Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 This story is dedicated to the sexiest writer I know, Barb36D of
literotica.com.



   My fascination with you and your writing finally became too much.  I
sent feedback to your Literotica profile - I wanted to meet you, but
somewhere neutral where either of us could walk away if it wasn't working
out.  We agreed on The Italian Village restaurant on Monroe, downtown.

   When I arrive, you are at the bar ordering drinks.  I recognize you from
the only angle I've ever seen of you, the photo from your profile.  I walk
up to you - you still haven't seen me - and I stand right behind you.

   "Don't turn around." I whisper into your ear.  I run my hands down your
arms and hold your hands.  I stand right against the light fabric of your
skirt.  I'm certain you can feel my excitement already.

   "Eddie?" You say.

   "Good guess," I reply.

   "Mmm... that feels incredible," you say.

   We just stand there for a few minutes pressing into each other, holding
hands, not talking.  Finally the Maitre `d calls us to our table.  They
seat us in the village on the third floor, under the starry ceiling in our
own little room.  We drink Chianti and get to know each other.

   You are surprised that I'm exactly as I described myself - just turned
30, six foot one, athletic, handsome, confident.  Myself, I'm not surprised
that you're as you describe yourself online.  Your honesty comes through in
your writing.

   "I have to ask," you say, "why did you want to meet with me?  I'm old
enough to be your mother."

   "That," I say, "was the coup de grace.  Younger women do not know what
they want.  Between appearances, reputations, and the right pair of shoes,
they're too uptight and too boring.  You, on the other hand, know what you
want.  You're uninhibited.  Add in the erotic workings of your mind and the
cleavage that I'm forcing myself not to openly stare upon, and you're just
about the most sexy thing I could ever imagine."

   We continue to chat, mostly about our writings and what is based in
truth and what isn't.  If I read the situation correctly, you are enjoying
my company as much as yours captivates me.  When our food comes, I propose
a toast.  We drink, and as we lower our glasses, we share a kiss.

   It is sensual - full and sincere, closed-mouthed yet insinuating.  Our
flirtations become more overt as the evening progresses.  The table wine
has an insolent effect on me, such that I "accidentally" brush against your
breast each time I reach for wine, fetch a napkin, etc.  You continue to
banter about yourself being too old or "run-down" as you do in your
stories, but you are fishing for compliments in a poetically stocked pond.
I assure you that every aspect of your person has met and exceeded my own
demanding expectations.

   Emboldened by the conversation, I begin to gently rub your thigh. 
Initially you jump and place your hand upon mine, but my caresses are
soothing and you allow yourself to trust me.  But you assumed correctly -
my intentions were not so innocent.  I trace every aspect of your legs,
memorizing your smoothness, teasing with my fingertips, all the way to your
panties.  Our eyes are locked on each other.  Your gaze becomes more
serious, but you have no intention of stopping me.

   I slide my fingers underneath, parting you gently, mindful of my
manners. The look in your eyes suggests I have made a big mistake.  I am
about to pull away when you say, "here, let me help with that." Reaching
down, you slide your panties off and place them in a ball right on our
table.

   "Continue," you say.

   Sexually, I know I have reached my perfect age.  I'm on the tail end of
youthful energy and exuberance, yet old enough to exhibit patience; to read
body language, and play a woman masterfully like the delicately complicated
instrument she is.  My hand works slowly but purposefully.  I watch the
changes in your posture and breathing.  Your facial expressions change from
concentration to ecstasy to surprise and back, as my fingers alternate
stroking, tweaking and filling you.

   You surprise me by leaning in and kissing me, this time quite
forcefully, with no concern over the fact that anyone looking in our
direction would see a middle-aged woman French-kissing a man young enough
to be her son - and just where are his hands?

   The kiss ends, but you have not climaxed.  Now I am certain that you
deserve more.  When I am sure no one is looking, I slide under the
tablecloth and kneel before you.  You are reluctant at first to spread your
legs, but your need for release overrides common sense.  Suddenly you are
mine for the tasting.  I am not intimidated by the many lovers who have no
doubt preceded me in this endeavor - you and I are all that matter now.

   Slowly I dip my tongue in you, collecting your moisture, and trail it up
over your sensitive bud.  I wash you in a combination of your wetness and
my saliva.  Locking down my lips, I administer tongue ministrations upon
you that quickly bring about your shuddering surrender.

   As we finish our meal, it is not clear how many people took notice,
although there are certainly plenty of quick glances in our direction. 
Gradually the color in your face subsides and your breathing returns to
normal.  I excuse myself to use the restroom.

   I didn't see you following me.  You upon me immediately as I enter, and
you throw the latch on the door to lock us in.  You drape your arms over my
shoulders.  In my ear, you whisper: "When heartless reality takes its toll
on your weary mind, know that I linger in the dark shadows of what you
need."

   You kiss me again, then slowly kneel before me, undoing my belt. 
Releasing the source of my agitations, you encircle the crown with your
tongue, saying, "I am here for you." You drop your top to your waist,
exposing your glorious front - you are perfect.  You have me engulfed. 
Your care and attention to detail is unsurpassed.  My hand to your breast
only expedites the inevitable.  My surge is violent, lasting, and abundant.


   Outside, I hail you a cab.  Before getting in, we share another warm
embrace and deep playful kiss.  What our tongues lack in age proximity,
they make up for in affection.  I'm aroused again and notice the looks
we're getting - I have half a mind to say "thanks, mom!" as you get in the
cab.

   I don't know where this new connection will lead, but for the time
being, I will be unable to chase the prospect of making long and
uninhibited love to you, my greatest adventure, from my mind.

   You can find more of my stories at
/files/Authors/Eddies_Life