"Wait! When will have our second date?" I inquired in a tone more begging than manly and which I immediately regretted.
She pouted her lips, and then made a show of licking her lips and savoring some surviving strands of my seed. "Well, not until my next in-service day. Ta-ta!"
With that she was gone. By this time I recovered enough not to beg after her, asking when that glorious day would come, when I might enjoy the sublime pleasure of plunging my pole into her honeyed hole in a succulent thrill-storm of pleasure.
I should have mentioned that she was an English teacher, which stimulated a little literary excess on my part. My apologies. In any case, I was mad to figure out when we might be able to have the next rendezvous in this ambrosial tryst. Luckily we live in the age of the Internet and the smartphone, it took me about two minutes, with fumbling, sex-drained finger to maneuver the typing on my phone.
"A month!" I shouted involuntarily, even though it would really only be about three and a half weeks.
It seemed like an eternity to my not yet sated, sex-addled brain and body. After a few moments of despair, I regained my composure and realized that this gave me time to prepare mentally and physically for our next matinee. This was not some chick I could just strip and rip. I didn't want to merely fuck her. This had to be more than simple sexual gratification. I wanted to melt with her in a carnal sea of passion.
Just thinking about it got me too worked up. I was still tingling from our encounter and yearning for more. My cock was hard again but still sore from her ministrations. I thought I would just give myself release, but it was too sore. I went to the freezer and got some ice to soothe my aching member. Rubbing the ice on my swollen shaft began to ease the pain, but it did nothing to soften my arousal, and in fact I stiffened even more. Usually cold shrinks, but I was so ensnared in my web of fantasies that I imagined her caressing me with the ice.
Ice would have to figure in our next encounter. I plotted and the embers of my passion melted that first cube and the aching returned. So I grabbed another ice cube, and another, and another, and continued my frosty fondling in the kitchen while a plan for our next encounter began to take shape.
To relieve my craving, I amped my runs from two to three per week to daily. During one of these runs I encountered Red Riding Hood, but that is a story for another day. After my third week of running, and two weeks after my interlude with Red, and at least one week before the promised Nirvana, I was working up a lather on the trail, trying to weaken the hormone surge through effort and exhaustion.
It didn't help my condition that each time I finished a run I had to run past her house. Every time I looked it over to see if she had anything to offer. A few times I saw her, on her way to work. In a short, tight pencil skirt, and buttoned up white blouse that must drive those teen boys wild, and maybe some of the girls too, these days. She didn't dress provocatively, but her body made it so. She would wave and smile, sometimes say "Hello!" or a few times something more enticing like, "Where do you get the energy?" Most days, by the time I got to her house whatever the run accomplished to abate my ardor, was undone by passing the gauntlet of her temptation.
On this day, I was exhausted to the bone, except as I neared the house, that bone came to life like Pavlov's dog when the bell tolls. I dragged myself up the street; I didn't have the fortitude to see her, but there she was anyway, except she wasn't in her work clothes. She was just wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but the way they fit her curves, and what they hinted at but didn't show, made her dress maddening.
She was sitting on the front porch, reading and sipping her coffee, but I was so tired I didn't notice until she called out to me, "You look like you could use a drink and some shade."
"Hi, Katie! I've been running," I gasped.
"Really, running to something or from something?" she teased.
"Both," I replied.
She threw a water bottle at me and said, "Come up here and take a load off." But what I heard was "..shoot your load off." But while I was puzzling, she continued, "There is a field trip today, so I don't have to be in until after lunch. I've seen you running every day, so I hoped I might 'run' into you."
"Well, here I am," I managed with a little bit of mischief in my tone.
"Yes, you are," she leered and flitted her fingers over my ever-stiffening shaft.
I sat down because I really needed to and she slid next to me. The porch was semi-private, which means that anyone who wanted to see what was happening could see, but if they were willful ignorant, then we could proceed in private. While I drank some water and eased into the chair, her hands were on me, caressing me through my shorts. I ran with a pair of dry fit boxer briefs and running shorts, which caged my fervor but also frustrated her efforts to fondle and ultimately free me.
Her persistence won the day and I felt the fresh air coolly caress me where her warm hands were not. I had nothing to say other than a soft moan of pleasure and relief. Katie squeezed me at the base, swelling the head and making the veins along the shaft bulge. She was thoroughly engrossed with her new toy and so amused she did not see the pair of women walking down the street.
The porch was semi-private and I had no idea if they could see or not.