A View from Above

I met Margaret at a party in the suburbs. I had wandered into the kitchen for another beer. When I emerged, a nicely put together woman appeared at my elbow. "Hello," she said, extending her hand, "I don't think we've met."

"Jonathan," I told her. Her hand was small -- and warm. I've always liked women with warm hands.

"I'm Margaret. Who are you here with?"

I tilted my head toward the foursome across the living room where my girlfriend was holding court. "My girlfriend. Janet. She's over there talking with friends. And you?"

"My husband, Nicholas. He's over there. The bald one." She motioned toward another corner of the living room. Her Nicholas was talking with a gay couple I knew.

I studied Margaret's face as we stood two feet apart and conversed. She had wavy red hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail that dropped to the middle of her shoulder blades. Freckles, blue eyes, an affable smile -- a classic Irish look. She seemed self-confident enough to wear minimal makeup, and the slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes pegged her to be at least a dozen years older than my late twenties.

She stood several inches shorter than me, and with my peripheral vision I could appreciate her trim body without being obvious. I'd known for years that women wanted you to look into their eyes, not stare at their breasts. That wasn't a problem for me, since I love eyes more than breasts.

Margaret's conversational skills were apparent. Within five minutes she managed to extract my basic bio -- six years at the University of Oregon, including grad school; then moved to the Bay Area; self-employed software techie making a decent living doing longer-term contract work; single, never married. She also managed to weave in a narrative of her own history to me -- studied art history at NYU, married for 15 years, no kids, and co-owner and part-time manager of a gallery in the City with her artist husband.

Margaret's eyes darted to her husband and then over to my girlfriend and then returned to me. "Do you ever get up to the City? We could have lunch sometime." She slipped a business card into my left hand, then turned to face her approaching husband. "Nicholas, I have someone for you to meet." I palmed her card, slipping it into my back pocket, and reached forward to shake his hand.

A week later I phoned Margaret at the number on her business card, and a week after that I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of a Union Street bistro and trying to appear nonchalant. I had arrived at the designated rendezvous fifteen minutes early, uncertain exactly how long it would take me to drive the 50 miles to the City and find a parking spot. I hadn't told my girlfriend I was doing this. After all, this was going to be a casual lunch. Margaret had suggested the restaurant. She certainly made it sound innocent.

I stood waiting outside the restaurant. Two women and a man brushed past me to enter, followed by two men in expensive Italian suits. Lawyers most likely, I thought to myself. The lunchtime traffic was increasing. Had Margaret made reservations? I could see a line forming at the reception desk.

Moments later, Margaret appeared. She'd made no reservations, and now the wait time was 30 minutes. She slipped a light hand around my upper arm and aimed us down the sidewalk. "Let's walk down Union and see if we can find a place with a shorter wait." We passed a clothing boutique, another small restaurant with outdoor tables, all full, and two more boutiques. Margaret was the first to speak. "Do you do this often?"

"Which? Have lunch with an attractive woman? Or come to the City?"

She laughed. "Both."

"Rarely, on both counts."

"Then I'm flattered. On both counts."

"I'm flattered that you invited me."

"I thought it would be fun," she replied. We stopped in front of a small Italian restaurant. I glanced at Margaret, who gave me a little shrug, saying "This one is good. I've eaten here. Not at lunchtime, though."

I guided her through the entrance. "How long a wait for two?" I asked the young woman seated on a stool behind the register.

"Thirty minutes. Maybe forty." Two other groups, a foursome of men and a twosome of women, stood off to the side, also waiting for tables. In the still air of the restaurant, I caught a whiff of a mild flowery scent coming from Margaret. I studied her face. She wore more makeup than at the party. Her strawberry red lipstick matched her hair, which was now not bundled in a ponytail and danced across her upper back.

Margaret looked back at me with a questioning expression, then turned to the girl behind the register and said, "Thank you, but we'll keep walking." We returned to the sidewalk and continued onward. "You know," Margaret began, reconnecting her hand to my arm, "I live only a few blocks from here. We're up on the fourth floor with a balcony that has a bit of a view of the Bay. I could make a light lunch for us. Something simple. If you'd like that."

My mouth went dry and my palms became sweaty. I wondered if Margaret could hear my heart beating in my chest. I cleared my throat. Was this her plan all along? "I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble."

"It wouldn't be any trouble at all, you silly man." We reached the end of the block and she gently, subtly, put pressure on my arm to adjust our path to aim to the right. Now we walked up a gradual incline, heading away from the Union Street shops and toward several blocks of apartment buildings. "It's that one," she gestured ahead with her free hand that held her pocketbook, "The yellow building."

"Very nice," I said. I felt like a sheep being herded by Margaret the sheepdog. It was more and more apparent that she was flirting with me. It wasn't nearly as apparent how far she wanted things to go. I decided to let her lead the way, both figuratively and literally.

"It's a quiet building," she continued. "Most everyone is at work during the day." The uphill made for an increased effort, but Margaret kept a steady pace.

"Is Nicholas at home? Or at the gallery?"

"Neither" she replied, "He flew to L. A. this morning to set up for a gallery show down there on Friday." She glanced at my face, then back to our path down the sidewalk. "He'll be back on Saturday."

We reached the front entrance door of Margaret's yellow building. She released my arm and unsnapped her small purse, quickly extracting a ring of keys. "It will be just the two of us. A quiet lunch on my balcony, where you can admire the view." Margaret removed her sunglasses with her hand holding her pocketbook, then looked at my face. Her flashing green eyes locked onto mine, silently asking the obvious question, then turning to insert the key into the lock before I could answer.

It was a slow elevator. "What kind of art does he do?"

"He's a sculptor. He works in metal, mostly. Sometimes wood. Sometimes plaster. He does classes at the gallery, too." The elevator dinged at the fourth floor and the elevator doors opened. We stepped into the hallway, and Margaret nudged me to the left. "He's popular with the coeds," she said. We stopped at a green door. Her keys reappeared in her hand, and she unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding the door open for me.

Margaret's condo was bright and airy. The sunlight splashed through the large windows and bounced off the pale yellow walls and pine floors. Paintings hung on every available wall. Metal sculptures, some tall and standing on the floor, others smaller and perched on tables and shelves, were everywhere.

Margaret gave me a quick tour. We paused briefly in the far corner of the living room, stopping next to a table that displayed a stark white plaster sculpture of a female torso, about two feet high, headless, naked from bellybutton to neck, with small, firm breasts and distinct, almost erect nipples. "What do you think?" she asked.

I cleared my throat. "It's lovely," I replied, unsure of exactly what to say. "Your husband's work, I assume?"

Margaret continued, "Yes. I was the model." I stood there, now definitely frozen in place and definitely unsure of what more to say. She guided me along another wall, pointing out an abstract painting on the wall, then turned a corner and we ended up in the kitchen. I stood next to the granite topped island while she quickly assembled cheese and fruit on a platter, then she handed me a bottle of wine from a wine frig and assigned me the task of opening it.

We took small plates, small forks, the wine bottle and glasses, and the platter of food back through her living room and out onto the balcony, where there was a small cafe table with two chairs. From the balcony I saw a stunning view of the Bay that was better than what Margaret had led me to believe.

Our conversation over lunch rambled across various casual topics. When the wine bottle was 2/3 empty and the platter held only a sprig of grapes, Margaret finally broached the subject that I'd been anticipating. "So, Jonathan, do you and Janet live together?"

"She has her own apartment, though we occasionally spend the night at her place or mine."

"That sounds nice. Are you two serious?"

"We enjoy each other's company," I replied. "I don't know how serious we are. We've never talked about marriage. Or even about living together." I decided to be just as nosy as her. "Are you and Nicholas happy?"

"Oh, we've been together for 18 years. Married for 15. It works. We're both independent souls. We accommodate each other's interests." Margaret studied my face, smiling. She had delightful eyes.

I took a sip of my wine and played along. "And what are your interests?"

Margaret stood up and picked up the plates and stacked them on the platter. "Let's go inside. Will you bring the wine and the glasses?" I followed Margaret back to the kitchen. She placed the platter in the sink and motioned for me to put the glasses and bottle on the granite island. She then turned to me, gently touched a forefinger to my chest, looked me in the eyes and said, "Right now, one of my interests happens to be you."

My penis stirred. "Once again, I am flattered."

Margaret moved an inch or two toward me. "Do you find me attractive?" Her eyes never left mine.

"Yes. Very."

Margaret closed the remaining distance and gently put her hands on my upper arms. She tilted her head back and her mouth found mine. Her lips parted. Her tongue briefly flickered against mine, then she broke the kiss. Her forefinger stroked across my lips. "I'd like to get to know you better. Would you like that, too?"

"I would."

"Would you like to go to the bedroom?"

My erection was now rapidly hardening. It was beginning to feel uncomfortably constrained in my pants. "Yes, I would."

"You're a man of few words," Margaret said. She led me by the hand past what appeared to be the main bedroom with a king size bed and into a second bedroom with a queen bed. She turned to me again, this time wrapping her arms around my shoulders as her assertive mouth reengaged mine. My hands cupped her face, and this time our kiss was more active, with open mouths and playful tongues. I became aware of the faint strawberry taste of her lipstick, of the floral scent of her shampoo, of how her trim body pressed against mine. The lump of my erection had to be obvious to her.

Margaret's hands found my zipper and belt buckle, and a moment later my pants were down around my ankles, soon followed by my underpants. My erection, now freed from captivity, stood tall in its stiff upward curve. She softly caressed it with her warm hands. We broke our kiss. "Very nice," she murmured, then took a step back. "Undress me, please."

And that I did. I unbuttoned her white blouse. Her hand released my erection, and I slipped the blouse off her shoulders. It felt like silk. "You can toss it on the chair over there," she directed. I reached behind her to unsnap her lacy white bra, and she shrugged that off her shoulders, too. It joined her blouse on the chair. Her hand then returned to my stiff shaft, giving it little squeezes. Her eyes never left mine.

Margaret's breasts were small freckled handfuls with pink, stiff nipples. And yes, they were accurately portrayed by the plaster torso in the living room. Both of her hands raised up to cup my face, and I reached behind her again to find whatever was holding her skirt in place. Two buttons, quickly undone, and a zipper, soon lowered, and she wriggled her hips and that, too, dropped to the floor.

I glanced down to see demure white underpants. They matched her bra. This was years before thongs became popular. When I lowered them down, I discovered a nicely trimmed bush that matched the color of her hair. This was years before pubic hair removal became popular, too. I unbuttoned my shirt, and that joined her blouse and bra.

We both stepped away from the clothes at our ankles -- my pants, her skirt -- and shucked off our shoes. Margaret turned toward the bed and pulled back the covers to expose crisp white sheets. She reached for my hand and guided us both to the bed, slipping in first and sliding to the middle, and holding her arms open to guide me into an embrace. For that I didn't need any guidance.

"Touch me," she whispered, and my left hand caressed her right breast, feeling her stiff nipple in my palm. I leaned toward her and her face tilted toward mine, and our mouths kissed and nibbled. My left hand moved up to her cheek, then slowly down to her neck, then lower to graze across her right breast and say a brief farewell to her left breast before drifting lower, lazily lower across her flat belly.

Her breaths grew quicker. Her body began to wriggle, her hips undulating. Her right hand found the back of my left hand and nudged me lower. "Don't tease me," she murmured, and I obeyed and cupped her sex, feeling her curly red hair framing the heat emanating from her prominent mound. She grunted in my mouth, spreading her legs apart, breaking her mouth away to say more insistently, "Touch me."

And I did. Her inner labia were swollen and her juices oozing profusely. The pads of my forefinger and middle fingers made gentle swirls, separating her petals, exposing the stiff twig of her clitoris and capturing it between my fingers. Her mouth broke away from mine and buried against my neck, panting shallow, quick breaths and little whimpers. "Can I go down on you?" I asked.

"Yes, please do," was her simple immediate answer. I slid my body lower and got between her legs, taking a few brief moments to gaze at the glory of her puffy vulva, inflamed crimson. I lowered my face, and at the same time her hands lightly grasped my head, and we began a mutual dance. My mouth licked and slithered, her hips rocked up and down to match my rhythm, and I answered her soft moans and whimpers and whispers with my hums.

My occasional gentle sucks of her clitoris produced louder gasping groans from her. Her taste, her scent brought me to almost as much arousal as my mouth was giving to her. "Fingers," she murmured from above my head, "Inside." I added two fingers curled up inside her very slick, very soft vagina. Now the ribbed roughness of her G-spot clearly advertised itself. She was magnificent.

Eventually my tongue and lips noticed her clitoris surging in size, and her orgasm arrived a few seconds later. Margaret inhaled a deep breath and held it, her kegels clenched around my fingers and her body shuddered. She exhaled a loud moan, then inhaled deeply a second time, then a third, each with a new shudder and strong clench of my inserted fingers and extra pressure of her fingertips digging into my skull.

I was thrilled. Did I cause that? Yes, I did. I withdrew my fingers, causing Margaret to grunt with an annoyed tone. "That felt so good," she told the top of my head. Her hands on my head relaxed and stroked through my hair. "So good," she added.

I looked up at her face and smiled. "I'm happy to hear that."

Her hands slid down my back and across my shoulders, pressing against my upper arms and gently tugging me upward. "C'mere," she said. "I want to feel you inside me."

I slid up Margaret's body, holding myself above her on my outstretched arms and knees, and she spread her legs wider and tilted her hips upward. We exchanged no words. It was just my steel-hard cock finding the slick heat of her vulva and brushing up and down between her labia. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her red hair splashed across the pillow. Her clitoris was still stiff and obvious against the bottom side of my cock.

Things were moving very quickly, and I needed to ask. "Is it safe to be inside you?" She smiled. I added, "I mean, I'm safe. I'm talking about birth control."

"Oh I'm completely safe," she purred, "On all counts." And with that, Margaret's hips did their magic of getting my erection into just the right position and at just the right angle to get my cockhead poised at her entrance. And then, wonder of wonders. I edged forward, and the heat seeking missile of my glans found its target, pausing a heartbeat or two at her barest of its muscle resistance, then popped inside. "Ohhhh, that's it," she breathed. Her inner muscles nibbled around me, then a second time.

I knew I had to focus on my self control, trying as best I could to hold back my climax that was desperate to leap out. Margaret held her body still, open and welcoming, and I pushed forward, ever so slowly, one inch deeper then withdrawing a half inch, again and again, sliding into her magnificently slick, hot, smooth embrace until my pubic bone bumped against hers. We both exhaled a long "Ohhhh" of pleasure.

"You feel incredible," I told her. My cock was twitching, demanding that I thrust rapid strokes into her to race to my release, but I fought off that urge. I didn't want to embarrass myself with this woman, who was obviously more mature, more sexually worldly. She was staring at my face, and I was trying to read her thoughts. Surely she could read my body and my thoughts. Surely she could tell by my cock's twitches that I was on the verge. Her nibbles around the base of my shaft wasn't helping.

Margaret's eyelids dipped, then reopened. "You're so hard," she murmured. "I like that." I continued to stay buried my cock inside her. Now her hips began a barely perceptible rocking, pushing back against my pelvis, and I matched that with a rhythm of my own inward gentle press against her vulva.

"You've got me so turned on," I told her. Her eyes were locked onto mine. "I don't know how long I can last."

"Don't worry about that," she breathed. Her heels pressed against my ass, and her hands grazed across my chest with a delicate touch. "I'm sure I can get you hard again. Right?"

"Yes."

"Then just take me," she said. "Show me how you fuck. Fill me."

I didn't answer with words. I answered with my body. I began the laziest of full length strokes, savoring the feel of my rigid flesh sliding against the slippery velvet of her snug flesh, in and out, in and out. "That's it," she whispered. Her hands were in constant motion, moving across my chest at the same speed as my cock inside her vagina. "Do you like to fuck me?" she whispered. Her kegels clenched every time I bottomed out.

"You feel incredible," I managed to answer.

"Good," she said. "Do you like my squeezes?"

"Yes. They're so strong." I'm sure I was steadily leaking precum, though she was already so wet that I didn't notice a difference.

"They're part of my daily exercises," she said with a grin.

"Your vagina feels alive," I said. Focus, I kept telling myself, focus. Stop thinking about her vagina. Stare at her face. Admire her breasts.

"I want you to fuck me, Jonathan. Fuck my pussy," she said quietly with an insistent tone. "I want to feel you. I want my body to make you go wild. I want to feel you come inside me."

"It does. You are. I will."

Her hips told me to increase my tempo, and I obeyed. I began to thrust into her with greater speed and more muscle. It wasn't going to take much longer. "That's it," she breathed. "Take me. Fuck me." She was almost chanting now. I was only vaguely aware of my own moaning grunts. I could hear the liquid sounds of my thrusts. My focus kept shifting to thoughts of my cock inside her pussy.

Her body was writhing beneath me now, her hips adding sideways movements to her up and down, using my rigid cock to stretch her opening and stroke against different parts of her vagina. Her noises were almost constant, with moans and whimpers and gasps. Our bodies danced together. "Let it go," she groaned.

And what was when I passed the point of no return. "Feel me," I grunted, giving her a final few thumping thrusts until I jammed one last stroke deep inside her, digging my knees into the mattress, trying to get one last millimeter of my rigid flesh inside her as my climax exploded, leaving my body stiffened and entering that private universe that only contained my exquisitely sensitive cock inside her magnificent vagina.

I was lost in my orgasmic haze, pulsing streams of my white heat into the depths of her most intimate place when I must have relaxed my hips just enough to allow her hips to rock up and down, gripping my throbbing cock with her inner muscles, extending my climax, encouraging my balls to empty my semen. That was another first for me.

When I finished and was straining for oxygen, my body was still doing its post-orgasmic quivers. I came back to earth and saw Margaret smiling at me. She was always smiling. Her legs were now wrapped around me, her arms still hooked around my back, her fingers lightly stroking in my perspiration that seemed to have appeared. "How was that?" she asked.

"You leave me speechless," I replied. "I've never... I mean... you are an amazing lover."

She chuckled. "Thank you. You're pretty good yourself. You have young man's energy."

"You bring it out in me." We stayed cuddled together like that until my erection softened and slipped out on its own. I leaned forward and kissed, then sat back on my knees. "That was fun," she said with a smile. I looked down and saw a mass of white leaking from her vagina. She reached a hand down there, playing her fingers in the mess, then lifted her hand up and looked at it. "You really come a lot, don't you."

"You asked for it," I reminded her.

She laughed. "That I did," she said, "And I loved it." I rolled onto my side next to her. Margaret sat up straight and glanced at the bedside table. "It's 1:30. How much time do you have?"

"I don't need to leave for awhile. If that's what you're asking."

"Good," she said, rolling off me and onto her back beside me. She reached a hand between her legs. "I'm going to need a moment to deal with this before I leave a giant wet spot." She spun 90 degrees and sat on the edge of the bed, then stood up, cupping a hand between her legs to avoid dripping on the floor. She looked back to smile at me and walked out of the bedroom. "Back in a moment," she said with a lilting voice over her shoulder.

As promised, Margaret returned a couple of minutes later with a wash rag. She laid down next to me, hoisting herself on an elbow, and gave my softened cock a few swipes. "That should be enough," she said, dropping the washcloth to the floor. Then she leaned over my pelvis and ever so casually took my penis into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, then retreating with a deliberate noisy smacking of her lips. 'Very tasty," she said, chuckling.

Side by side again, we embraced and resumed our kissing. I swung my free leg over hers and pulled them closer, while my hands roamed across her shoulders and back. "You have a wonderful body," I whispered to her.

"I'm so happy you think so," she said, snaking a hand between us to find my penis, which sadly was still soft. "I quite like yours, too." Her hand was giving me gentle squeezes. "I hope I can bring you back to life again."

We continued to kiss and nuzzle, caress and explore. "Can I ask you," I said, "Do you do this often?"

"Do what? Have sex?"

"I mean, go to bed with strange men."

"I don't consider you strange," she replied and gave me another long kiss. My erection was coming back to life. "But no, I don't do this very often. Nicholas and I... I told you we have an arrangement. He has his dalliances with the coeds. And I..." She paused. "I pick and choose. We're both careful."

"So no condoms?" I asked.

"Nicholas uses them with his coeds. I mostly use them when it's not Nicholas. Though I am selective and sometimes skip them... like with you."

"I'm very selective, too," I told her.

"That's good. That was my intuition about you." She gave me another long kiss. "When I saw you naked, I decided I wanted to feel you skin to skin, and feel you leave a bit of yourself inside me."

"You honor me," I told her, and she gave me a big smile. "Roll on your tummy," I told her. She gave me a quizzical look. I gave her more space on the bed, and she complied, tilting her head to the side. I got behind her, settling down below her butt, and began to massage her back. Margaret spread out her arms, humming little moans of pleasure, and I worked her muscles until she seemed relaxed. And then my penis, nestled in her butt crack, began little signs of waking up.

"My turn," said Margaret. "Now you lie on your back." I did as I was told, and she squirmed around until her body was 90 degrees to mine and her head was studying my emerging erection from close up. "What do we have here," she said, then took my penis in her mouth.

There are some women who go down on me and seem to be doing it just to reciprocate, or just because they think they are expected to do it. And there are some other women who seem to really enjoy doing it. And enjoy doing it as much as I enjoy going down on them. Margaret was in that latter group. Her mouth licked and sucked, teased and encouraged, until my erection was at full mast. Seemingly not with the intention of bringing me to another climax, but rather with the intention of playing with me, playing with my erection, playing with my arousal. Getting me hard and keeping me hard.

And when she felt it was time, she wordlessly straddled my hips, reached between us to aim my cock, and lowering herself on my stiff cock. She impaled me with her sopping wet, smooth and silky vagina that still contained enough of our joined juices to allow her to sink her hips down, ever so slowly, in one long, steady motion. And when she had me buried inside her, she sat up straight and tilted her hips, and I felt my cockhead brushing against the rubbery tip of her cervix. She had inhaled all of me.

"You can really get deep," she murmured, her eyes half closed. I held her hips for a moment, then drifted them higher to cup her breasts with their gumdrop perky nipples. "It feels like you're poking my stomach."

"I don't think I'm _that_ deep," I replied.

"Don't argue with me." Then she began a languid motion of her hips, and I held my hips to aim my shaft as high as I could. This time I wanted her to be the one to find pleasure in my body. And that's what she did. Her pussy stroked my cock between half-in and all-in, and every now and then she'd readjust her hips to grind her inflamed vulva against my pubic bone. All the while my hands roamed from her breasts to her face, back to her face then down to her hips, then back to her breasts.

This went on for quite a while. Margaret gave every indication that she was getting more and more aroused, though she also seemed to enjoy drawing out our coupling and not rushing to an orgasm. Her vagina was a marvel of snug embrace combined with voluminous lubrication. As time went on, the clickety-clack of our juices got more and more apparent as her hips continued their inexorable strokes and grinds.

I was also getting highly aroused, of course, although this time I had more control over my climax. Margaret looked down at me and asked, "Can I make you come again?"

"You first," I replied. She smiled and closed her eyes again, looking focused, and changed the pace of her hips. She gradually increased her speed and added those same side to side hip movements that I'd experienced earlier. Her breathing quickened, her soft moans evolved into more guttural grunts, and then she was there. Her back arched, her fingernails dug into my chest, her face became a grimace of pleasure. And then I felt a quiver deep inside her vagina. She gasped, exhaled a loud growl, and dropped her weight onto my pubic bone in one final orgasmic grind, together with those magic little clenches of her kegels.

I just held myself still and tried not to distract her. I had always been, and always would be, in awe of a lover's orgasm, and I was certainly in awe of Margaret's. Hers was powerful. It went on for ten seconds. Fifteen seconds? I really wasn't timing it. Her climax rolled through her body, inside and outside, and she seemed as much in her private universe as I had been in mine.

When she finished, Margaret came back to earth and refocused her eyes on mine. "Now you," she said, resuming her stroking of my cock with her pussy, though this time sliding the marvel of her pussy embracing the full length of my shaft. She was even more juicy now. "Give it to me," she urged. "Give me your come." I was getting close. Surely she could sense that. "Let it go," she demanded. And I did.

I held her hips and pushed deep into her vagina, pulling her body against mine, and exploded for the second time that afternoon. This one was different for me than when I was on top of her. In that position I feel dominant and masculine and in control. When her on top I felt in her control and at her mercy. My liquid spurts were almost as strong as before and exquisitely pleasurable. Margaret's hips kept stoking my cock, her muscles doing their magic clenches, seemingly drawing out every last drop of semen from my balls.

To my surprise, my climax triggered Margaret to another of her own, and we both shuddered and throbbed and pulsed together. Hers extended mine, and I hoped mine extended hers. When we were both finished, her body leaned forward onto me. We were both limp and spent. I held her and stroked her back, and now she too had perspiration there. Her mouth breathed moist air on my neck. Her arms curled around my head, and her body did those final involuntary shudders.

And then we were done. We did our final kisses and nuzzles and caresses. We ended up in the shower together, doused by a pair of rain showerheads, soaping each other and doing the final inspections of each other's delicate parts and pieces. I dressed in my clothes, and Margaret donned a fluffy white robe.

We embraced and kissed at the door of her condo. "I had a feeling this would be fun," she said, "When I met you at the party."

"Thank you for inviting me," I said. "I really, really enjoyed this."

And that was that. We chatted on the phone every now and then, but we never got together again. I understood, of course. She was married. She was looking for a brief fling, not for something permanent or even repeating. That was fine with me. She left me with incredible memories that will always stay with me. I wish her well.