long, straight, blond hair, parted in the middle. She reminded me of Michelle Phillips, of The Mamas and the Papas, but her hair was oily, with a few snarls, like it hadn’t been washed in a while, and she looked like she hadn’t slept much lately. OK, she apparently hadn’t washed her face that day, either. But it was definitely a cute face, and there were other good parts too — curves in all the right places.

We all sat down. We didn’t have to tell Dennis what we were there for — he lit a glass pipe for us to try what we were about to buy. Sharon, her legs tucked beneath her, sat next to him on a couch across the small living room. As we passed the pipe around, I began to sneak looks at her. A few times, when Dennis was looking the other way, our eyes met, and that perked me up. Once, I thought I saw her raise her eyebrows. This is good stuff, I thought to myself, but had I imagined it? If not, what did it mean? Ambiguous. Enticing.

My ganja-enhanced daydreaming was cut short by an unexpected question from Dennis: “Would you like to snort some smack?”

Penny and I glanced at each other. We were both surprised, and a bit scared — we had drawn the line this side of heroin, but we had never before been asked to try it. We held our ground.

“No thanks,” I replied.

“No biggie,” said Dennis. “Maybe next time. I can sell you that, too. We do it all the time, right Share?” Sharon nodded, but I sensed she was a little uneasy.”

Just a few days later, I saw Sharon on the soccer field I was crossing on my way home from class. She had seen me first. As we came closer to each other, she gave me that look again — the raised eyebrows. This time I returned the look, and she chuckled.

“Hi,” she said. She just smiled.

“Hi, yourself,” I said, staring into her blue eyes.

It was a hot day, and she was sweaty. She was barefoot, and her feet were dirty. Maybe she had been playing Frisbee earlier, I thought. There was an awkward pause before I took a deep breath and dove in. I heard myself laying it right out there: Although I knew it was wrong, since I was married, I said, I had been very attracted to her the other night. Boy, did honesty pay off: She said she had figured as much, and was attracted to me, too, and that was the reason for the raised eyebrows — inquiring about the possibilities. I felt a sort of electricity between us. Her eyes were saying, “Take me,” and my helpless heart was racing as she said she was as good as married too, and that Dennis would be furious if he thought she was cheating on him.

“He has a gun,” she added.

It took a minute to register, through my reptilian thoughts.

“Uh-oh,” I said quickly. But that didn’t stop me from motioning for her to follow me into the woods. We didn’t touch; someone might have noticed.

I found a good spot way back in the trees, with little underbrush. Nervous, guilty, I kissed her. She kissed back. Game on.

We began to nuzzle and pet. She certainly wasn’t shy. Sucking my tongue into her mouth, she reached down into ataşehir escort my shorts and gently held my penis as it swelled from partial to full erection. Still standing, we stepped away from each other, kicked a few sticks away, kicked off our sandals, and, in unison with nervous giggles, pulled down our shorts and undies. We left our T-shirts on, but I could see pert nipples through hers.

Immediately, Sharon is squatting in front of me, taking me in her mouth. I was already hard, but just two of her suck stokes are enough to turn me from hickory to iron. Instead of lying down on her back like every other girl I’d had sex with, she gets down on her hands and knees in the leaf litter. She was “presenting” — for me! And she is a natural blonde, though her pubic hair is a darker shade. I see that delightful bearded clam, the cleft bulge of spongy flesh that draws me so profoundly, dominates my dreams waking and sleeping, captivates me, drives me, then and now, like nothing else. Still smiling, she twists her head back to look at me, raises her eyebrows, smiles. An engaging blend of generosity and lust, that sweet smile is branded forever on my memory.

Kneeling behind her now, I slide my hand slowly down her back, feeling every vertebra, and caress her silky buttocks. There I linger, moving my fingers up and down her bottom crease. She shivers, sighing. I spread my hand over her behind and push slightly forward, and she lowers herself from hands to forearms, so her rear end points upward. My hand goes between her legs, and I stroke her smooth inner thighs. She parts her legs further, and I smell her arousal. By the time my fingers reach the velvety flesh of her lower lips, she is soaking with desire. I palm her vulva, with my wrist and forearm curving up between her butt cheeks. She begs me to enter her, and my penis is certainly willing, but I decide to make her wait. Gently, my fingers explore the slick folds of her labia, briefly touching the live wire of her clit, which elicits from her an expectant moan.

At last, I slide my thumb into her pink socket. I slowly slide my other hand up her flat tummy and under her shirt to cup a breast. She is breathing heavily. Her long, blond hair is spread out over the leaves now. She starts to rock her hips, then dips her head down to look back beneath her. She watches my hand with palpable anticipation. I remove my thumb and insert my two middle fingers and begin to pump them in an out, ever so slowly. With my little finger I tickle her clit, which is rising, hardening. With my still-moist thumb, I press lightly against her anus. With my breast hand, I pinch her nipple. Then I pick up the tempo, doing everything harder, faster. She gasps, whips her head up to face the sky, arches her back like a stretching cat, and comes hard. Her vagina clamps down on my fingers as she bucks and shudders. She is crying, then laughing. She is grateful!

We sit together on the forest floor as she recovers her strength. She leans her head on my shoulder and say mischievously, “Now, if only I could think of a way to thank you.”

My erection had begun to shrink, but it perks up at that remark, and she notices. Her hand goes out to it, and in no time it is iron again. And before I know it, she is crouching over me, with her hands on my shoulders. As she bends forward to kiss me with her moist upper lips, she envelopes the helmet of my prick with her lower ones.

“The friendliest thing two people can do,” she says, and plunges violently down. Wow. She just stays there awhile, all her weight in my lap, and links her hands behind my neck. Smiling mischievously again, she begins to contract her vaginal muscles rhythmically. I groan with intense pleasure. As I hoped she would, she rises up my iron pole, then, down again. Then up, then down, increasing slightly in speed and contracting on the upstroke — milking me, you might say. All I’m doing is moaning and groaning. She gets going rather fast for about 30 seconds or so, but crashes all the way down to stay, wraps her arms around me, and holds tight. I feel more of her contractions, but now they aren’t rhythmic at all; they are coming in random bursts — staccato spasms that drive me over the edge. I send my own powerful spurts — my own staccato bursts — up inside her.

Soon after that, she leans forward and I recline, looking up into her eyes. Her still-fluttering vagina retains my wilting but satiated penis. I knew this would not be — could not be — the last time I would be inside that sweet tunnel of love.

“Do you feel guilty?” I asked, after a long reverie.

“Not a bit. See you again soon?”

“You’d better believe it!”

Two days later, walking to the post office in the little village just off campus, I was wearing parallel grooves in my brain. I was worrying about cheating kadıköy escort bayan on Penny, yet simultaneously scheming how and where I could meet Sharon again. Suddenly, there she was. I was delighted to see her, but couldn’t show it in public. She knew that of course, and we didn’t touch.

“Follow me,” she said, and we walked half a block to a dead-end alley, me watching the backs of her bare legs below her short dress. There was a dumpster there, and she pulled me behind it and kissed me.

The kiss doesn’t last long, though, because she squats, unbuckles my belt, pulls down my jeans and boxers, and immediately closes her mouth around my rising penis. She begins to slurp and suck gently. With one hand, she fondles my balls. With the other, she grasps the base of my dick. After some in and out, she takes my whole member down deep in her throat. “Ohmygod,” I say, just before erupting. She swallows every drop and licks me clean, smiling up at me with dreamy eyes as I lean back against the dumpster, weak in the knees. Then she stands up, kisses me on the cheek, whispers, “Come over Tuesday at noon,” and walks away. My only thought, as I pull up my pants: Penny will be at work then.

In the trailer on Tuesday, sitting on the couch and wondering were Dennis is, I’m petting the back of Sharon’s head as we pass a joint back and forth. I notice she is cleaner today, her hair more neatly brushed than usual. Between tokes, we kiss. Then she stands, takes my hand, and leads me down the short hallway to the bedroom. Primly, she asks me to please undress. As I do so, she takes a jar of Vaseline off the nightstand, opens it, grinning. Still following instructions, I lie down on my stomach, and she sticks her finger up my ass! Then two! In and out they go, twisting on the outstroke. By now, I’m hard. On the next stroke, her fingers go even deeper, as if they are here to stay, and they begin to massage my prostate. I start to hump the bed. I feel her free hand sliding under my abdomen, but before it even reaches its destination, I start to come. Quickly, she closes her hand around my ejaculating penis, as her other hand continues the deep prostate massage, and I continue coming, in buckets.

When I recovered, I confessed I had been an ass virgin.

“You poor thing,” she mocked. The corners of her mouth turned up, and her eyes sparkled.

I think right after that was when she first used the “L” word. And I think I lamely responded, “I love you, too.” Naturally, that only encouraged her to fall more deeply in love with me, and from that day forward I worried about not only hurting Penny, but losing her altogether in a messy upheaval from which no one could emerge unscathed. I wasn’t being fair to either woman, and I began to see that I was using Sharon. But the sex was good. Really good.

I may have been using her, but I didn’t get bored. She was looking better and better — healthy skin, clean hair, clean all over. She was taking care of herself, feeling better about herself, and I knew it was because of me. She dominated my thoughts. She was the main energy, the main focus in my life. I still loved Penny, in a different way. For one thing, Penny had been to college, Sharon had not. I’m not saying Sharon and I couldn’t have a good conversation, but there was a gulf between us.

Once, right after making love, Sharon said, “I hope you’re not just here for my vagina.” I hid my surprise and quickly replied, “Of course not,” and kissed her deeply to prevent the conversation from going any further.

By then we had our trysts down to a schedule — certain mornings or afternoons, three days a week. I guess we both lived for those rendezvous, but with a difference: While I would have been content for them to continue forever, she was fantasizing about the future — about me leaving Penny. Now and then, Sharon would allude to the possibility of us running off together to make babies and live happily ever after. Sometimes it was subtle, sometimes more direct. For the subtle times, I would change the subject. For the more direct ones, I would say something noncommittal, yet loving.

Here’s another example of why I led her on: I have a particularly strong memory of one warm afternoon at the trailer. I knew she had probably heard me riding in on my bike at the appointed time, but I always made a point to knock. This time, before my knuckles even hit the frame of the screen door, she called, “Come on in.” She stood at the end of the hallway, at the entrance to the bedroom, in a yellow cotton dress. I took a couple of steps toward her, and, with a shrug of her shoulders, the dress fell to the floor. No underwear. In fact, no pubic hair — she had shaved. Her pussy was smooth and white. Her legs were together, and in the middle of the V was that enchanting crease, like the escort maltepe crease in a ripe peach. My mouth watered.

She holds her arms out to me, but as I approach she takes a couple of steps back and flops onto the bed behind her, her lower legs hanging over the edge, her toes barely touching the floor. Down on my knees, I kiss the crease lightly, savoring the feel of her smooth, puffy mound against my lips. Ever so slowly, she raises her knees, opening her legs, unfolding her pink petals to me. With a mind of its own, my tongue slips down the groove and into her flower. Soon those fragrant folds were slick, and Sharon was moaning. The gates of heaven.

“Come in me,” she whispers. I rip off my clothes, exposing my raging hard-on. She holds up her arms, and I dive into them, trembling with desire and plunging all at once into her sopping quim. She grunts from the impaling, just as I knew she would, then envelopes me in her arms, legs, and vagina. There is nothing like those first few strokes.

Afterwards, we light up, and before long we are horny again, as we knew we would be. She gets up on all fours, tilts her ass up. “Sock it to me,” she hisses. Clearly, she needs it now — no nonsense.

I laugh. “Which hole?”

“Both!”

I slid into her wet cunt again, but this time I knew I could last. I pumped until I got her going, then pulled out and started sliding my dick along her ass crack.

“The Vaseline,” she pants. “I snag the jar off the nightstand, pop the lid, and scoop out two fingers’ worth. Into her rectum goes the first finger, then the other, then both go deep. From deep in Sharon’s throat comes a primal groan, and my erection twitches. Suddenly I realize I want this as much as she does, so I waste no time substituting my dick for my fingers.

It was different — very tight. I reach around to stroke her clit and labia. As she starts to buck, I grab her long hair — it just seems like the natural thing to do. I pull gently, but hard enough to raise her head up. She gasps. I quicken my fingers on her snatch, but keep my strokes at her back door slow and even.

Her vocalizations are such a turn-on; I wish I could do them justice. First, she makes a loud, cooing sound, something like, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOO, OOOOOOOOOOOOO,” and through my dick I feel tremors. Then, shouting, “UH! UH! UH!” her whole body shakes like a convict in an electric chair. Then she goes limp, slumping forward to a prone position. I stay in her, and my hand is under her wet, spongy mound. This position makes her ass even tighter, though not dry. What she does next, after taking a minute to recover, is amazing. She knows I haven’t come yet on this round, so she locks her ankles around my legs to hold me down and then starts squeezing those firm butt cheeks, in the process squeezing the slick, snug cave that holds my penis. (She’s done this before for Dennis, I realize, but who cares?) All of sudden, she manages to slide her hand down beneath her body and between our legs to hold my sack, which she squeezes. It is just a slight squeeze, but I know another is coming, and when it comes, so do I. I send a gusher up her innards.

“I love you,” she says.

I’m gulping for air. I don’t reply.

The affair continued another couple of months. She asked if we could get together more often. I put her off. We had to be super-secretive, I explained, because I was scared of my wife finding out and/or Dennis finding out and blowing my head off. I could tell Sharon was losing patience, and she didn’t seem as committed to the whole secrecy thing as I hoped she would be.

Now that I’m older, I can see that we were merely following the trajectory of most affairs, as if acting out a script. More and more, Sharon said we should run off together and never look back. My answers were always elaborately worded excuses designed to give her a thread of hope without actually saying much of anything. But she was no dummy, and these talks would often end with her crying, and me leaving, feeling awful, my stomach in knots.

What a creep I was, right? Is it true Italian men have long-term mistresses? I just wanted a mistress without tears. Years later, I confided this wish to a friend. His reply: “A mistress without tears is a whore.”

To make a long story shorter, I finally broke it off. I knew I had to choose, and I chose Penny. It was a bad scene, with lots of crying. Two weeks later, I saw Sharon coming up a walkway on campus, wearing a big backpack. She knew my whole schedule by then. She came right up to me, looked straight into my eyes, and started to cry. Through the tears, she told me she had a bus ticket in her pocket, had left Dennis that morning (he didn’t know yet), and was moving back to Florida to live with her parents.

I said I was sorry. I had nothing else to say. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. She turned her back and walked away, toward the bus station. I watched her. She looked back, once. I didn’t go after her.

That was the last I saw of Sharon, though I have thought of her often over the years. Some of those times, I’ve cried.

###

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