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This is a story about swimmers, so therefore, it must be a stroke story. Right? Am I right?
There were three generations of blondes occupying the table at the food court in the mall I had recently begun to manage.
I had seen them before, perhaps each Saturday for about a month now. With each visit they captured more of my curiosity. It didn’t hurt that they ranged, in order, from bubbly and precious, to perky and pretty, to downright seductively sexy.
The youngest was no more than a few months old, I estimated, a jolly pink-faced infant being lovingly bounced on the knees of her mom. Mom appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and like most young mothers who were in a little over their heads with their new-found responsibilities, her countenance bore the contrast of doting adoration and harried maternal neophyte.
She beamed yet she fretted, she smiled while she frowned, all at the same time. There is no “how-to” manual for young mommies, her features seemed to say as she struggled to corral the baby who was bound and determined to repeatedly knock over her tiny baby bottle.
Lording over the festivities, like a lioness proudly watching over her small pride of cubs, was the matriarch of the trio.
Honestly, she could have easily passed for mid-to-late thirties, especially from the neck down, but judging by the age of her daughter, she had to be at least mid-forties. Her tall, lithe body was ever bit as shapely as her daughter’s, perhaps even more so.
She oozed a quiet, confident sexuality without even trying to, and she knew it. Yes, It was grandma who immediately intrigued me. I admit it up front.
Being someone who is paid to pay attention to detail, I also observed that the only ring among the three was the ring on the pacifier of the littlest cutie-pie.
I had only been in town for maybe as long as the youngster had been born, having very recently relocated from the east coast to the Midwest to turn this struggling regional shopping center around. During that time, I had been so busy with work that I hadn’t had time to indulge in any extracurricular activities.
At thirty-eight and newly divorced, I was turning into an “all-work and no-play” guy. That couldn’t last forever, I mused, as I was distracted by the ‘crash’ of a tray being spilled in another area of seating.
I rose from helping a member of my janitorial staff attend to the cleaning, and turned to walk towards my office when I almost bumped into her, or rather, she into me.
The mature lioness, Panthera Leo, queen of the Central Ohio jungle, the gregarious predatory feline with the tawny coat.
Trapped, I was, in plain view. She flipped a loose bronze-gold curl of hair from her forehead, and my recollection might be a bit fuzzy, but I swear she licked her lips.
“I’m Tricia Price”, she said in a soft, husky voice that brought to mind Anne Bancroft’s Mrs. Robinson’s character. “You’re the new mall manager, I wanted to introduce myself and welcome you to Indian Mound Mall.” She extended her hand, which I grasped and glanced down. Yep, I was right. No ring.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Price,” I replied, wanting to test the waters of matrimonial status. “That’s so nice of you to do so. I’m John Sullivan.”
She chuckled softly, still holding my hand in a firm grip. She had cat-green eyes with flecks of brown. Her fingers were long, I noticed, and she smelled like autumn. Crisp fall air, mulled cider, and burning maple leaves. Mmmmm.
“It’s Ms. Price, thank you,” she corrected me (thank goodness!). “And no need to be so formal, Mr. Washington, DC. You’re in Ohio now. Call me Tricia, please.”
Her voice alone began to make my cock twitch. Now that I had a second sampling of it, maybe I was wrong, maybe her voice wasn’t Anne Bancroft-ish. Maybe it was more Kathleen Turner-like in “Body Heat”. Yeah, that was it.
“Ah, you’ve been reading up on me, I see.” Our hands finally reluctantly released. I missed touching her already. “Yes, yes, I did notice the difference in traffic around here, ” I continued, playing along. “I haven’t been stuck on the Capital Beltway in a while. Gives me about three more hours to work each day. Though now,I have no excuse for running late.”
She smiled at me, sizing me up. It was at that moment I knew we were going to fuck.
Eh, who was I kidding? I had no idea if we were going to fuck. But a man can’t be blamed for wishful thinking, can he? They says that a man knows if he wants to fuck a woman in about a fraction of a second, or about as long as it takes a woman to decide if she wants to buy a particular purse.
They (whoever the fuck ‘they’ are) also say it takes a woman about thirty seconds to decide if she’s attracted to a man, much longer to decide if she’ll sleep with him. But it’s those crucial initial thirty seconds that gives them time to ponder if they’re open to the concept.
Tricia Price and I are were approximately thirty-one seconds into our relationship, casino siteleri so my odds were increasing each second she hung around.
(I have to stop for a second and tell you that Indian Mound Mall is located in Licking County. True dat. Naturally, there is a Licking Valley High School. And in nearby Sunbury, there is a high school called Big Walnut. Where do they get these names? Anyway, my favorite headline was when the latter school girls’ basketball team defeated the former’s in a contentious game. The headline said, and I quote: Aggressive Big Walnut Beats Licking Valley Girls. I don’t know why I always found that humorous. Hey, I’m not smart enough to make this shit up.)
But back to the story. Ms., not Mrs., Price, had a question for me. A question which is paramount in most womens’ thoughts. “So, John, Mr. New Mall Manager from the Capital Beltway, tell me, what new stores do you plan on bringing to this sleepy little town of ours? For instance, why must I go to Lancaster or Zanesville to find a Victoria’s Secret?”
That was a fair question. And the image of mature cougar Tricia Price roaming the corridors of Indian Mound Mall with a Victoria’s Secret shopping bag full of goodies was enough incentive for me to hop right on it. But it’s not always quite as easy as that, unfortunately.
I caressed my chin, trying to appear contemplative while trying not to look at her left nipple, which had somehow preceded the right one in beginning to poke through her off-white cotton blouse. A lefty, huh? Good to know.
“Well,” I started slowly, “…that’s double-top-secret information, you see. Can’t announce a leasing deal to the public before it’s signed. But, seeing as you seem to be a loyal shopper of the mall and all, I’ll tell you what…..” Her eyebrows arched in anticipation. My cock again did likewise beneath my belt. Go for it, what the hell.
I looked deep in her twinkling pupils, full of the wisdom and guile that only a mature lioness can evoke when she knows she could devour any male she so desired.
“If you’ll agree to discuss the topic over a business dinner with me, that will give me the opportunity to survey my customer base and maybe let you in on some inside knowledge.” She grinned mischievously, but I held up a finger in caution.
“Only if you promise not to kiss and tell, of course.”
She shifted on her heels and tilted her head, making her scent go downwind in the stiff jungle breeze of the indoor food court. I jest, but it seemed that way, her scent nearly bowling me over with olfactory-driven lust. The nose wasn’t the only organ of mine whose attention she had captured.
“Oh, I would never, ever, tell, Mr. Manager,” Her face became girl-scout earnest. She made an “X” with her fingers across her chest.
The right nipple was now making its first appearance. “Cross my heart. It would be our little secret.” She wrinkled her own nose, though, signaling a potential problem of some kind. “Except……”
With the possible exception of my recent divorce hearings, I was accustomed to overcoming objections. “I’m sure we can address whatever concerns you might have, Tricia. Please be assured, it would strictly be a business conversation,” I lied.
“It’s not that at all, John. We can only talk business for so long, after all. The issue is my daughter over there, Caryn. See, she’s a single mom, and well, um, I don’t know how to put this…..” Ms. Tricia Price actually blushed. I love it when they blush.
“So I’ll just come right out and say it. God, that girl’s hormones have been raging. I came over here to try to see if I could set you two up, maybe….”
Tricia bit her bottom lip. “If Caryn finds out you and I are having dinner, well, that might shatter whatever self-confidence she’s trying to regain. See, she’s put on a little weight after Amanda was born, at least in her mind, but God, look at her. Caryn’s gorgeous, and anyway, Amanda, that’s my granddaughter, and…..”
She was rambling now, stammering a bit. Circumstances seemed to have flustered her. Perhaps her own hormones were raging?
I held out my palms in a “easy, now, I have a plan” gesture.
“You’re right, Tricia, Caryn is gorgeous. Like her mom. And Amanda is most gorgeous of all, she has an impeccable lineage of genes.” Tricia let out a deep breath, finally relaxing.
I continued, speaking very softly, to avoid the inquisitive stares of the Licking County busy-bodies. (I had already learned in my brief time in Central Ohio that NOBODY gossiped like Licking County mall walkers. Idle minds.)
“I don’t kiss and tell, either, Tricia. Especially not the ‘telling’ part. Caryn doesn’t have to know about our, um, business meeting. Does she?”
The sexiest grandma in the Buckeye state pondered this simple reality. “I suppose not. I’ll just tell her that I didn’t have the guts to bring it up when we were talking, that you just seemed to be strictly business. Does that sound like she’d buy it?”
I tried to sound reassuring, canlı casino but probably came off as incredibly insincere. “Absolutely. Tell her I don’t seem like I’d be any fun at all. Just a East Coast stuffed shirt.”
Tricia nodded, playing along conspiratorially. “I’ll tell her ‘a mother’s intuition tells me that he’s not for you, honey’, and hopefully that will let her down easy. Mother knows best, after all. I must ask you, though, John…….do you REALLY want to have dinner with a fifty-year-old?”
“Wow, you’re fifty? I asked genuinely surprised. “Wow”. I was repeating myself now. “No way. I’ll bet you hear that all the time, don’t you?”
This time, when she looked at me with those bewitching, omniscient eyes, this time, I DID know we were going to fuck. Tricia had absorbed the data and reached a conclusion. She smirked. “You’re sweet. I’ll bet you say that to all the fifty-year-old women, don’t you?”
Just the ones I want to stick my cock into their half-century-old pussy, I thought. She went on, duly flattered. “Yep, turned fifty last month. Eligible for AARP discounts. But that can be another of our little ‘kiss and tell’ secrets, can’t it, John?”
I respect my elders, but didn’t think it was prudent to tell that to Tricia, so instead I just concurred. “Yes, ma’am.” Simple comments are the safest.
“May I call you with directions to my house? You don’t mind picking me up, do you? Caryn will be out tomorrow night with Amanda visiting her sister in Columbus, who wants to spend some ‘aunt’ time with her little niece. Would seven-thirty be OK? Give me your number, I’ll memorize it.”
I did as requested. Tricia closed her eyes to commit the seven digits to memory. “I’ll leave a message. I’m only a half-mile from here. And if you don’t mind, there’s a new place I’ve been wanting to try over in Granville, can we go there?” Granville was a quaint little college town I’d heard a lot about, it sounded great.
Again, I was deferential. “I’ve been wanting to get over to Granville myself. Absolutely, ma’am.”
She shook my hand and began to return to her cubs. “Oh, one more thing. I’ll be needing to go to Zanesville tomorrow for some ‘things’. Do you have a preference?”
I didn’t just play dumb. I didn’t know what she meant at first. “Uh, what things? Preference for what?”
“I’m thinking either leopard skin, or coral, or perhaps a midnight blue ensemble. I love dark blue. Like your eyes, John.” I was titanium hard now. I had a feeling half of Heath, Ohio was now watching the new mall manager’s erection.
“Surprise me,” I gulped, mesmerized by the older vixen’s wares. Now I understood.
“Oh, I shall. I’m full of surprises if motivated properly.” Tricia winked slyly. “Who knows, maybe we even can play “Show and Tell”. If ya promise not to tell, that is.”
I returned to my office, shut my door, grabbed a handful of Kleenex, and shot the first mid-afternoon load of cum that my office had experienced. Well, since my occupancy, at least.
Tricia opened the door of her modest but attractive home at seven-thirty sharp the next evening. Her attire was not quite what I’d been expecting. However, in retrospect, based on our conversation the following day, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Please come in, Mr. Dignitary,” she gestured, bowing slightly in mock respect. “It’s not every night we have a mall manager grace our humble abode.”
Tricia wore a modest navy blue skirt and blazer, with a light blue silk blouse underneath the jacket. The skirt was cut to just above the knee, and her long, lean legs were covered with sheer dark stockings (midnight blue?). Below the ankles, she did wear pumps that were maybe two or three inches high, walking the tenuous tightrope between conservative and provocative.
Her copper-blonde hair was pulled up in a tight bun, and she wore thin librarian-like eyeglasses with a rose-maroon frame. A string of pink pearls dangled down the front of her neck, but with her jacket still buttoned, I couldn’t determine where the journey of the strand terminated. However, I could see more cleavage than I could the day before, and I was pleased to see that her neck and upper chest was lightly freckled.
If there is such a thing as a fetish for chest freckles on a woman, I have such a fetish. She brought me back to reality with that voice again. Melanie Griffith as Tess McGill in “Working Girl”. That was IT!
“You’re taking liberties with the dress code a bit, aren’t you?” She asked, surveying my button-down Oxford shirt and khakis. “Was it casual Friday today or something? Isn’t this a formal business meeting, after all?” She put her hands on her hips, looked me up and down, and clucked her tongue, feigning disappointment. At least, I hoped she was feigning.
“Well, I had nothing to really match my leopard-skin undies other than khaki,” I said. “Besides, I didn’t want to chance us wearing the same outfit. Just imagine the potential embarrassment.” kaçak casino I fanned my face in my best Nathan Lane imitation.
She tossed her head back and laughed delightedly. “All right, you’re off the hook. That’s the only plausible excuse I can rationalize. Shall we go?”
As I put my hand on the small of her back as we walked to her front door, she turned to me. “And you’re in luck. I didn’t wear leopard skin. So, relax, we won’t clash.”
Our conversation during the drive and all through dinner was easy and lively, like talking to someone you had known all your life. That’s the nice thing about mature women. They don’t spend the whole date talking about themselves. Tricia was intelligent and inquisitive without being overly prodding. Inquisitiveness is always a sign of interest in the subject matter. It was a good sign.
We didn’t talk much about our respective divorces, my one and her two. Divorce talk is the death knoll of first dates. I wasn’t interested in hearing about her ex-es any more than I wanted to talk about mine. That was rear-view mirror stuff, and I was relieved that Tricia took the same perspective.
Two and a half hours and almost two bottles of merlot later, towards the end of our delicious meal, I did learn that she had grown up in Western Pennsylvania and was a small-college All-American swimmer at IUP, which for those of you who don’t know, is Indiana University of Pennsylvania. Yes, there is an Indiana in Pennsylvania.
“All-American, wow.” I was ‘wow-ing’ again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date with an All-American before,” I said. “Pretty impressive.”
I was feeling the effects of the wine, but had let her consume slightly more since I was driving, so I figured she had to be more than tipsy by now.
“Ah, yes, but that was thirty years ago, almost. God, where does the time go?” She asked wistfully, looking into the wine glass, almost as if to scan her image in the reflection of the crystal.
She turned her gaze to me. “Anyway, I still try to swim about 5 miles a week to try to stay in shape. I love being in the water.”
“It’s working,” I interjected quickly, watching Tricia nibble on the rim of her wine glass, the merlot trickling onto her tongue.
She swallowed. “What’s working?”
“The staying-in-shape part. Your body’s a dream.”
Tricia’s face flushed, the veins on her neck pulsed a bit. “Call for a check.”
While the waiter disappeared to bring the bill, she propped her elbows up on the tablecloth. “So, other than an All-American, what’s the oldest woman you’ve…..?” She didn’t finish the question. Rather, it dangled there, in the air, like a blank cartoon balloon in the newspaper comics.
“Dated?” I guessed, trying to answer the pop quiz. “What’s the oldest woman I’ve dated?”
She shook her head. “Fucked.”
I felt my own face heat up from the boldness of the inquiry. She scanned my face intently, bringing her pinky tip to her thin lips and licking a drop of wine off of it. “What’s the oldest woman you’ve fucked, John?”
I took it a sort of a trick question, so I stalled for time. I squirmed in my seat and swallowed myself, remaining silent. She took the opportunity to continue. “That’s OK, you don’t have to answer. I’ll just assume I’m the oldest. I haven’t been fucked yet as a fifty-year-old. Wanna try to break some records tonight?”
As I dropped enough cash on the table to thank the waiter for his discretion all evening, Tricia dropped a bomb. “By the way, my youngest man was nineteen.” My burgeoning hard-on wilted immediately beneath the table. What the fuck…?
“But I was eighteen at the time.” She chuckled at her own funny. I exhaled deeply, my erection reversing its course, once again on full alert.
“Let’s go.” I suggested.
She concurred. “Let’s.”
We had parked on a side street about two blocks away. We held hands in silence during the walk. I enjoyed her perfume wafting through my nostrils and coursing directly to my dick. It was still light when we had parked. It was pitch dark now. When we reached the car, she backed against it and pulled me into her body.
“Make my first kiss as a fifty-year-old a special one, John.” Her lips opened in anticipation, her half-open eyelids fluttered in a mixture of intoxication and lust. “Please.”
We started slowly, exploring, mutually teasing, our tongues dancing a slow, oral tango, reminding me again that mature women are the most passionate kissers of all. And the most passionate foreplay of all are those same soft, teasing kisses that escalate in intensity at a perfect pace until each mouth is virtually fucking the other, gasping for breath, desperate to consummate the kiss with the only ending that can be appropriate.
We released the kiss, still embracing each others’ body. She barely seemed to notice that I was squeezing her butt with one hand and lifting the hem of her skirt with the other. “That was memorable, all right,” she gasped, her head burying into my neck, smothering it with more kisses, biting my earlobe gently. “Thank you.”
I glanced around and saw no one approaching on the street or peeking at us from the windows of their houses. Or so I hoped. But it didn’t matter at that point.
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