Summer And Autumn

"It's so good to see you again, Jenny."

"Yeah," I said, "It's good to see you, too."

I was sitting on the veranda at a cafe in my hometown, on a cool evening last August. The man seated with me was Richard Hartwell. He and his wife moved into the house next door when I was in my gap year and I spent a Summer lounging by his pool. Richard and his wife, Linda, were really sweet. That was almost five years prior, and I've spent all the interim time away at university. I had graduated the previous Spring, and decided to stay at home while I go through the process of substituting in search of a permanent teaching position.

Things at home had changed. Dad had monopolized the basement to build a mancave, and the rest of the house had been made over into some sick parody of a homemaker's magazine spread.

Seeking some normalcy, I went to visit Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell. I was shocked to find that there was no

Mrs. Hartwell

anymore. They had been empty-nesters, but still young enough, apparently, to have affairs. Mrs. Hartwell had run away with some yuppie half her age, and Richard was, apparently, lucky enough to not lose his house in the mess. Before I had left, he seemed so energetic for a man in his late forties, but by the time I'd returned, a lot of that electric enthusiasm seemed to have bled away.

"How's the coffee?" asked Mr. Hartwell.

"Not as good as I remember, ha ha."

"Oh well, it's a small town, so we take what we can get." His expression darkened.

"Fuck that," I said, "life isn't about settling. If the coffee's lousy, find a better coffee place."

He smiled at this, and my heart fluttered. He'd always been handsome, but he was older than my own Dad, so I ignored that quality in him. Now, a full-blown silver fox, he was getting hard to ignore.

When our drinks were done, we walked home. The town center was maybe a twenty-minute march from Richard's seafront house. It was Summer, but it was cooler than I had hoped, and the white cotton gown I wore did nothing to keep out the cold. Our conversation went quiet, as the topics all seemed to turn sour.

When we reached his front door, instead of

goodbye,

I said "I could do with some better coffee. Can I come in for a bit?"

"Of course."

I slipped out of my flip-flops, and set my purse on a small table by the door. Mr. Hartwell sat down, and worked a shoehorn into his loafers.

In the kitchen, he sat down and let me operate the espresso machine. I made a point of wiggling my hips and dancing while I fixed our drinks. I glanced over my shoulder to see Richard peeking at my backside while I moved. His look wasn't leering or lecherous, more guardedly cautious: a gentlemanly sort of perversion.

When I brought him his drink, I kept my knees straight, and bent at the waist, bowing low to show off the deep valley of my cleavage as I handed him his tiny cup. He didn't take his eyes off of my face at all.

Ah, subtlety just won't do.

I pirouetted, and sat in his lap, gently sliding my butt against the rising hardness in his pants.

"Jenny," breathed Mr. Hartwell, "You can't be serious..."

"Shush, don't think about it."

After a few minutes, I could feel Richard's erection pressing against me. I stood, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom.

I disrobed, but left the matter of my panties for him. He took joy in slowly peeling that last layer of soft cotton off of my body, and letting his tongue open me up. I moaned, and begged, and lost myself in that pleasure. "Please, Richard, make love to me."

Richard slid himself inside of me. He rocked his hips gently, letting the sensations build. I felt my orgasm rising as he began to thrust more quickly. I wrapped my legs around his back, and my arms around his shoulders. He leaned in close, and kissed me, as we climaxed.

It's approaching Valentine's Day now. I still haven't nailed down a permanent teaching position, but I'm happy enough where I am. I've moved in with Richard. I make a point of kissing him every morning, and telling him

I love you.

It's something he deserves to hear.