Cougar Page 5

  We both watched as one tear of clear girl goo slid down the inside of my thigh. My cheeks lit up in flames.

  He reached out with his finger, slid it up my thigh to catch the drop and sucked it in his mouth. ‘You taste delicious, my pet,’ he said softly. ‘As I knew you would. You may begin.’

  Dear Fuckbook, how do I do this? How do I put into words the most amazing night of sex I’ve never even dared to dream of? It was more than sex. When I straddled him and slowly eased my sopping, dripping hole down onto his shaft he breathed out, ‘Look at me, pet. I want you to look in my eyes so I can watch you as you struggle so hard not to explode.’ He finished that sentence just as my throbbing clit made contact with his base and, oh, God, I could only hold it there for a second before I had to back off, rise up, the look in his eyes alone almost pushing me over. Could he do that? Could he even make me come with his eyes?

  ‘Oh, pet,’ he said. ‘Your tight little snatch feels like heaven around my cock.’ And I couldn’t help it, it was like my cunt heard his words and clenched of its own accord. He smiled. ‘Oo, did your little pussy hear me talking about her? That felt nice, pet. A little too nice. Not much more of that or there won’t be any pussy-licking for you.’

  And on and on, like that. What do I mean when I say it was more than sex? I’ve had sex. This was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It was slow. It was considered. It was intentional. Every movement mattered. Every touch. Every look. We were locked together in our own universe, on our own plane of existence. Until he finally said the words I was waiting for.

  ‘I am ready to come now, my pet,’ he said, hushed and deliberate.

  He ran his hands over my stomach, over my breasts, pinched my nipples a bit. Then he took my hands in his. We locked eyes and I rode him in smooth, steady strokes. I’m not sure but I have a feeling I peered into his soul as I used my cunt to drive the man of my dreams into his own world of bliss.

  And when he said he was ready to go down and clean me up with his tongue he could see that lust was sending such strong tremors through my body it was hard to move. So he swept me up in his arms, laid me back on the bed and kissed all down my torso, whispering his sweet placations into my skin: shh, you’re doing such a good job, trying so hard, you’re so beautiful, you’re my good girl, you’re a good puppy, nice pet.

  When he arrived at my pussy he made good on his promise. It felt like hours he was down there, Dear Fuckbook, it honestly did. He spread my legs wide, held my lips open even wider, so I felt opened up, like there really could be nothing left to hide, I was all unlocked, there could be no more secrets.

  There was no need for secrets with him.

  He said, ‘A little eager puppy needs training so she can learn how to sit patiently and wait for her Master’s command. To come.’ Then he bowed his head between my legs, and flicked and kissed and poked and prodded and meandered around with his tongue when all I wanted him to do was, please, please, have mercy on me, lick me hard, lick me fast so that this aching fire maybe quenched. Except I also wanted him to do nothing of the sort.

  So, of course, he did do it then. He licked me hard and fast and, oh, I wasn’t ready for it and, God, I was almost there and … then he stopped. Then he did it slow. And firm. Slow, firm, methodical licks that had me rolling, spinning, reaching those amazing heights … and then he stopped again.

  I told him once, in an email, that I had always dreamed of being edged to orgasm slowly with a mouth on my pussy until I was nearly insane with lust.

  One must be careful what one wishes for.

  Finally, when my quaking thighs threatened to render me unconscious and my voice was hoarse from screaming, he looked up from between my thighs. ‘You’ve been a very good girl, pet. You’ve accomplished all my tasks and you’ve endured all my training. You’ve exceeded my expectations.’

  ‘Come, pet.’

  Then he bent down.

  And licked me until I did.

  I’m with the Band

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  Nothing ever excited me like being in the heart of a packed rock club, part of the crowd that surged towards the stage, bodies pressed together in a hot, heaving crush, moving as one to the music. Looking up at the singer, or the guitarist, shirtless in the sex-charged atmosphere, and wanting him with a need so intense it left me panting for breath, and my underwear soaking wet. Knowing the night would come to a perfect end if only I could give myself to my idol backstage, letting him fuck me in all the delicious, exciting ways I’d so recently discovered.

  Funny how I’d forgotten this, buried away that pent-up lust and desire before I’d ever got the chance to explore it properly, settling into the dull confines of marriage with John and abandoning all my rock-chick dreams. Yet it all came flooding back to me as I stepped inside the doors of the Sapphire Club, entering a world I thought I’d left behind me for good.

  The place had hardly changed: still the same black-painted walls in the lobby, plastered with day-glo posters for forthcoming shows, and the same worn carpet, studded with cigarette burns, sticky beneath my boots. John would have died rather than set one well-shod foot in a place like this, but I found my heart beating just a little faster as I pushed open the heavy double doors that led through to the main body of the club.

  The long, low-ceilinged space welcomed me like an old friend, returning after more than twenty years away. Without the vague cigarette fug that always used to hang over any decent-sized crowd, that acrid mix of nicotine and something more exotic, the place now smelled of sweat and bourbon, sharp enough to make me wrinkle my nose. When had I become quite so fastidious? And when, I wondered, reaching into my shoulder bag for the purse that lurked with the rest of my trinity of essentials – lip gloss and mobile phone – had I forgotten how many nights I’d spent standing by this same bar, hoping to catch the eye of some guy who might buy me the drink I couldn’t quite afford on my wages as a temp? Since the divorce, I did everything on my own terms, paid my own way, and I enjoyed the feeling of independence, embracing it fully for perhaps the first time in my life.

  I took another look round the club. Already, the crowd stood half a dozen deep in front of the stage, as people found the best vantage point for watching the acts on show. Where I stood, right by the bar, had always been the spot for those who judged themselves too cool to clap, more interested in drinking and schmoozing than in paying more than a cursory interest in whoever might be performing. With good reason, most of the time. If you played the Sapphire Club, you were either on the way up or the way down. Very few bands at the height of their power graced the Sapphire’s stage, apart from the odd big name playing a warm-up show before embarking on a tour of major venues, or a secret Christmas gig for the benefit of the act’s most loyal fans. Not that it had ever bothered me. All I’d cared about was the night out; a chance to have some fun and maybe meet a cute guy …

  ‘What can I get you?’ The barman, like almost everyone else in the room, appeared to be half my age, tattoos snaking down both forearms where they were revealed beneath his uniform T-shirt, black with the words SAPPHIRE CLUB over the left breast. He didn’t blink an eye as I leaned in closer to answer his question, and my fears that I’d look out of place in such a young crowd faded just a little.

  I’d been intending to ask for a glass of dry white wine. Instead, I found myself saying, ‘Southern Comfort and lemonade, please.’ Back in my clubbing days, I’d never drunk anything else, but, once I’d met John, I’d been educated in more sophisticated tastes. Now, taking a sip and relishing its sweet, familiar taste, I couldn’t help but think of everything else I’d given up to fit in with John and his circle of friends. Over the course of twenty years, I’d become the dutiful corporate wife, dulling my own light to let my husband shine. And, once I’d become exactly what he wanted, he’d left me for his secretary, with her top-heavy tits and her willingness to give him blowjobs in his office when everyone else had gone home. How very predictable, how utterly John. Had anyth
ing good really come out of our marriage?

  ‘Hey, Mum. You came.’ The familiar voice at my ear startled me out of my maudlin thoughts. Correction. Had anything good come out of our marriage apart from Toby?

  ‘Of course, darling. I told you I would.’ I turned to give Toby a quick hug. His appearance in the club’s annual ‘battle of the bands’ contest was the reason I’d come here tonight, and I suspected he was in need of a little reassurance.

  ‘Wow, Mum. You look …’ His voice tailed off as he took in my appearance, his expression one I couldn’t quite read. When he’d invited me to the event, I knew I couldn’t turn up in one of the boring black evening dresses I’d wear on a night out with John, or even my usual weekend wear of a little top and chunky cardigan over jeans. Instead, something had compelled me to go up into the attic and open a box of clothes I’d carefully stashed away once I was married, never dreaming I’d have any excuse to wear them again, but too sentimental to throw them away. So many memories were contained in that box, remnants of wild nights with good friends I’d somehow lost along the way, their lifestyle and mine no longer compatible – at least in my husband’s eyes.

  When I’d tried it on, the mock-snakeskin dress was a little shorter and rather tighter than I remembered, my tits and hips having filled out since I’d last worn it. The bumps of my suspender clips were visible beneath the stretchy fabric if you cared to look, but a club night had always demanded stockings, not tights, and I worked on the theory that the lighting in the Sapphire Club was always so dim you’d have really had to stare at my legs to notice – and, with so many young, hot girls in the crowd, who’d be staring at my legs? I’d teamed the dress with a denim jacket and ankle boots, and traded my usual diamond ear studs for dangling diamante. If the idea had been to turn myself into someone not even my son would recognise, it appeared to have worked.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, indicating the bottle he clutched in his fist. ‘I’m fine, thanks. They’ve laid on beers in the green room for all the bands taking part tonight.’

  ‘Do you know where you are in the line-up?’ I asked.

  ‘Second. Probably the worst place we could be. They’ll all have forgotten us by the time it comes to vote.’ I turned at the sound of the new voice and saw Toby’s best friend, Jack. He’d been the one who’d come up with the idea of forming the band, a couple of years ago, and, much to John’s relief, it had been Jack’s parents’ garage they’d rehearsed in three or four nights a week. At last, their hard work had paid off, and Zombie Kill – and how John hated that name – had earned a much-coveted place in the battle of the bands.

  Jack stared at me, too, but his expression was much clearer. Something very close to lust, as his gaze roamed the length of my nylon-clad legs, slowly working its way up my body.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ I greeted him when he finally looked at my face. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Wow, you look amazing, Mrs Murdock.’ The tone of awe in his voice almost made me laugh out loud.

  ‘Call me Kay,’ I requested. ‘I’ve never been Mrs Murdock in this place.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Oh, a long time ago now.’ I decided against revealing too much of my past. Even if Jack had any interest in stories of the nights I’d spent here, and the men I’d gone home with, I didn’t feel comfortable repeating any of them in front of my son. ‘But I can tell you this was always the place to be seen.’

  ‘Cool.’ Jack’s gaze slithered back down to my legs again, settling somewhere around the hemline of my dress.

  Despite myself, I couldn’t help looking at him as I might any man who’d shown signs of interest in me. Just past his twentieth birthday, he’d filled out in the last couple of years, growing into a frame that was close to six foot; taller and broader than Toby, though both boys shared the same artfully tousled hairstyle and scruffy stubble on their chin. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, open to show his bare chest beneath it. A thin line of hair ran down from that covering his pecs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. How tempting it would be to follow that trail with fingers, or lips …

  I drew myself up short. This was Jack, my son’s best friend; not at all who I should be fantasising over. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking what he might look like, stripped of those jeans, cock hard and ready to be stroked.

  ‘Hey, guys, give it up for Crimson Tide!’ The voice of the DJ compering the night’s event distracted us all. While we’d been talking, the first band on the bill had emerged on to the Sapphire Club’s stage. A power chord rang out, accompanied by a blast of feedback, as they launched into a heavy, driving number.

  ‘We’d better get back to the green room,’ Jack said. ‘The bands only get fifteen minutes, and we’ve got to be ready to go on stage pretty much as soon as they come off.’

  ‘Well, good luck, darling. I’ll be cheering for you.’

  As Toby and Jack dashed off in the direction of the exit that would take them to the backstage area and the club’s green room, I swore I heard Jack mutter, ‘Your mum’s turned into a real MILF, mate.’

  Now there was an expression I’d never thought to hear in connection with my name. I knew what the acronym meant, of course, well aware that it was no longer considered shocking behaviour for an older woman to seek out a willing, horny young lover. And the thought that Jack considered me fuckable – it wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d intended to arouse in him, but it made my pussy twitch with desire.

  With difficulty, I drew my attention back to the band on stage. They really weren’t my style – not now, not twenty years ago – with their doom-laden vocals and dramatic keyboard stabs, and, once I’d finished my drink, I took the opportunity to visit the ladies’.

  As I stood looking into the mirrored wall behind the row of wash basins, applying another coat of wet-look lip gloss, two girls came into the room. One headed for an empty cubicle, while her friend stood outside waiting for her. That I’d forgotten, too; the ritual of visiting the ladies’ in pairs, so you could bitch and gossip away from the bustle of the club.

  ‘The band’s crap,’ the girl in the cubicle was saying, ‘but I wouldn’t mind giving the singer one. Did you see the size of his package?’

  ‘Yeah,’ her friend replied.

  I hoped she wouldn’t see my smirk reflected in the mirror; I’d discussed band members in similarly crude terms enough times in the past, speculating on what might be hiding in one pair of ultra-tight trousers or another. Though she probably didn’t even notice me; if she saw me at all, it would only be as some old broad in a too-short dress, not someone who’d once shared the same ambitions she did, and dreamed of sleeping with the hottest guy in the band.

  ‘Maybe we can get backstage, see if he’s up for a fuck,’ the first girl continued.

  Even though I smiled at her enthusiasm, I knew I’d have a very different reaction if she’d been talking about Toby. Though I could have warned him about the lure of groupies till I was blue in the face, why else does any boy of that age dream of joining a band?

  I wandered back out into the body of the club just in time to hear the DJ announce Zombie Kill. I pushed my way through the crowd and found a spot close to the wall, where I had a decent view of the band without being deafened by their speakers. When they were famous, I’d watch them from the envied spot in the wings, reserved for friends and family. Maybe I could have tried that tonight, pulling that old line, ‘I’m with the band.’ It wouldn’t have been a lie.

  But I liked the view I had. It gave me an uninterrupted view of Jack, lost in his own world as his fingers shifted up and down the frets of his bass. The focus of the crowd was on Toby, who’d shed his T-shirt and whirled shirtless across the stage, and Chris, the guitarist, who it quickly became apparent was the real talent in the band, but I had eyes only for Jack.

  They’d clearly connected with their audience in a way the previous act had failed to do. When they finished
their fourth and final number, and took a bow, I yelled for more as loudly as anyone, even though they had to vacate the stage for the next contender. That proved to be a girl with an acoustic guitar, her voice pretty enough but her self-penned material a little too derivative for my liking.

  Just as I was debating whether to get myself another drink, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Jack grinning at me. A thin film of sweat gleamed on his chest, and I fought the urge to lick it away.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Mur– er – Kay. What did you think?’

  ‘The crowd loved you. And I thought you were great. But what are you doing here?’

  ‘Toby sent me out to find you. He thought you might want to come into the green room for a drink. He’d have come himself, but the guy who runs the club is talking to him about booking us again, whether or not we win the contest.’

  ‘Really? That’s great news. And yes, I’d love to join you all.’

  I followed Jack out into the corridor, eager to go and congratulate Toby and the others for having made such a positive impression with the club owner, but we never made it as far as the green room. As soon as we were out of sight of anyone passing, Jack pressed me up against the wall, putting his lips to mine and kissing me hard. Even though I was startled by his boldness, I made no attempt to stop him, letting him push his tongue into my mouth and explore.

  When he finally pulled back, he looked a little shamefaced, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d had the audacity to do. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve gone too far, but I just had to do that. I’ve been wanting to all night, ever since I saw those incredible legs of yours …’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack. I wanted it just as much as you did. And I wouldn’t mind at all if you did it again.’

  With that, I found myself in his arms once more, the kiss increasing in intensity as I twined my fingers in his dark hair and felt him grind his body against mine, the hard bulge in his jeans all too obvious. His mouth tasted of beer, his stubble prickled at my skin, and he kissed me with an eagerness John had never shown, not even in the earliest days of our relationship. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, not with someone who’d been a friend of my son since they were both at primary school, and whom I’d watched maturing from a lanky teenager into a finely built young man. I was much more experienced, and far too wise to throw myself at someone half my age. But that was what made it all so thrilling.