Forty Years Later

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If I wore a necktie — which I don’t — I would have straightened it.

Instead I simply swallowed dryly, checked the house number for the Nth time, rechecked my watch -09:30 precisely, per arrangements- and knocked. Five seconds later, the front door opened and Jodee stood there, her infectious grin exactly the same as forty years ago. We fell into one another’s arms for a huge full-body hug that seemed to erase the decades.

Way back when, we’d been lovers for eighteen months or so. I was her biology lab instructor, aged twenty-four and just out of the Marines, insanely and perpetually horny. She was a new freshman, barely eighteen.

When we met she had just three weeks earlier, literally on her arrival day, fallen into the clutches of an on-campus jackass Mormon preacher who convinced her to convert, and then explained to her that she was by virtue of conversion physically and spiritually a virgin once more. She later admitted it all smelt fishy.

She was a good student. Plus she was friendly and open – and extraordinarily cute! A lovely slender figure, and quite busty.

After one class meeting early in the semester, she hung around until we were alone, then approached me without a trace of hesitation or embarrassment – she would like to talk about some things biological that she’d been told by a preacher, would I be interested in having her come over to my place sometime and cook dinner, we could talk, she would value my opinions, and besides that, she liked me!

I wasn’t used to being so boldly approached, and it worked perfectly: dinner happened that very night, a Friday. Both a motorcycle ride to my place and a pre-dinner banana daiquiri helped loosen her up — not that she needed much of that, she was extremely frank and open.

We quickly dismissed as specious claptrap the renewal of her virginity – she admitted somewhat shyly to having fucked widely since age twelve, and was greatly relieved to find I didn’t criticize. She even seemed surprised and a little awed when I told her I’d begun at age eleven myself.

The conversation veered off into things sexual, the mutual responsibility for one’s partner’s pleasure, and then particularly contraception, about which she knew little, but was aware of her ignorance and wanted to learn. I showed her my favorite — contraceptive foam which one emplaced against the cervix by using a little plastic injector. She thought it a marvelous invention.

Soon she suggested it was time for her to cook — which she did. Spaghetti, and quite good.

We lazed about after dinner, did a bit of necking (she was a delicious kisser) and mild through-the-clothing fondling whilst sprawled on my couch. I was being more gentlemanly (read ‘less pushy’) than I wished, mostly in light of her being my student and of that recent religious nonsense — despite the evening’s intense discussions I wasn’t sure yet how deeply she might have internalized the crapola and didn’t want to give hurt unnecessarily.

Anyhow, I was certainly horny enough for a whole pack of cub scouts by late evening, when I suggested (being gentlemanly as I was) that we should take her back to the dorm — via car, not bike, daiquiris considered. She looked at me with a wide-open, slightly gamine expression, then went shy in a way unique to her, a mannerism that popped up occasionally and simply, utterly melted me inside.

She shook her head, picked up the foam applicator, and said “I don’t have to go yet. I don’t WANT to, either. What I’d really halkal─▒ escort like is to try out some of this stuff.”

She watched my expression, read it correctly, and began unbuttoning her blouse. We left my house at about mid-afternoon next day, experienced but not sated. We were an item for a long time.

Forty-plus years can make a person hard to find. I’d tried — purely out of curiosity — to find her and about half a dozen other old flames. Now, I’m no dilettante on the internet, but I’d had zero luck, finally deciding that she must have married and changed her name, else died. Just about the time I gave up the occasional desultory search, I got an email from her! Admittedly, as a well-published scientist with a checkered, wildly variegated career, it’s easier to find me… but what a coincidence. She wrote that she, too, was just curious. The net result was a series of increasingly detailed and intimate emails, a couple of long phone calls, and finally this visit, which had my blood pressure slightly up, and my pulse elevated as well. It wasn’t clear what was supposed to transpire — after all, she admitted candidly to being near the end of her sixth marriage. No wonder I couldn’t find her!

I watched her as she headed for the kitchen to get coffee, asking over her shoulder “I suppose you still take it the same way — two sugars and extra cream?” Bingo! — a fine memory.

Fine body, too — over sixty now, she was still slender and looked to be in good shape. Nice legs — and she knew it, for they were on show beneath her shorts. Still busty, and barely contained by what had to be a little-nothing bra. Interesting!

She returned with the coffee, sat down on the sofa with me, turned so that she could study my face — and caught me looking at the mantel with its lineup of six portrait-style photos, all men. She laughed, patted me on the knee, said “Like my rogues’ gallery? That’s the six, in order left to right. Five divorces, and number six is final in about a week.” She looked at me as if waiting for disapproval — which I wasn’t about to give.”

Confronted with her string of husbands, I had compared her history to my own, describing us both as serial monogamists (with occasional flings strewn about despite the nominal monogamy). I had suggested that the only real difference between us was that she collected bits of paper along the way — licenses, divorce decrees, etc. Finally she sighed and then giggled: “I really do appreciate your analysis of my record, you know. I think it’s pretty accurate.

I shrugged, said “I never asked — six hubbies, but no kids?”

She shook her head, swirled her coffee and said “Nope. No kids. Do you remember our first night together, at your place?”

I admitted to having relived it dozens of times, told her with a grin that the memory always turned me on hugely.

She nodded, said “Me, too!” Then, “All that nonsense and trouble we went through with the foam! After all that, it turns out my fallopian tubes never developed properly and I’m sterile. Produced lots of eggs, but none of them ever got to where they could be fertilized. Wasn’t until number three husband that my doctor finally figured it out. Sort of too bad, I might have liked being a mommy.”

I shrugged again, said “Neither me — no kids, no desire for them. Never have felt the need to reproduce, my genes aren’t all that valuable or unique, and besides, my three sibs all have taksim escort kids so my genes are still in the pool.”

She laughed, said “Still the biologist, aren’t you!”

There followed a very long and pregnant pause through which we stared at one another without blinking, until finally she set her cup down and leaned towards me. From quite close, she said softly “You’re looking awfully good, Mister! Take care of yourself, don’t you? Bet you’re still a runner!”

I admitted it, then said “Ditto, Madam — I always did appreciate that body of yours, and it’s still enough to turn me on instantly!”

She glanced down at my crotch, smiled, and said “My! What a nice compliment. You at this age, and still carrying a teenager’s cock! You’re being so perpetually horny for my body is one of my favorite memories. And favorite fantasies, these days.” She sighed. “None of the six could fuck good. Not a candle to thee and me!” She watched my expression, clearly expecting a reaction. It was marvelous — she had remembered! I’m a nut on good English, and she used to intentionally twit me on occasion by purposely making such a minor blunder, waiting for me to catch it.

“Ooooo!” I said; “…the old ‘good versus well’ ploy! I should reward you for remembering… or maybe I should punish you for making the error!” Back at the U, reward = punishment = extended fucking.

We both grinned. She giggled, now very close, and said “If you don’t stop me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to check and see if you can still kiss decently, too.”

The kiss lasted, I suspect, well over five minutes. When finally we broke, she shook her head and said in a whisper, “Oh, my. Forty years, and here we go, instantly back to being horny teenagers again. GOD but you can kiss, Mister!” Then a second later it was “Your sexual preferences changed since then?”

I knew what she was hinting at, and said “Still the same.” The rank order was, then and now, bottom, mouth, pussy, hands. The ranks are hugely nonlinear, a great gap separates anal from the others. For lots of reasons in myself which I fully understand. Jodee had never been able to indulge me very well at my favorite — not for want of trying, and not due to fear or dislike of the idea — rather, for want of adequate opening. She owned absolutely the tightest bottom-sphincter I had ever tried to get through. We managed a couple of times, but when it became obvious that discomfort instead of pleasure was inevitable, and that it couldn’t become a favorite or common exercise, we concentrated on other things.

She slid her hands around my neck, pulled me to her and kissed me again: another several minutes passed delightfully. Finally she initiated a break. “Just in case you’re curious, I did eventually learn to use my butt the way you like. It took a lot of practice with a whole series of dildos… more time and patience than we had back then. But I did learn.”

She was studying me closely, expectantly. “I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when you got here….” She said. “But now I have a pretty good idea. Would you like to adjourn to my bedroom and fuck?” Not bad for frankness!

Then, as I nodded vigorously, she giggled and said “If you want, I still have one virginity left – well, it’s sort of a virginity, anyhow – and I’d love for you to help me get rid of it… it’s SUCH a burden at my advanced age!” I looked quizzical: she explained, “Yes, I’ve learned to buttfuck and I like it, but I haven’t ┼či┼čli escort ever been able to come with a man in there. So IF you’re up to trying and IF you think you can do it, – that’s a direct challenge, by the way! – you can have that cherry.” Then softly, “I’d really, truly like to have that happen. Here, today, now, and with YOU!”

It was my turn to initiate a kiss: I reminded her about breathing through one another, and the intimacy of it enveloped us in heat. Her nipples made themselves brilliantly available through the overlying thin cloth, and my fingers took full advantage. When we separated, I asked my own little preparatory question: “Foreplay as always?” That was from our old code – very early in our item-ness we had decided that at least for the two of us, the best foreplay was more fucking — we would launch straightaway as soon as clothing arrangements (or lack) permitted. But we did indulge in extended ‘after-play’ — great for its own sake, and especially nice because it so often led to more actual fucking, of which neither of us could ever get enough.

She grinned and nodded happily: “Absolutely! Shall we let the games begin, now that the ground rules have been established?”

We stood, she slid her hand down to fondle my hardon, gripped it through the cloth, muttering “Lovely teenager’s hardon on a lovely mid-sixties man, what a hoot!” as she used it to lead me bed-ward.

I goggled at the bedroom scene — laid out on the nightstand were superlube, a bottle of massage oil, two vibrators, and two dildos. Scattered about the room were half a dozen candles, all alight — in college, she’d been addicted to making love amidst candles. The shades were drawn, the bed was stripped for action already, down to sheets, and in the center lay a large solid-looking pillow covered with a huge, rough terrycloth towel.

I looked at her and said “So, as you said earlier, you had ABSOLUTELY no idea whatever as to what might happen at this reunion? I see your nipples still like terrycloth, don’t they?”

She guided me to bedside, plastered herself against me full-frontal and said from far too close to focus, “A girl can always HOPE, can’t she? You always used to say that luck favors the well-prepared! I hope you don’t find me pushy or anything, but now — quick – do we strip one another, or ourselves?”

It was a combination. She hopped into the bed, draped herself butt-upwards over the pillow, and said “I hope you don’t mind me being shaved — it’s something you and I never tried, but I really find I like it — and it makes things a LOT more intense, especially with mouths. But no mouths right now…. I want you to take that nice hard cock and –slowly now! — get it as deep into my bottom as you can go. Then when I’m warmed up, you can just wail away…. and IF you want that virginity you’re going to have to figure out how to get it. My own suggestion would involve one of those vibrators. It’s been over forty years, Mister, so let’s begin, dammit!”

It did take lube, a good back massage. the larger and more powerful vibrator, and perhaps twenty minutes “work”, but in the end Jodee lost that virginity. When finally she came, it was a phenomenal, drawn-out orgasm that bode well to cut off all circulation to my cock. As she was surfacing, I let myself go, too.

That was the start: the program lasted through the entire weekend, and involved extensive refresher courses in all varieties of approach and technique. Late on the afternoon of the first day, as we were engaged in slow-motion after-play, she nibbled on my nipples and then said into my chest “Think we’re still as good as way back then?”

I answered “Nope… not a chance!” as I rolled her onto her back and sent my mouth southwards again.

“We’re better. By far. Schedules for encores gladly entertained. Now lie back and let me play!”

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