Six in the morning—such was my body clock. Four hours earlier, I was grateful that Marc had turned down my offer to suck him hard yet again. Seconds before that, for the third time that long night, his voluminous fluids had mixed with mine.
“Just a little nap first,” he said then.
“A nap?” I pouted. I scowled. I wasn’t about to admit that I was done as well—very well done. “Well, you’re not napping on top of me,” I snapped. Once I had him on his back, I licked his cock anyway. Men like it when their women treat them to a post-passion cock wash. Marc liked it. He liked it when he was eighteen, four years ago, and he liked it last night. I could tell by the teeny smile on his sleepy face. I kissed his cheek and joined him in slumber with my leg between his.
Six in the morning—our last. He groaned and stirred when I wriggled up under his arm. I inhaled his morning scent as I rested on his chest. There is nothing in the world like the warmth of a man in your bed when you awaken. He would have slept in if I let him, but I wasn’t about to. Maybe I woke up so soon because I wanted him again, which was true. More likely, I woke up early because I always did, ever since I first joined the workforce after college more than a quarter century ago.
I peeked under the sheets. The poor thing was worn out. Marc always, always had a morning erection until that morning. I straddled him and scratched my pubes against his and his cock. Why ruin a perfect record?
Thinking back to our very first morning fuck, the stubble on his face was courser now, and thicker than it used to be. Maybe he had simply, naturally matured, but I liked to think that it was my consistent, insistent demand for his testosterone that did it. The tiny hairs pricked my lips as I kissed him up along his jaw. He squirmed when I stuck my tongue in his ear. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” I softly crooned.
“Good morning, Princess. What time is it?” I loved the youthful nickname that he gave me mid-way through his junior year.
“I wasn’t talking to you, exactly. It’s six o’clock.” My pussy lips were kissing his cock, slobbering on him, and he was almost, just about as hard as I wanted him to be.
“Watch the bladder. I need to take a piss.”
“Fuck first. Pee later.” I reached down, slowly slid him in with a sigh, and started to rock.
“I love being in your cunt.”
That was his code, but I always let it go. I had very few rules when he moved in. First and foremost was that there were never to be any I-love-yous. He broke the rule once, and only once. He was sent to his room right then and was banned from our bed until I was certain that he understood. I gave him some leeway to love my cunt, though, because the first time he had said that was the first time he called my cunt a cunt.
He moaned in my mouth; morning breath be damned. He said mine was sweet, which was sweet. His tasted of stale bourbon, which should have tasted better considering how much I had paid for it.
That was another rule, but it was broken a lot: no alcohol until he was twenty-one. I loved the taste of kissing him after he had a beer. And, silly me, I couldn’t tell the difference between a beer and a cream soda when it was poured into a glass. Nor did I notice the decreasing level in my bottle of Gentleman Jack whenever he drank ginger ale.
We were in no hurry; at least, I wasn’t. Even as our kissing got more passionate, I fucked him at a leisurely tempo, out…and in. His parents and family weren’t going to be here until noon, and the ceremony wasn’t until three. I lay locked crotch-to-crotch, still kissing him, when he tried to hump me faster.
I teased him. “Is there somewhere else you need to be?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said after many mini thrusts, trying to take control of the pace. That felt good too, that spot inside where fast friction was most welcomed, and rubbing me outside where my clit cuddled his cock. I was proud of his assertiveness, something that he lacked when he was a freshman.
“Fine. Fuck it,” I said, sitting upright. I ran my fingers behind my head, through my long hair, and let it float down and away from my outstretched arms. Most women my age had shorter hair, shoulder-length at best, but I liked mine longer, cut younger. My young men liked it, or so I figured by their looks of surprise the first time I let it down for them. Nobody knew how long it really was unless I was fucking them.
He played with my bouncing tits, not that there was much bounce to them, while I dug my nails into his chest hairs. My lifts and drops quickly synced with his thrusts as I rode him, displaying my body in the position that I liked most.
I was only five or six years older than my first younger lover when I started at the university's admissions office, the same one I’m managing now. I was lithe and limber and proud, and I liked being older. I could tell that the boys liked my maturity, body and attitude, more than they did the new girls on campus. But over the years, they remained eighteen, eighteen, eighteen while I aged thirty, thirty-four, thirty-eight…fifty-four.
Marc liked my body. At least, he said he liked it, which was good enough for me. I took care of myself. I ate right, exercised, and moisturized. I got prophylactic Botox long before I developed brow lines, and breast lifts at forty. My modest implants at forty-eight, tits and ass, only revived the curves from my thirties and nothing more.
He wanted to cum, he needed to pee and, bless him, he was waiting for me. I leaned forward and fucked him hard, slapping my ass against his thighs. I freeze up when I cum. I moaned and froze, then fell and clenched, and not three mighty thrusting seconds after I came, so did he with surge after surge of hot, feverish, young seed.
“Now get off me before I wet the bed.”
“No-no-no!” I shouted in mock horror and dragged him by the hand to the shower.
I was peeing in the tub before I turned the shower spray on, and Marc was cursing at his dick to let it out. “Let me try,” I suggested, but he slapped my hands away every time I reached for his cock.
“No. No. No,” he said, laughing after each slap. He peed on me, when he finally could, right between my belly button and my pussy. I ignored him and loaded my loofah with body wash.
“This is our last shower together,” he said, scrubbing my back.
“I suppose it is,” I said matter-of-factly.
“And the last time we’ll make love.”
“We fucked!” I spat, harsher than I should have. He knew better. “We fucked, that’s all,” I repeated softly. “Wash my hair.” Sometimes I jerked him off while he washed my hair, but this time I just held him close. Damn him for making me feel so treasured, like a princess. “Any woman would be proud to take you between her legs.”
“Four years.”
Every one of the students from my past had pointed that out to me as if it meant something. Four years didn’t matter to my boyfriend after high school. Four years didn’t matter after college. And when I ended my first affair with a student, four years seemed right. Marc was well aware of my history, and I was repeatedly clear as to when our history would end.
“Let’s shave that beard off, shall we?” He stood still as I lathered a portion of his face and brought up an old-fashioned single-blade safety razor. “Do you remember our first shower?”
“It was the first time that we slept through the night together. Normally you showered first because you had to get to work before I had to get to class, but you told me to go ahead.”
“You tried to hide your morning wood from me. You were so cute to be embarrassed about that.” Marc always got aroused when I shaved his face, and I could feel it twitch against my leg. History was about to repeat itself.
“I was peeing in the shower when you drew the curtain aside and told me to move over. I turned away so that you couldn’t see, and the noise of my piss splashing against the wall just made it worse.”
“I was more polite than that.”
“You were not. I almost slipped and fell when you shoved me aside and snatched my body wash from my hands. It was the first time that I had seen a girl pee. You asked what happened to my hard-on and accused me of masturbating without letting you watch. I was so naïve, and you were so brash.”
I told him to stop talking so I could finish shaving him. “You didn’t complain though, did you? We got all soapy and slippery, remember?” His cock certainly remembered as I soapily slip-slid it between our bodies. “There. All done and as smooth as my backside.”
“That morning was burned into my memory. You got me so hard, so fast, that it hurt. That blow job…gawd!”
“I blew you?”
“Don’t pretend to be obtuse, Princess. You squatted and made sure that I was looking you in the eye. The shower spray was streaming and dripping down your face and you…it was like you were hungry. I told you I was going to cum and you let me shoot it all out onto your face. Lord, your smile… When it was over, you stood up so that I could see it all over your face, up close, before showering it all away.”
“Did it go something like this?”
~~~
Normally I wear a robe when I’m doing my hair and face, but when I reached for it, Marc said, “Don’t.” Just like that, he said it. I complied with a smile. I almost want to say that I obeyed. There was that newfound assertiveness again.
He was mostly dressed and restless while I finished getting ready. He got a text from his mom that said they were making good time and might be early. I suggested that he take his shoes and jacket and put them in his room.
“I will,” he said as he sat to watch me. I put my hair up and rummaged through my eyeshadows. I was feeling sexy, being naked and watched, and had to remind myself that I would be at the ceremony as a university manager and not for Marc.
“Have you picked him out yet? The freshman?”
Sometimes they ask. I didn’t even try to be coy. “Yes.”
“Who is he? What’s he like?”
Marc wasn’t going to learn his name from me, and if he asked, I wasn’t going to tell him how I combed through the applications or followed up with investigations of my own. By now, he must have figured out why I asked some of the questions that I did during our admissions interview.
“He’s a passably good but unmotivated student. My staff had put his application in the ‘maybe’ pile. He has one small, obscure scholarship that will barely cover the cost of his books. He and his parents have some but not a lot of college savings, and I found some financial aid money for them. They are happy that I could provide him with room and board for a substantially lower cost than a dorm or a dining hall pass would be.”
“No. What’s he like?”
“Average height. Average build for a seventeen-year-old. He’s a straight-C+ student and treats himself like one. He’s very insecure about girls and unsure about most things. He shouldn’t be. He has passions that he’s afraid to show. He could be attractive now. He will be very attractive in four years.”
“You just described me.”
“I did.”
He smiled and almost mocked me. “So, you have a type.”
I shrugged. I did have a type, and Marc didn’t fit it anymore. “I suppose. I need to get dressed.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?” He pointed to the dress that was hanging by the closet and the things laid out on the bed. “You have prettier underwear than that.”
“Nobody’s going to be here to see me when I take the dress off.”
“Put these on first,” he said as he handed me the thigh-highs I had picked out. I strutted to the bed and made a long, slow show of rolling them on, giving him a prolonged view of my cunt as I extended my leg as high as I could lift it to caress my legs and smooth out the wrinkles.
“Now these,” he said, holding a pair of six-inch stilettos.
"I’m not wearing those!” I laughed. The sensible one-inch d'Orsays I had ready would be bad enough to walk on in the grass.
“Just for now. For me.”
I obliged. Then he escorted me to the side of the bed and told me to sit. “I need to get dressed,” I repeated as I perched.
“Is there somewhere else you need to be?”
“Yes, dummy, your grad–oh fuck!”
With one swift move, he dropped to his knees, spread mine apart, and drove his tongue into my cunt. There were two choices before me: protest and relent, or relent. I lay back and gripped the sheets as he expertly nibbled, licked, and sucked me the ways that I like to be licked. My orgasm quickly built up, and I froze.
He stopped.
“No, baby, no! I didn’t cum yet!” How could he not have known that? Ah, but he did. He extracted his hard cock from his new, neatly pressed trousers, finished the job with that, then finished himself, filling my pussy with the last jets of hot spunk that I’d ever get from him.
Good for him! Our last fuck was a real fuck, and a real good fuck. After I licked his cock clean, he handed me a pair of my laciest bikini panties. “Wear these. Maybe you’ll get a chance to flash me when I walk across the stage.”
Marc needed multiple trips to take all his things to the front door. He was done, and I was dressed before his parents showed up. His dad thanked me yet again for the price breaks and for tutoring their son. His mom didn’t say much. She rarely did.
The ceremony was as dull as any. I didn’t get the opportunity to flash him, but we both knew it wasn’t going to happen anyway. I played back the last few days in my head. He had rung my bells over and over for sure, but that wasn’t what I wanted from a man. My mind kept wandering to the man he was when we first met, and I fantasized about the freshman who would show up in the fall. Yes, four years was plenty.
