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The Doorbell, variation 1

Mike is thankful he answered the doorbell
I was just getting out of the shower when the doorbell rang, surprising me out of the distracting daydream I had been having. I dried off quickly and hustled downstairs, wrapping a towel around my waist. As I hurried down the stairs, I found myself wondering why the doorbell always exerted such a pull on me. I was perfectly content to let the phone ring and ring. But the doorbell pulled me half naked out of the bathroom.

Since I wasn’t expecting anyone, it probably couldn’t be that important. And as I got to the bottom of the stairs, I was resigned to it being some kid trying to sell magazine subscriptions, or an earnest petition-wielding signature seeker.

Instead, as I looked through the side window on my way to the door, I saw a woman my age, or maybe a few years younger, in her late twenties, trim figure, dressed in running clothes and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Can I help you?” I said, opening the door and the screen door.

“Uh…” she started awkwardly, looking down at my waist, wrapped in the light green towel . She seemed to change her mind and said, “Never mind, I’ll just--” She started to walk away, and I shrugged, turned, and started to let the door close behind me.

“Actually--” I turned back to see she had come back to my front step. “Actually,” she continued, “Do you think I could use your bathroom? I was over in the park running, and when I got back to my car it wouldn’t start. So I called for a jump or a tow and it’s taking a while. And the bathroom building was closed, and you’re the first house on the street where anyone answered the door.”

The words were tumbling out of her, and she was clearly nervous. Understandable, given the fact that she was a woman on her own, asking if she could go into a strange man’s house. And the man in question was wearing only a towel. Clearly her more prudent nature had caused her to change her mind and start to walk away, but desperation had clearly overcome her better judgment.

“Sure, no problem. Come on in.” I gestured her inside, and she walked past me into the house, looking somehow both relieved and nervous.

She was wearing New Balance running shoes and anklet socks. Also what I would have to describe as capri running tights, in a dark grey. The bottom half of her toned calves was exposed, and the clingy fabric hugged her long athletic legs and pert butt. Idly, I wondered how come there wasn’t a panty line.

The rest of her outfit was a combination tanktop and sports bra, in light blue, which left a few inches of flat and tanned stomach visible. It was chilly out, and the temperature had dropped unexpectedly in the late morning. Although her outfit was fine for time actually spent active and running, now that she had stopped she looked cold, and her nipples showed through the fabric. An armband showing a phone and car keys through its plastic window encircled her left arm.

She had chestnut hair pulled back in a long ponytail, and her face was friendly and happy, despite her nervousness. Intelligent hazel eyes sparkled above well defined, high cheekbones, and she was the picture of coltish, vibrant health.

“Right through here,” I directed her. As she walked into and through the living room, she looked around and seemed relieved to see family pictures, mostly of the two kids, but also of all four of us. Her glance surreptitiously dropped to my left hand, where my wedding band no doubt made me a less threatening figure than I had been when completely unknown.

I pointed her to the half-bathroom off of the kitchen. Once she had closed the door behind her, I went upstairs to the bedroom and threw on a t-shirt and a pair of old swim trunks, which were the handiest clean shorts I had. I had felt exposed in front of her in my towel, and I also thought she’d would be more comfortable if I were dressed.

When I got back downstairs, she was standing in the living room, looking far more comfortable. “Thank you so much! I feel so much better. I felt like I was going to burst.”

“No problem. I know what it’s like to feel that way after a run, though to be honest I’d have probably just found a tree.”

She laughed, “That’s easier for guys, and the park is just a little too public so close to the parking lot.”

She was right. The big park whose entrance we lived just across from didn’t have a lot of cover near the small parking lot, and if the bathroom building was closed, it wouldn’t have left her with too many options. “What trail did you do?” I asked. “I run there all the time.”

“Indian Neck loop. I’m building up to the Purple trail, but I don’t think I’m ready for 8.5 miles yet.” She gestured self-consciously with her her left hand, which made me notice her engagement ring. “I’m trying to get in better shape, you know, for the wedding.”

“Well, if you can do Indian Neck, you’re in pretty good shape. It’s not as long as Purple, but I think it’s harder. So many more hills. I can’t imagine that you need to get in better shape than you already are.”

If she noticed in my comment a compliment of her appearance, she didn’t let it show. I had been careful to phrase it more along the lines of fitness than figure. But I felt an unfamiliar frisson at having an attractive stranger in my house, wearing revealing clothes, a sheen of sweat still making her face glow.

Trying to forestall her departure, I continued the conversation, “If you’re anything like most of us, you’ll be in the best shape of your life at your wedding. I definitely was. It gets so much harder to stay in shape afterwards.”

Almost without thinking, she blurted, “But you’re in great shape! You barely have an ounce of fat anywh-- you’re ripped! I mean--” She broke off as I raised an amused eyebrow, and she realized that she was admitting that she had noticed my body earlier. It was silly. We both knew that she had seen me in my towel. But good taste required that she not notice it, or at least comment on it. I had to admit it was nice to be noticed. And knowing that she had given me the once over made it hard for me not to look at her appreciatively in a more open way, for just a moment.

She flushed and said, “Well, anyway, thanks for the bathroom, and I should get back to my car and wait for my tow.”

“No problem, and good luck with the wedding. What do you have, like three and a half months to go?” I ventured a guess.

She had been on her way to the door, with me following just behind to let her out, when she turned in surprise at my question, causing us to collide lightly. I felt her hip bump against the front of me, and a pleasantly soft breast press too briefly against my arm, and as we separated she asked, “How on earth could you possibly know that?!”

I smiled, “Just lucky. It’s not exactly rocket science. It’s early March, and I took a guess that you’d be getting married sometime in June. And if it were any later, you probably wouldn’t be making such an effort to run in this kind of weather.”

“Not bad! Yes, June 21st, Saturday. T minus fourteen weeks! Well, thanks again," she said, reaching for the door.

“Listen, do you want to wait for your tow here? You’ll see him coming, because that’s the only road he can take to get into the lot,” I said, pointing out the living room window. “Even if you can get into your car, it’s going to be cold if you can’t turn on the heater. Oh, and I’m Mike, by the way.”

She hesitated, but part of her clearly wanted to stay. I wanted her to also. There was something about the way she looked at me that made it clear that she was aware of me as a man. I missed that and I wanted more. I was imagining what she looked like naked, picturing myself pulling her shirt over her head and her pants down around her ankles.

Clearing my head, I suggested, “You could call someone and tell them where you are if you’re nervous about that, or call the tow company back and see what’s taking so long. In the meantime, do you want something to drink? Water? Gatorade? Hot tea?”

I didn’t think she’d take me up on the suggestion to call a friend, but the offer reassured her. “Tea would be great. And I’m Maggie.”

“Coming right up. Why don’t you have a seat while I put the water on, and I’ll be right back.” Leaving her briefly, I got the kettle on the stove and came back to find her still standing.

“I don’t want to mess up your couch-- I’m a little sweaty.”

“Oh, hold on, this happens to me all the time.” I grabbed a towel from the coat closet, where we kept them for just this reason. When I came home from runs, I’d inevitably need to plop down for a while, and so keeping towels handy to protect the furniture saved me a trip when I was already tired. I tossed it to her and she caught it with grace. Spreading it out, she sat down gratefully, and I realized stupidly that she must be pretty tired after her hilly run.

“It feels so good to sit down.” She didn’t say anything more for a bit, but obviously enjoyed the feeling of the tiredness dissipating from her body. After a bit she broke the silence by asking, “So, Mike, how long have you been married?” I wasn’t eager to discuss that too much, given how things had been going lately, especially since my being alone today was directly related to how those things had been going. But I couldn’t refuse to answer without being rude.

“Nine years, ten coming up in June.” There was a bit of an awkward silence while we both tried to think of something to say, but I was saved by the whistle of the kettle. As I was pouring hot water into a tall mug, I heard her come into the kitchen behind me.

“I figured I’d save you the trouble of having to wait on me,” she offered, standing next to me, side to side, and surprisingly close, encroaching just a bit into that bubble of space that most people didn’t generally cross into without knowing each other better. I was close enough that I could see the fine golden hairs on her shoulders and neck. I could also smell her. There was a hint of sweat, but in the cold weather she hadn’t sweat all that much. Mostly, there was a mix of shampoo and soap and lotion and perfume, and finally her -- all muted and covered by the shower she had undoubtedly taken in the morning. Kind of the way a shirt you wear all summer at the beach will inevitably absorb the sunscreen and sun and sand, even after several washings, and you can hold it up to your nose in the winter and remember the crash of the waves.

This time it was me who needed to try to make conversation, because all I could think about was leaning over to kiss her. “Here’s some different teas. Do you want sugar or milk or something?”

Refusing everything but a bag of strong black tea, she dunked it in the mug and let it steep for a bit, cupping her hands around the mug for warmth. She looked up at me again with those brown eyes flecked with green, and I had to find something to say, again.

I felt ridiculous asking her what I was going to ask her. Part of me didn’t want to make her think about my question, but it also felt safer, like I’d be on solid ground and not riding the rapids without knowing where I was going. “Your fiancé doesn’t run with you, then?”

“Doug?” she scoffed, “He’s not exactly big into fitness. And if I ask him to do something like a run or a hike, he takes it personally, and behaves like I’m nagging him. He likes to joke that I do enough exercise for both of us.”

It was clearly a sore spot, and I was surprised at how bitter she sounded about it. There was more silence, and this time she broke it. "Let's just say that he doesn't look like you when he's wearing a towel." Her voice was thoughtful and wistful, although as soon as the words were out of her mouth she looked away, realizing that she had gone maybe too far. She brought the mug to her lips and savored the warmth of the tea, avoiding my eyes.

I had that tight feeling in my chest that I associated most clearly with the first time I had called a girl to ask her out on a date. My parents had refused to upgrade their old rotary handsets, so even though it was the mid-90s, I had been forced to actually *dial* her number. My nerves had made me stop two or three times, one or two numbers from the end, my heart thudding, before I finally had the guts to complete the call. Why was Maggie having this effect on me? I felt as if I were sixteen again, when the presence of a pretty girl actually made me stupid. Some of it was from being married for so long. There hadn't been this sort of "I wonder what might happen next" feeling in years. Not to mention that I didn't know what I wanted to happen next.

Well, I did know. I wanted to kiss her, and pull off her clothes, and have her pull mine off, and see her body, new and exciting, and know that she really did want me and need too, and then... And of course in my mind the "and then" would be glorious. What the hell was going on with me? Yes, I'd been married for years, and out of the game for a while, but that didn't mean I should be as awkward as a teenager again. I encountered plenty of completely innocent flirting from various women in my life, which I could handle and give back without feeling like a social misfit, and the two discreet, and very flattering, passes I had rejected, one from a classmate of my son's, another from a friend from work.

Maggie put the mug down on the counter, and the action was momentous. The noise of the mug touching the granite was loud, and it emphasized how quiet it had gotten in the kitchen. Crazily, I thought that at least we'd hear the tow truck if it came by. She took a step closer to me, and if she had been encroaching on my space earlier, now she was all the way in it. If I wanted, I could put my arms around her. She didn't meet my gaze right away, but took a deep breath as if to compose herself. It was a wonderful sight, because even as compressed as her breasts were in her running top, she was so close to me that I could see the tops of her breasts and a bit of cleavage.

She looked up at me, her arms at her sides, and when she did, I knew. I knew she wanted me as badly as I wanted her. I knew that she had wondered what this would do to her engagement and decided that for the next bit of time she didn't care. And I knew that she needed it. Needed me.

There was still silence. Neither of us had said anything since her towel comment. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I thought she had to hear it, and I could see her pulse beating in her throat. I decided to kiss her.

Nothing happened.

My body couldn't move. My ridiculous brain flashed to that moment in "It's a Wonderful Life" when the old guy gives Jimmy Stewart a hard time for not kissing Donna Reed (Oh, youth is wasted on the wrong people!). Damnit, move! Where was I supposed to put my hands again? Which way would she tilt her head? What if I tilted mine the wrong way? Was my breath ok?

At that moment, she got a bit taller, and I realized that she had steeled up her courage and was getting up on her tiptoes to kiss me. My paralysis broke, and I leaned down to meet her, and my arms went around her, and I didn't have to think about where to put my hands or how to tilt my head.

It's a cliché to say that a first kiss feels like an electric shock. But it did. Sparks went through my body as our mouths met hungrily. My arms encircled her and brought her to me, one hand on her shoulder, drawing her near, and her warm skin felt so good against my hand. The other slid down her back and squeezed her ass, muscular and deliciously cushioned at the same time.

Her tongue darted into my mouth, and I returned the kiss eagerly. She ground her hips against me, rubbing against the growing bulge in my shorts, and her hands slipped under my shirt to rub up and down my back.

"Oh, God, Mike, your skin feels so good," she murmured when she broke for air. My cock was standing at attention, and I rocked back and forth against her as she continued to push her hips against me. Before long, one of her hands had slid down my back and under the waistband and grabbed my ass directly. "Mmm" she sighed, "such a nice hard ass."

I followed suit and slid my right hand under the waistband of her tights, pulling the band down over her ass as I did. I left the tights bunched just under her cheeks as I enjoyed the feel of her pert buttocks under my hands, squeezing them and holding on to her to meet my thrusting hips. "Ohhh! Mike, suck my tits! Please!"

I took my hands off her ass and took hold of the bottom of her top. I started to pull it up over her body, and the bottom came up easily enough. The built in bra, however, was tight enough under her breasts that I had to work a bit harder to get it up and over. In the meantime, the rest of the shirt was over her head, covering her face and trapping her arms. I took advantage of the opportunity, as I freed her breasts, to keep her slightly in the dark as I kissed her breasts and found her nipples with my mouth.

Her breasts were on the small-to-medium sized, perfectly formed. Pert and upthrust, in a way that larger breasts can almost never be, with small, dark nipples. I took each one into my mouth in turn, and even though they were already perky, I felt them get harder and more turgid in my mouth. I sucked them and flicked my tongue over them, provoking gasps and sharp intakes of breath from Maggie from behind the fabric of her shirt.

While I busied myself with her breasts, she managed to free her hands and pull her top all the way off. She pushed my swim trunks down my hips. One hand found my cock, grasped it, and started to pump, quickly, eagerly. Her hand felt amazing on my cock, and as she stroked, she looked down at what she had in her hand and said, "Jesus, Mike, your cock is so big and hard!"

As hollowly flattering as her words could have seemed, they seemed more honest that the typical bedroom flattery. She was being honest and sincere. While she stroked, she tugged on the bottom of my shirt, trying to take it off one-handed. I helped her, pulling the shirt over my head. Once it was off, she looked at me closely, up and down, running her free hand from my chest to my stomach. "You have such a nice body," she murmured as she crouched down, pulling my shorts all the way down my legs, maintaining her rhythm on my cock as she did. I kicked off my shorts, and stood naked in my kitchen.

As she crouched to remove my shorts, the position brought her face inches from my cock, and she hesitated only a bit before she kissed the head softly and gently. My breath caught in my chest at the feeling and the sight of her, and I had to remind myself to breathe. After a few soft kisses, she engulfed the head in her mouth and sucked, gently and almost timidly for the first few seconds, before she started sucking hungrily. She was crouched in front of me, her pants still bunched around her thighs, and she caressed my body ceaselessly with her hands, running her hands up my flat stomach, up to my chest, up to my nipples, which she pinched and pulled, making me gasp with the almost pain.

As she sucked, she was exploring me with her hands and with her eyes, and I was thankful for every mile I had run, every push-up I had gasped out, and every crunch that had made my stomach burn. Because it was clear that she was enjoying the sight and feel of my body in the same primal, lustful way the way I did hers. I imagined that her fiancé was in bad shape, doughy and dumpy, and she was enjoying my more toned physique. It was a heady and wonderful feeling to feel objectified at this moment, because it had been missing for me for so long. It was almost like an out-of-body experience, seeing myself standing naked and erect in my kitchen, with a gorgeous stranger crouched in front of me, pants around her legs, sucking my cock. Getting turned on by the fact of me, rather than me having to battle to grudgingly get her going.

Before long, she stood up and stepped into me, leaving my cock wet and glistening with her saliva, and we kissed again, and her hard nipples and soft breasts pressed against my chest. My hands dropped to her pants, and I started working them down the curve of her hips and thighs. Her panties followed, tangled in her pants, and we laughingly worked together to pull her sneakers off so that her pants could come off.

Naked, she was glorious. Every proportion was right, and angles and curves came together in a way that can only be understood in the nude. No wonder artists still insisted on nude models. Her hips flared out from a narrow waist, and her stomach was somehow flat and rounded at the same time. She kept her dark pubic hair neatly groomed in a landing strip, with the area around and below shaved clean. This time I dropped to my knees, telling her, "I want to taste you."

As I did, she demurred, "No, Mike, I must be all sweaty--" But I continued kissing my way down her stomach, and it was clear that her objection was being overridden by what I was doing. The angle wasn't great, so I lifted her and sat her on one of the high-backed kitchen bar stools, and she was able to relax as I spread her thighs to reveal her gorgeous pussy, the lips pink and a bit engorged and spread already. I inhaled her clean tangy aroma before parting her lips with my tongue. She was very wet, and she shuddered as my tongue made contact with her wet folds.

I licked up and down enthusiastically, and truth be told, kind of sloppily. For a moment the world was her pussy. I wanted to taste it, smell, it feel it. She tasted tangy and wonderful, and my erection stayed rock solid as I happily enjoyed licking her, and on occasion penetrating her as deeply as possible with my tongue, before sliding my tongue out and flicking little circles around her clit. When I felt her peaking too quickly, I backed off before resuming my tongue work. Her hands went to my head and clutched me tight. After the third time I didn't let her cum, she half whispered, half cried, "God, Mike, I can't believe I'm-- Put your cock in me! Please!"

I stood up, my cock as hard and painfully erect as it had been when she was sucking me. I pulled her down off of the stool and turned her around, so that my erection pressed against her ass. "Lean over, Maggie," I told her, pushing her forward so that she was bending over onto the counter. She lifted one leg and rested it on the low cross bar of the bar stool, giving me better access. She had a truly gorgeous ass, topped with two little dimples. I cupped one cheek in each hand and spread them a bit, to let me see her better. Her pussy was open and wet, and she had leaked moisture down into the cleft between her buttocks. Her puckered asshole was glistening from the wetness from her pussy.

"Are you safe?" I asked her. "I'm clean, so we don't have any--"

"I've got the shot -- just put it in, now, please!" she interrupted me. I slid my cock between her lips and held it there, the head just at her entrance. I hesitated only a moment, my little head overcoming my big one. "Please!" she repeated, almost desperately, pushing back against me. I couldn't resist. I put my hands on her hips and plunged forward. She was incredibly tight, but her slick warmth accommodated me silkily and instantly.

"AH!" we both moaned at the same time. After resting inside her for a few seconds, buried to the hilt, I pulled back and started getting into a good strong rhythm. Her pussy clutched at my cock, and she met my thrusts by thrusting her own hips back as hard as I was. The feeling was incredible. She was tighter than anyone else I had ever been with, and also wetter. My cock practically dripped moisture on every out thrust. That feeling of unreality came over me again, as I realized that I didn't know her last name and that I had known her for maybe fifteen minutes, and here we were, me bending over her my kitchen counter, pounding my erection into her.

It was only a minute or two before I had to start concentrating on holding back. I slowed my thrusting a bit, giving her long, hard and *slow* strokes. With my right hand I reached around her hip and stomach and found her clit. After only a few seconds of me tracing circles around it, and continuing to give her deliberate and deep thrusts, I felt her body start to tense. Her pussy, almost impossibly tight, fluttered extra pressure on my cock. "JESUS GOD Mike!" she screamed, and her arms, holding her up on the counter trembled and almost collapsed. As her orgasm started to wash over her, I put both my hands back on her hips and I pounded her through her orgasm, not having to worry about lasting any longer. Her cries became inarticulate as she screamed in release.

My orgasm ripped through me, starting in my cock, and sending waves through my entire body. What felt like liquid fire spurted out of my cock into her pussy, and it lasted for longer than I expected. Every time I thought it was over, another spasm and another spurt shuddered out of me. Finally we were done, and I pulled out of her.

"Oh..." she made a satisfied sound as my cock pulled free of her pussy. It gleamed with our mixed juices, and a drop of semen pearled at the opening. She turned and faced me. Not meeting my gaze right away, she took my cock, only slightly deflated, in her hand, and lazily caressed it. "God you feel good Mike." To my shock, she rubbed the drop of cum off of my head onto her finger and brought it to her lips.

"Mmm," she said, licking her finger clean. "I knew you'd taste good. Clean and sweet and salty all at the same time." Without warning, she dropped to her knees in front of me and took my cock back into her mouth. Her technique was different, and she was sucking hard, her cheeks hollowing, and I realized she was trying to milk every last drop out of me. She used her hand to jerk me into her mouth. The feeling was almost too intense for me, and when she realized that she could make me start and shiver with every swipe of her tongue, she was merciless, making me jump and shudder until I had to push her off of me.

"There were a few drops left!" she said almost triumphantly, and then improbably she blushed and laughed. It was a friendly, healthy laugh. "I can't believe I just-- You won't tell anyone about what we-- No, of course you won't; you can't." She gathered up her clothes and gave me a gentle kiss on the lips. "Thank you, Mike. I really needed that. I can't really explain why, but I did, and it was perfect."

She disappeared into the bathroom, and I collapsed into the barstool I had fucked her over. After a few minutes she emerged, dressed as she had when she had first arrived. I was still recovering on the chair, and she gave me another kiss, this time on the cheek. "Thanks again, Mike. Think about me every once and again. I know I will. Perfect timing -- I think I hear my ride." I followed her on shaky legs, where we saw the wrecker lumbering into the park's parking lot. She walked out the door and broke into a run, a spring in her step as she ran to her car, leaving me on my steps watching her go.

I thought she wouldn't look back, but as she got to her car, a few seconds before the tow truck, she turned and gave me a wave and seeing me watching, blew me a kiss.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright "Oceanrunner" 2013-2017. All rights reserved. No reproduction without author's permission. If seen anywhere besides, the story has been ripped off.

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