Of Love and Lust

Story Info
She wanted her story to have a happy ending. Not that kind.
6.9k words
4.5
16k
15
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

Lisa is not her real name - at least it isn't the name her parents gave her. She was born in India and although her name, when she told it to me, was beautiful it was a little more than I was going to be able to wrap my tongue around. Besides, I liked the name Lisa. I liked her legs and I liked her smile. She was forty, maybe a few years older and although it was evident in the lines of her face, her legs lied to you. She knew this, she wore tiny shorts and skirts and dresses with long slits up the side. They were marvelous and as we lay together, I chose to lie at an angle across the foot of the bed so that I could run my hands along the long muscles and dark skin of her legs. Occasionally it would tickle and she would smile or jerk. It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon.

"They seem sad. The best ones do anyway." She said to me. She was propped up on what had to be more than ten pillows. She had a laptop balanced on her belly and thighs. She was reading my stories. There were several dozen of them. After the first few she had asked me to give her the word versions. She would read each story quickly, in seconds, and then begin proofing it for me.

"I've been told that before." I answered her. "I think I write when I am depressed." I had actually put some time into contemplating it myself.

"This one is beautiful."

"Which -- Wait -- Never mind."

"I am serious. You need to publish these."

"Knock yourself out. I'll give you half." I felt bad the minute I said it.

"That doesn't seem fair." She said. "I don't know what the going rate is but it's not half."

"I don't know what it is, if you go through the trouble of proofing them, formatting them, all that, I think it's more than fair." She looked down at me. I had been staring at her. Her eyes peered over black rimmed reading glasses.

"How many are there?"

"Hundreds."

"But these are the best."

"Depends on who you're asking. Everyone likes different ones."

"Which is your favorite?"

"Padme." I told her.

"I don't have that one."

"It's not done." I had moved my hand further up her leg. I was no longer tracing the lines of the muscles in her thigh but was instead teasing the soft flesh along the hem of her shorts. The shorts weren't particularly tight and as I smiled at her, my finger found the lace panties where that marvelous thigh met the rest of her body.

"What happens in it?"

"A man seduces an exotic beauty with his words." I traced the hem of her panties over the front of her leg and then back down, past the warmer areas and lower, as far as I could before her ass met the bed.

"How does it end?"

"Sadly." I said. She responded by closing her eyes. Firmly I pressed my hand into the leg of her shorts. It was warm, I was intently aware of the folds and features of the landscape I was exploring despite being blind to it. She parted her legs slightly and when I pressed the right spot her lips parted slightly.

"I don't want it to be sad," she whispered. Neither did I, although I was certain it would be.

We had met months before in a fast food restaurant. It was after a game our son's high school team had won by a large margin. I was eating with my boy. She had three in a carpool. The three she was shuttling were a year younger than my son in years and many younger in maturity and they played like children at a table of their own as my son and I discussed Julius Caesar and if he wanted to pursue a classical education in college. I was aware of her, the attractive brunette sitting beside us, but didn't take note that she was also aware of us. My son cleared away the wrappers of our dinner and she spoke to me. It was only an introduction. We made small talk when my son stopped at the other table.

"They grow a lot between freshman and sophomore year." I said in response to a compliment she gave me about him. She said she hoped it was true. I will be honest. I was fat, out of shape, haggard. I was aging myself prematurely with drink and nicotine. There was a time, ten years ago perhaps, when a woman as beautiful as Lisa could have been mine with a little effort but I looked at her now as a pleasant distraction and a reminder of what life had once been like.

The conversation waned. She seemed to have gone back to the book she had been reading on a tablet. "This seems totally awkward to say but your calves have spectacular definition. I have let myself deteriorate so badly, do you have a trainer?" I had been constructing that line in my head since we had started talking. I needed a compliment, always start with a compliment, and compliment something men don't normally notice. Shoes, or accessories were always good, thighs were too intimate, calves or arms were better. I was surprised I had actually said it.

"Thank you," she said quietly. It wasn't dismissive, as I had expected her response to be. There was earnestness behind it. She said she went to the mega gym that had recently opened. There was only one in town. I passed it reasonably frequently. "Give me your number and I will text you my trainer's number. I get free sessions if you say I sent you." I joined the next morning.

We saw each other from time to time. Four months and twenty-five pounds later we went to lunch. Lunch was followed a week later by a hike together. I allowed her to go ahead of me when the terrain became more difficult. I enjoyed watching her. After the hike I suggested drinks and she said it was a sweet offer but she didn't think it was a good idea. I understood. I told her I would see her at the gym. She teased me, "Only if I don't see you first," and I hoped the broad smile across her full lips suggested that she was only teasing.

I took a long swallow from my water bottle and standing at the trunk of my car stripped out of my sweaty shirt and pulled on a clean Tee. I tried not to watch her slide into the driver's seat of her car but I couldn't help by spy when I could. I heard it start. She backed out of her spot. It had been fun.

I had thought she was gone when I heard the crunching of a car on the granite behind me. I ignored the car until it stopped directly beside me. I glanced only briefly but when I saw it was hers I turned. She had the window down. The look of her face was a delicate mixture of pleasure, pain, curiosity and excitement.

"Thursday? Happy hour?"

"Yes." I said. I didn't know if my schedule was clear but it didn't matter.

"That wine place on Park?"

"Sure. I like their flatbreads." I answered. I am not a fan of flatbreads. If you are going to eat a flatbread just get a real pizza. I just knew people in general like their flatbreads.

"Five -- five thirty?" she suggested

"I'll see you there."

She smiled as she pulled away.

She was sitting at the bar when I arrived. When I went to sit next to her she moved me from her right side to her left. "My dress is a bit much," she whispered. "I have been getting looks." She nodded at a table of older fellows sitting off to our side. I had to see for myself. I had noticed the bright colors immediately but now, looking at her more closely I observed her leg, the dress was slit so high along her thigh that it actually made the bend at her hip when she was seated. It was such a long delicious stretch of chestnut skin I was, if for only a moment, speechless.

"I think you look spectacular."

She smiled at me. "Spectacular? I was going for elegant/sexy," she looked down as she said it in what I suspected was an artificial modesty.

"I think you were successful."

"I can't be late." She said without looking at me.

"I'll take what I can get."

We weren't going to talk about what was going on, that was clear. We would hint at it. I hate to admit this but I liked it better that way. For as long as I can remember the actual conquest never seemed to equal the anticipation. This was my favorite part.

We talked about our sons. It was the safe topic of conversation. It was good to vent our frustrations, express our fears, and to have someone who appreciated the same achievements. Neither of our sons was going to play Division I anything, we preferred to brag about Model UN success or a third place ribbon for expository speech. As we talked she relaxed. She looked at me more often.

"You are seeing Ginnifer?" she asked. Ginnifer was the ridiculous name of the trainer she had set me up with.

"Three times a week. I hate her."

"It's working."

"Thank you." It was my turn to be shy.

We discussed colleges and where we hoped our sons would go. She mentioned her son's father would accept nothing short of mechanical engineering or pre-med. She was embarrassed by the stereotype. I hated to have her husband come up in conversation. I told her I didn't care what mine studied as long as he liked it enough to go to class. She smiled at that and I was unsure of what she thought about it. I thought to ask but didn't.

I told her I had studied Liberal Arts. I enjoyed it and in the end it didn't really matter. I graduated and went to work. She said she had studied English and had planned to be a journalist but instead got married. She was not permitted to work.

"I still write. It's nothing major. It's a blog. I am so lame. I have several thousand readers. Is that lame?" I sensed pride and embarrassment.

"Send me the link. I would love to read it." I really did want to read it. Desperately.

"I don't know. It's secret." The look she gave me was devious.

"Now I HAVE to read it."

"I will think about it."

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine." I said. I said it because it was appropriate, a double entendre, and because I wanted to see "hers." She giggled and elbowed me. "I'm serious," I insisted.

"You write?" she asked. She didn't seem surprised, as though she wouldn't have thought me capable, she seemed excited, wanting to see inside me the same way I hoped reading her blog would reveal something more about her.

"Yes." I said. I would hold back now. I would let her go on the offensive.

"Like a blog?"

"Not really?"

"What do you write?"

"They are, lets call them short stories."

"Are they dirty stories?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow flirtatiously.

"I don't know that I should answer that."

"Seriously? Because not denying it is going to lead me to presume the affirmative."

"Yes, your honor."

"Show me."

"Quid pro quo."

"Fine." She pulled her smart-phone from her purse. She clicked and punched and typed away, her long fingernails clicking on the glass. "I'm not clicking send until I see you do it.

It was more difficult for me to get a lin. I ended up typing out the website. Holding our phones up we each placed our thumb on the same spot and in response they made the same sound simultaneously as they each received the other's message.

She put her phone away. She declined another glass of wine; it would have been our fourth. She just looked at me. Her age seemed to fade from her face - her smile was girlish. I couldn't help myself. I leaned towards her. I stopped before our lips met. She was still smiling at me. Her eyes seemed larger and browner than was possible. I let the inch or so between our mouths evaporate. The kiss was small and chaste and yet the energy that seemed to pass through it was powerful in an almost spiritual way. When I pulled back her head remained tilted, her eyes closed. Damn.

"You have to go." I reminded her. She smiled even more broadly.

"This is bad," she said.

"Wait till you read my stories." I told her.

Park is a busy street. Despite wanting to walk her to her car and take a second, more powerful dose of that energy I thought it best to sit quietly and recover until she had left.

She stood from her stool and for the first time I got to take in the full effect of the dress, her long lean figure, her chestnut skin and deep dark eyes. She moved to hug me but stopped and backed away, she extended her hand as if I was meant to shake it, only to yank it back. She seemed to flee for the door in almost a panic then stopped before exiting, turned on her heel, returned to me, and kissed me in the most passionate, deliriously inappropriate way possible. When she did leave she did so at almost a run. It was impressive considering the taught dress about her hips and the length of the heels on her shoes.

"Holy shit!" read her text. I didn't see it until the next morning. It was sent at 2:35 am. I waited until almost lunch to respond. I'd had to catch up. Her writing was a combination of a diary and poetry. I was enjoying it.

"What?" I sent back.

"You know what!" she said.

"Good shit or bad shit."

"You are a pervert!"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be! I love it! You've done these things, yes?"

"No. It's fiction."

"Liar."

"They are far more about what I would like to do than what I have done."

"Your proofreading skills are crap."

"I can't proofread them."

"Darling, they are so close. You just need to read through them quickly." All I really paid attention to was the word 'Darling.'

"I can't read what I've written."

"That happens to me too."

"I love your rose poem. It is so different than anything I've ever read about a rose."

"It's about my mother."

"I figured."

"Can I proof these for you?"

"Sure."

"Do you have more?"

"Lots."

"Send them to me."

"Let me figure out the best way to do that."

"Come over." I physically trembled at the proposition.

"Are you serious."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Kinda."

The next text was her address. I needed to ask where her husband was. What time would he be home? What about her son? It was a horrible idea. I didn't ask anything though. I showered and dressed and drove to her house. It was only a few blocks.

She met me at the door in a short pair of denim shorts and a loose fitting tank top. I was instantly seduced by the swaying of her breasts beneath the thin soft cotton. I entered awkwardly. I wanted to kiss her but didn't. I followed her to her kitchen where she poured me a glass of wine. It was far better wine than I typically drank. As she handed it to me I took the opportunity to place my hand on her side above her hip below her ribs. When I did, she leaned into me. I still didn't kiss her. I took a sip of Malbec instead.

"Come," she told me. She led me to her bedroom. She propped herself against the pile of pillows. I transferred hundreds of files from my laptop to hers using the magic of her wireless connection. She went to work butchering my stories, carving them into so much more than I could have on my own. I lay stroking her lean legs until I couldn't resist anymore. Again, when my hand touched the lace that protected her most feminine delicacies from me she sighed. I still didn't ask about her husband. I teased her through the thin material until she closed her computer and set it on the floor beside her.

Removing a woman's clothes can be a romantic appetizer. Lying on the bed however it was an awkward struggle to tug her free of her shorts. The lace panties I had explored delicately with my fingers were, when revealed, a deep purple. When I tugged at them intending to remove them as well, she protested silently with a firm hand to the waistband and I didn't press the issue. It wasn't necessary; they were the delicate icing on a fine pastry. I hooked my finger inside them and traced long her thigh until my finger met with the warm folds of flesh I found myself desiring more deeply than I should have. This was no longer the chase this was the trophy. She parted her legs for me and with the tip of my finger I entered her.

She breathed deeply as I teased at her, her chest swelling and collapsing beneath the cloth of her shirt. Her breasts, only slight rises on her thin body were crested with crisp steeples. My mouth watered but I remained patient. I focused my intentions, a bent finger pressed into a V with my thumb placed strategically against the swollen fold at the bow of her lips that when held firmly caused her back to arch and her hips to rise from the bed.

She didn't speak. Occasionally her lips would part. Her large eyes were hidden behind lids closed firmly against the afternoon light that forced its way into the room in violent stripes through half closed blinds. Dark stripes of light and shadow stretched across the curves of her body. This was not need I felt, it was desire. I desired this woman, it was worse.

Her orgasm seemed to hit her unexpectedly. From her mouth came only the most delicate gasp, in contrast, her body shook with an unnerving violence and she moistened my hand, drenching the delicate purple lace. I left my finger in place, feeling the spasms within her as she caught her breath. I didn't move until she opened her eyes to look at me.

"I'm sorry," she apologized.

"You are so beautiful." I told her.

We didn't talk for some time after her odd apology. For whatever reason, caution was not a concern. Whatever was drawing us together, loneliness, a connection, love, or just lust, was greater than any consideration we had at that moment for our ordinary, comfortable if boring, existence. I stood from the bed and undressed. She had inspired me to tighten up the soft crap of a body I had developed and I was not embarrassed to remove my clothes for her. In response she raised her hips to tug loose the panties she had insisted on keeping earlier and she sat forward to pull her loose fitting shirt up and over her head. Her hair, deep brown with reddish, almost auburn highlights fell down her chest stopping before it covered her smallish but delicately curved breasts.

When I moved atop her she initiated a kiss that would persist through our entire course of lovemaking. As I entered her, she penetrated me as well, pressing her tongue deep into my mouth. It was thin and long and she moved it almost in time with my hips. Her fingers moved over my back not haplessly but with intent as though she was tracing the new muscles I had developed in my shoulders. We breathed in time with one another and I felt myself, inside of her, being coaxed, drawn in further, as our bodies finally celebrated the connection we had been developing. I lost myself in her. It was delicate and emotional and at the same time desperate, athletic, and animalistic. We closed in on each other as we neared climax and as her body again shuddered violently, this time trapped beneath the heft of my own she grasped my head, holding our kiss so tightly I had to fight for air.

I felt hers first, a twisting punishing pressure about my cock that made any attempt to resist my own orgasm futile. I joined her, moaning through our embrace and releasing within her what felt a torrent of lust, sin and frustration, releasing physically inside her what I had come to feel so emotionally for her.

Mercifully she released my lips but held my hips to her, my member locked within her, bound by the strength of those thighs and calves that she now had wrapped about my legs and ass.

We lay like that for too long. My lust and strength replenished I began to move again. Our combined juices created sensations both physical and aural and this time our copulation was just that, dirty, messy, and sweaty. I raised myself over her by grasping her writs at the end of extended arms. She was strong but not strong enough and her play at struggling caused her body to writhe beneath me enhancing the animalistic furor.

Our eyes locked together and she spoke to me in what I suspect was Hindi. The words slid off of her tongue and seduced me, inspiring a ferocity to my movements. Her tone become more terse, the sound of her voice venomous and I took her with a devilishness I would have thought myself no longer capable of.

When her climax struck her this time I was prepared for it and thrust at her with my full might. The words I didn't understand were converted to grunts and cries that were unmistakable and I, in a feat I had not accomplished in a decade delivered another dose of myself inside of her. I now groaned with the exertion, a fitting exclamation point to our coupling.

12