Playing the Numbers

It had been a gray, drizzly day. The wind was finally calming down, but it was still dreary and unseasonably cold outside. When I first spotted her strolling across campus, she was like a bright burst of color glowing in a black-and-white movie.

She seemed like the kind of girl I had always found magnetic: demure and bookish, a pretty face quietly hidden behind studious glasses. Her soft brown hair was cut in a gentle bob. This was a thoughtful-looking girl who didn't seem to be completely aware of how attractive she was. I immediately felt like I had a crush on her--maybe a big one.

She was about 40 feet away from me, sauntering across the campus quad, lost in thought, probably on the way to class. I was on my way to teach "Beginning Music Theory for Jazz Guitar," and hadn't been thinking about much in particular, just playing around with an idea for a new riff. That's what I was doing until she caught my eye, anyway.

From that distance, I had a pretty good view of her, and it almost stopped me in my tracks. I loved everything about her. I loved the way her hips shifted sensuously under her skirt as she walked. I loved the way her rust-colored cable knit sweater looked on her, wrapped under an olive green jacket. Bundled up the way she was, I couldn't get a complete look at her shape, but I could tell she was thin, somewhat petite, probably athletic.

It was her demeanor that made the biggest impression on me, though. She seemed soft and sensuous, quietly intelligent, feminine, serene, and confident. I wished right then I could know her. I wished I was closer to her age so I could actually pursue her. I wished she hadn't been a student at the college; I was an instructor, so she was completely off limits, even if there wasn't a huge age gap. I could have so easily been fired for trying to get involved with a member of the student body.

All I could think: what a shame that I had to worship her quietly from afar. She was probably about 20 or even younger, like most students there. I was 43 years old. There was nothing wrong with feeling attracted to someone her age, but it was the kind of thing I had to keep to myself.

That night, I imagined her as I stroked my way toward relief, pretending the big age difference didn't exist. I didn't feel bad about fantasizing; I had no intention of acting on my feelings. And I couldn't help how I felt. Where were had girls like that been when I was in my twenties, anyway?

---

A week later, I'd all but forgotten her. There hadn't been another sighting, and that was just as well; midterms for "Intro to Guitar for Jazz and Pop" were going on, and each one was an in-person appointment in my office. My schedule was pretty damned full. Class sizes were way up that semester, and I was overwhelmed trying to set up all the testing. You'd hear people saying EDM and rap and AI-generated slop would be the future of music, that no one would play instruments anymore. I could have told you just based on student interest that this was complete bullshit. Jazz guitar classes alone seemed more popular than ever.

Mid-morning, after my early classes were done, I got an email from the administration office saying that some guitar stands I'd ordered were waiting for me in Shipping and Receiving. They were replacements for stands that were completely worn out and falling apart, and I'd convinced someone I knew in Accounting that new ones weren't that much money and would last a long time.

I ambled over to the administration office, headed for the receiving area.

Inside the building, I turned a corner and found myself bumping right into someone heading the other direction--we walked smack into each other. It wasn't a hard collision, but it surprised us both.

"Oh, god, sorry," I said immediately, before I even got a look at the other person.

"No, no, it was my fault; I should have been looking." Her voice was soft and pleasant.

Looking up, I realized: it was her, the girl from the other day. I'd literally bumped into her.

She was smiling at me, looking slightly embarrassed. When our eyes met, though, there was a spark. Something magical had just happened, and we both seemed to recognize it immediately.

Another thing I realized quickly: she was not 20. This girl was definitely older than that--maybe still in her 20s, but late 20s. She wasn't a kid. This was a woman.

She was wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, and when I dared to take a quick, stealthy glance, I couldn't help noticing the sublime round swells underneath. She had on a knee-length tan skirt and black leggings, which went well with the nice sweater. I thought she looked truly fetching, and, as I had a chance to get a good look at all of her, I realized how much I liked her figure: peachy boobs, narrow waist, hips with an attractive, gentle flare. Her face was adorable; she had the look of someone who had only recently started to look more womanly than cherubic.

"Hey, I'm Adam," I blurted, and I stuck out my hand. It just happened, reflexively. Honestly, if I'd had my wits about me, I don't know that I would have been that assertive, but all of this was happening before I had a chance to think. "I'm so sorry about that."

"Oh, hi, I'm Tara," she said in a friendly, honey-coated voice, shaking my hand gently. Her sweet smile lit up the room.

My god, even if I didn't have a crush on her before, I did now. Huge crush. She was so disarmingly pretty and so feminine and so immediately charming.

I struggled to find words. "Yeah, well, I really wasn't looking either. Hopefully next time we'll both look." I grinned awkwardly. I was always so much more self-possessed and confident in my fantasies.

"Definitely," she said, still smiling at me. "I gotta go teach my next class, but it was really nice to meet you." There was that sparkle in her eye again.

"Nice to meet you, Tara," I managed, still feeling awkward.

She gave a tiny wave and then she was off. Even after she was gone, there was still the faintest trace of something floral in the air--clean, bright, maddening.

Two things on my mind at that point: she was faculty, not a student, and she was years older than she'd seemed from a distance. Oh, and she may have been the most beautiful woman ever, in the history of beautiful women.

That night, I fapped again, thinking about her, everything about her. I thought about her face, her voice, her hair, her scent, her nice sweater and its nice bulges, the shape of her legs. It took me less than five minutes to come. An hour later, I did it all over again.

---

Of course, now I had to invent ways to run into her (but not literally, this time!).

I got to thinking about her age, curious. I'd already looked her up in the faculty directory; there was only one Tara on staff, and that was Tara C. Ross, M. S., biosciences. I was glad I'd heard her pronounce her name already ("tair-ah"), so I didn't have to guess and maybe inadvertently mispronounce it as "tarr-ah."

The directory didn't list ages, but I did find out how long she'd been employed at Cuesta College (only about a year). She had to be in her late 20s, at least, or maybe very early 30s. That was kind of young for an instructor, but not completely unheard of.

Late 20s, though: was that still too young for me? Should I actually try to pursue Tara, or would that be inappropriate? I was in my early 40s; it still seemed like kind of a big age gap. Or did it?

Best thing to do, I decided, was to not worry about that, and let things play out on their own. I just needed to find a way to be in the same place as her again.

---

Next thing I knew, the two of us were out for coffee. Well, no, we were at the campus cafe, which did serve coffee--but we were both drinking peppermint tea.

"Why do people go out for coffee together? I mean, ew, right? People should go out for mints or something," she had laughed. "I mean, coffee, bleh. I guess I just wouldn't want to gross anyone out." She played with her hair a little while she spoke; her voice was soft and dulcet, enchanting.

"I doubt that could ever happen," I said, sitting across from her, trying not to stare too much. She was so beautiful, though. Her large doe eyes seemed to glow at me, a lovely golden brown.

Let me explain how this had happened.

I didn't need to bother coming up with a scheme to meet again. A couple days before this, I had been on the way to teach a class, lost in deep thought, trying to figure out if there was a better way to explain diatonic modes to music theory students. The modes' Greek names (like Ionian, Lydian, Aeolian) really seemed to put the students off, and I thought about trying to play something in each mode first, then tell them the name. Or make up some alternate names maybe? Ionian could be "Mode I," and Lydian could become "Mode L1" and Locrian would be "Mode L2," or something along those lines. Would that work better for them? I was really unsure, but I was convinced that good command of the modes made one a better player.

"Hey, Mr. Bumpy," came a voice in the hallway.

I looked over; there was Tara's broad smile. I was surprised to see her, so much so that it took me half a second to recognize this was actually happening, and not just a daydream.

"Oh, hey, Tara," I grinned. We both stopped. "Yeah, no bump this time!"

She laughed at that. "Adam, right? Yeah, see? We're already doing better. No bumping."

"Sorry about that, again," I told her.

"Oh, it's OK. No casualties."

She was still smiling at me. Tara was wearing a tight black top made of thin material, and I noticed how pronounced it made her breasts look; they seemed a little bigger than I'd first thought. Tara was a slim girl, so the fact that she was also kind of busty was incredibly hot. I took a quick, stealthy glance at her left hand: nothing on her ring finger. Good.

I tried to keep the conversation moving. "So, anyway, what's goin' on?" (I cringed slightly at how generic that was, but I was having to think on my feet, and that's what came out.)

"Oh, not a lot, really. On my way to teach a survey class, yawwwn. 'Survey of Biology'--it's a Gen. Ed. requirement. Lots of bored kids staring into space while I just yap."

She called her students "kids," which I found kind of charming; she wasn't all that far removed from being a kid herself.

"Oh, you're a bio teacher?" I had to feign ignorance.

"Yeah, I'm a secret huge nerd," she said with a laugh in her voice.

"Oh, me too, for sure."

"What do you teach?" she asked.

"Music," I said. "On my way to do a music theory class at 11."

"Oh, that's so cool. I love music. Love it. I don't play an instrument, really, but I like to sing."

I thought it was really cute the way her hair bounced around when she was being emphatic. She liked music a lot! That was good to know.

"Well," she started, "I should--"

I could not let this opportunity get away.

I cut her off: "Listen, uh, if it's OK, I just--" I felt my face starting to get a little warm. "Would you want to go for coffee sometime?" (Should I have said "like" instead of "want"? I pushed my self-consciousness aside.)

Tara had a wide-eyed look of surprise. For a split second, I worried.

But then: "Yeah," she said. Her voice had grown softer. "Yeah, I'd like that." Her startled look had completely vanished; she seemed slightly meek now, as if caught off-guard. She said, "Tomorrow morning maybe? Like, nine?"

I exhaled. "Oh, I can't; tomorrow's one of my busy days. Classes and in-person midterms all morning."

"Wednesday, then? Wednesday, maybe 8:30?"

I was very encouraged by the fact that she was the one pitching days and times.

"Yeah," I said. "That'll work."

Tara seemed to be blushing a little, too. "OK. See you then!" She was off--and then stopped suddenly. "You mean the campus cafe, right?"

"Yeah, campus cafe."

"OK!" she grinned, and she was on her way.

I let myself ogle her round little ass as she continued down the hall.

---

She'd gotten to the cafe early and was sitting at a table waiting for me with two cups of peppermint tea. I thanked her for buying, and was quietly excited by the fact that she was there ahead of time. Did that mean she was actually interested in me? It seemed like it, and the thought thrilled me.

"I hope you don't mind that I paid," she said as I sat down. "I mean, I dunno if this is a date, but some guys would mind if a girl paid on the first date."

"I don't mind at all," I said, sipping. "Especially if I get to pay on the second date."

"So this is a date?" she asked. She looked earnest.

"If it's OK with you, then yeah, it's a date."

She smiled warmly. "I think it's OK with me."

The cafe was somewhat crowded, and it was an echoey, tiled room, but I didn't hear any of the noise. All I heard was Tara's mellifluous voice.

"So this is a first date, then," I said. "And there's already been talk of a second--as long as that would be OK, too."

"I think so," she said. "I don't want to rush things; we just figured out this really is a date. But yeah, I mean, so far, so good."

I really liked the way her hair framed her pretty face. The sides of her bob were bouncing around a little as she spoke, which was cute and endearing.

"You know, at first, I thought you were probably a student," I told her. "When I first saw you." (I gave no indication that I wasn't talking about bumping into her at the office. I wasn't ready to confess that I'd had worship-from-afar moments.) "And then I realized you weren't, like, 19 or 20. But it took me a minute. That's a compliment, by the way."

"Well, thank you," she said, and it looked like she was blushing again. "Yeah, I know, I still kind of look like a kid. I just turned 29 last month. Who knows if I'll ever really look like a grownup. My mom still looks pretty young and she's in her 50s."

"Hey, happy birthday. I wouldn't say you look like a kid, though. You're just youthful. I kinda envy that at my age." I was laughing a little as I said that.

"Thanks, but I think it's different for you. Age and maturity are a good look on a man." She was beaming at me.

"I'm just glad you don't think I'm some old creep or something. I worried about that, a little." I figured the age gap issue was bound to come up, so I might as well be upfront.

"No, god no, why would I think that? Just because you're older? Lots of women are into older guys. Like I said, age can look good on a man."

I was 99% sure that "lots of women" included her, and this delighted me.

Over the course of this pleasant conversation, it became clear to me that Tara truly was a grown adult. It was the way she came off; she really didn't act like someone in her 20s--at least, not like I would have, in my 20s. She was remarkably self-possessed, far more than I had been at that age. Was it because she was already teaching? It took me until my late 30s before I managed to get a job at the college. I wondered: how was it she was already an experienced instructor, so young? She seemed so far ahead, just overall.

Another thought I had while sitting with her: I always liked what she wore. That day, she had on a scoop-neck white cotton shirt--which was nice because it bared some of her upper chest, creamy smooth skin, a few light freckles--and she had a long, loose chunky-knit brown cardigan over it. It was a sophisticated look on her. I really liked the necklace she was wearing, bright glittery silver diamond shape at the end of a thin silver cord. Her rounded glasses, which had cute tortoise-shell frames, were adorably nerdy.

I was a little disappointed that her low-neck shirt didn't reveal much cleavage; her breasts seemed large enough, but the shirt was riding a bit too high. A minute into the conversation, though, Tara leaned slightly forward to pick up her tea, and as she shifted her arm, a couple inches of cleavage showed up from out of nowhere. I was thrilled; now I had some idea of her breasts' shape, which was absolutely captivating. I shifted in my seat a little to hide my growing erection. Her right breast had a cute mole near the top, and I was excited to know that tiny detail.

"You know," she was saying, "I'm glad you suggested the cafe. Usually a first date would probably be at a bar or something, some place with alcohol, and the thing is, you end up not really knowing if you actually get along, or if it's just the drinks." Her expression grew tender. "But this way, I'm sober and I know I'm having a good time."

She stood right then and shed her sweater, draping it over the back of her chair. Now she was just wearing that scoop-neck shirt. I couldn't help myself; her tits stood out prominently in that tee, and I had to gaze for a second, even though the cleavage was momentarily gone. When she sat back down, I realized that she was looking straight at me--had she known I'd been staring at her tits? If she minded, she didn't act like it. She looked amused.

Her breasts were so perfectly big for her body that I might have started to wonder if she'd had work done--but I just knew she hadn't. They seemed perky, but there was also a weightiness to them, something fake boobs would never have. When she moved around, they shifted with a slight natural jiggle, tantalizing. I had to wonder: would I ever have the chance to see them, bare?

We kept on talking. I was telling her about my musical passions--jazz, above all--and she told me all about how her discovery of the late, great Carl Sagan drew her into science, and how membership in the high school's science club led her directly to getting her degree and a master's in biology. "I didn't really want to be a research biologist or anything like that. And what else can you do? I actually do like teaching--especially when it's not a Gen. Ed. survey class." She laughed.

I kept thinking about our age difference while we talked. It wasn't that it really bothered me, but this was by far the biggest gap I'd ever had with someone, and it did give me pause. 14 years seemed like it might be a lot. Yet I was completely comfortable with Tara, at home, at ease--I felt like we were compatible, more so than with any other woman I'd been with. I couldn't put my finger on exactly why I felt this way, but I already knew it was true. So maybe the age difference didn't matter.

Within a few minutes, we were talking about our next date; at this point we were both acting like it was a sure thing. The subject came up because I was talking about teaching jazz guitar, which were the classes I loved doing the most.

"I bet you're such a good player," Tara gushed.

I laughed and shrugged. "I'm not bad. Ya know, there's a jazz club here in town--Take Five. Have you been? I play there sometimes. I'm actually playing there this weekend--Saturday night."

"Ohhh, I'm gonna come. I need the details. I want to come see you."

I was beside myself. "I was actually thinking that maybe I could take you. Like, second date."

"Yes," she said, absolutely beaming. "Yes. I want that."

"I don't know how much jazz you've listened to, but--I do this tribute to Wes Montgomery. That's what I'm doing Saturday. He played jazz guitar, one of the greats."

"I'm pretty sure I've heard of him," she said.

"Thing is--what if you end up bored, though?"

Tara looked at me incredulously. "I love music. I won't be bored. And besides, something tells me I'll like seeing you play."

I had a big, stupid grin on my face. I almost mentioned to her that I did the side-thumb string-stroking thing the way Montgomery did, but I realized that might be a little too much detail.

We set up the logistics. I was going to pick her up at 8 PM, we'd have drinks at the club, and then I'd play my sets, with breaks in between. We exchanged numbers. I had her cell number!

I mentioned that some of my students might be there on Saturday--girls, anyway, since it was a real bar, not just a restaurant with booze (it didn't serve food). The boys weren't old enough to get into bars, but some of the girls did usually show up.

Oh, why only the girls: that was because around 15 years prior--I remember I was in my late twenties at the time--new national laws changed the ages of majority for males and females. A female was now a legal adult in every sense at age 18, including alcohol consumption. The age of majority for boys was bumped up from 18 to 23--and that was the new drinking age for boys, 23.

It was controversial for sure, but it had been the law of the land now for years. I thanked my lucky stars this hadn't happened when I was younger; I was too old to be affected by it when everything changed. I could never imagine the indignity of being 22 years old and watching girls who were 18 or 20 waltzing into bars and casually ordering drinks--when I couldn't even set foot in the place.

Girls mature faster than boys. That was the reasoning behind the laws. It had some basis in science, but it really came down to the old idea that girls were always way ahead, ready for adult life much earlier. Prior to this passing, there had been similar laws in some states at various points, so it wasn't entirely unprecedented. I remember hearing a politician say when the laws were proposed, "We do not serve justice by treating unequal things as equal. The law must see what nature has long made clear."

Most days, I didn't let it bother me, and was glad that at least some of my students could show up to see me play.

Tara seemed amused by the situation. "Oh, I bet those girls all have massive crushes on you," she grinned.

I had to laugh. "They probably just think of me like I'm an uncle or something."

She gave me a devilish look. "I doubt that. Completely."

---

Both Thursday and Friday, Tara and I found reasons (excuses) to visit each other. On Thursday, she stopped by my office just to say hi. I tried to stay cool, but I was overjoyed that she'd done that. We were remarkably comfortable around each other--this was obvious to both of us--so it felt pretty natural to chat and hang out a little bit. And I did enjoy seeing what she was wearing, too--she looked hot.

On Friday, I dropped by her classroom to ask if she had time to go for a short walk; she did, in fact, so we got to talk a little bit more. Tara made it clear to me that seeing me play the next day was a big deal to her.

"It's been kind of a while since I had a real date like this--you know, like out in the world," she told me. "And I'm dying to see you play guitar, and just hang out with you, so I'm kinda extra-excited about Saturday."

So was I.

---

Grey clouds were splitting apart and patches of blue sky had begun breaking through before the sun went down on Saturday. It was already dark by the time I pulled up to Tara's condo building, but I still took the sun's emergence as a good omen.

She lived in a nice building; I certainly didn't have the money to own a home when I was 29, and Tara's condo complex looked like it was on the expensive side. I again wondered how she could be this successful this early, especially since I certainly hadn't been. Really, no one I knew had done this well at that age. Well, no guys I knew, anyway.

She was a stunning burst of smiles when the door opened. Later, I had a chance to calm down and truly take in how spectacular she looked that night: a tight white sweater with a small, stylish black collar, a loose, gauzy black skirt, thin black leggings, pointy red high heels. The outfit gave her a chic, edgy look, but when she first answered my knock, I was overwhelmed and could barely see anything except her pretty face and big grin. I didn't even realize she wasn't wearing her glasses until much later (she'd switched to contacts).

Tara gave me a quick tour of her condo, but I didn't see it at all. I was just too overcome by what a beautiful girl she was, and I wasn't able to pay any real attention to her furniture and decor. It was a brief walkthrough anyway. We were off to the club.

I finally started to calm down in the car, but I really hadn't expected to have such a huge reaction to her appearance. Forming sentences had been kind of hard at first. I kept having to remind myself that I had a nice rapport with this girl, that it wasn't all about her looks.

Tara was excited, too. She was delighted that there was a guitar case in the back of my car, that I was dressed like a musician and that my hair was gelled up, that she was going to hear me play. She told me all of that. I was excited that she was excited.

The playing part didn't intimidate me. Despite my attempts at showing humility around her, I was a damn good guitarist, and so there was no reason to be nervous about that aspect of the evening. I would play well, and I knew it.

Tara took my hand as we walked from my car toward the club. She took my hand.

Normally I never had performance jitters, like I said. That day, though, strutting down the street holding my guitar case with one hand and a dazzlingly pretty girl holding my other hand, I felt like a stud. I had butterflies: Tara was holding my hand. I walked on air.

It was funny that I was so thrilled about something so seemingly trivial. I was thinking about the last time I could remember being so excited about holding hands with a girl; it had been Senior Prom, when I was 18, and I went with Kayla Takahashi (also 18). She'd said yes when I asked her to go, and she'd acted a little nervous and excited about the whole thing, so I knew she probably liked me. She was, at that point, the oldest girl I'd ever been out with, the only girl I ever dated who was about my same age. And when we held hands on the way to the restaurant, I was absolutely elated. (Later, we had sex in a hotel room--my first time, and hers as well. It actually went pretty well.)

I felt just as excited now. I knew Tara liked me--she'd been obviously flirty, and we'd called our outings dates--but still, there hadn't been many overt signs, just lots of implication. Holding my hand was the first real, outward gesture that showed she was interested in me. I was so jubilant that it felt like someone was tickling my stomach. I couldn't remember so much fluttering in any of the other relationships with women I'd had in adult life. Why hadn't I ever gotten married? This was probably why; no woman I'd met in my adult years had ever made me feel that way.

There'd been no rain that day, but it was cold and windy, and I hadn't bothered thinking about a coat. I had to park a couple blocks away, so I was relieved when we got to the club. I tried not to shiver (it seemed unmanly to me, stupid as that sounds), but damn, I was starting to get chilly. (Tara had remembered to bring a jacket, and seemed fine.)

As we approached Take Five, I noticed a fairly big sign in the window--something I'd never really bothered to notice before. It had probably been there for years, but I hadn't ever paid any attention.

Adult Club

No Men Under

23 years

No Women Under

18 years

No exceptions

There it was, clearly stated, the law of the land. Tara and I weren't affected by it, but still, for some reason it hit home that day. My female students--many still teenagers--were free to come to the gig; they were of legal age for women. They could sit around at the club and have drinks and enjoy the music. I couldn't think of a single boy in any of my classes who would have been legal, though. They were all under 23. There were girls still in high school who would be old enough to get in, but most boys wouldn't be allowed through the doors until sometime after they graduated from a four-year college.

The situation seemed kind of crazy, but at the same time, part of me thought it did make sense. I knew implicitly that most girls that age could handle the situation with ease; I seriously doubted any of the boys were truly ready to be in a bar. A minimum age of 23 for males sounded about right to me--although that was tough to admit to myself.

The club was never especially warm inside, but it was a lot warmer than it was outside, so I was grateful when we got through the doors. I said hello to Dave the doorman and headed to the foot of the stage to set my guitar and check on the amp and effects pedals I kept there. Then I sat together with Tara at a booth I liked.

I shouted to the bartender: "Hey, Ross, couple o' Jack and Cokes!" I turned quickly to Tara--I'd been kind of presumptuous. "That OK?"

"I love Jack and Coke," she grinned.

We toasted and sipped and after having had about half the drink, I was finally starting to really calm down. There was music playing in the background; I realized that it was the Brubeck song "Take Five," the namesake of the club.

The thing that had gotten me so riled wasn't just that Tara looked so beautiful, but also that a girl like that would be so clearly interested in me. I didn't know why it really got to me; I was not an insecure guy. Still, though, even the way she looked on a casual everyday basis was so attractive and alluring, and that night, she was really next-level (as my students might have put it). If I hadn't known her and had seen her out in public, I doubted I would ever have had the courage to approach her. She was so pretty that night.

I wondered if the two of us would get looks from any of the customers, given our age difference; I thought it would seem pretty obvious that I was a lot older than she was. Tara also appeared somewhat younger than her years, and even though I wasn't really aging prematurely, I did have that salt-and-pepper older-guy look about me. No one paid any mind, though. As I sipped, I slowly glanced around the club, and I came to realize that our age difference wasn't anything unusual; with almost every other couple there, the woman was clearly younger than her male date, and in a lot of cases, much younger. I had never even thought about this before, and now, looking around, I became aware that we were surrounded by couples just like us.

It wasn't uncommon for women to date men who were older than they were. I'd never thought about the reasons for it, though. I'd just assumed the guys wanted younger women, but now it was plain to me that the women had a say in it, too: if they weren't motivated to be with older guys, they wouldn't be there. Looking around the room, it clearly happened all the damn time. Did the women all have daddy issues? Or were they just gold-diggers, as cynics would have suggested? I doubted either was true; it didn't seem that way. No, it was something else.

Sitting together, Tara and I chatted like we were old friends; I really liked that that we simply clicked, that I found her easy to be around (aside from the effects her stunning good looks had on me). In fact, I'd half forget that the person I was laughing and sharing little secrets with was also this really fucking hot girl who was my date, and then I'd actually remember at various points and feel a knot in my throat.

Here and there, I'd risk glances, wanting to take in her body as well as her face--I'd been so dazed when we were on the way to the club that I felt like I hadn't really seen her. Tara had such large, alluring brown eyes that maintaining eye contact with her wasn't hard. But I also loved the delicious way her breasts swelled out the front of her sweater, the way she let her floofy skirt slide up above her knees, even the sublime shape of her calves. More than once she caught me sneaking a glimpse of her chest or her legs, and would just give me a tiny, sweet smirk. I liked that a lot.

We ordered another round of Jack and Cokes and carefully sipped our way through them.

Then it was time for me to start.

On stage, playing came so naturally to me that I could let my mind wander and still feel like I was doing justice to a song. A number like "Full House," classic Montgomery, just oozed from my guitar with little effort.

For some time, I'd wanted to put together a three-piece combo for a while, comprised of students (and me). The problem was finding the right musicians. They couldn't be boys from Cuesta, because they'd be underage and couldn't enter the club even as performers. I'd actually identified one girl, Haley, who was a damn good jazz bassist. We'd also want a drummer, though, and so far, neither of us could find one who wanted to play with us. I really did want it to be all students besides me, so for the time being, I remained a solo act. It was harder this way, because I had to cover the rhythm as well as lead, but I handled it OK.

Playing on stage that night, I caught myself staring vacantly past the stage lights and into the club. I'd always liked the way it looked in there; the decor was simple but elegant: lots of blue hanging spotlights, tables with blue tablecloths. There were lots of drapes (also blue) and hanging textiles that served to dampen the sound in the room, so it wasn't echoey.

It wasn't until my third tune--"Four on Six"--that I actually remembered to try squinting past the stage lights to catch Tara's eye. It's not that I'd forgotten about her, but when I was performing in public, I was always in my own world. She looked even prettier from the stage, and the shy little grin she gave me made her even more lovely; the whole club seemed to light up.

The audience, for its part, was into it. It was the first time I'd done this particular show. I hadn't known if lots of Wes Montgomery fans would be there. After I'd stop between songs to talk for a second and introduce the next number, though, there would be whoops of recognition when I started playing. The applause was generous. I felt like it was going pretty well. This was a jazz club, so the people there would have at least a passing interest in the music, right?

My first break came soon enough; I went off stage right and headed down the secret exit that led to a side door in the middle of the club. When I sauntered back to our little booth, Tara seemed surprised.

"Where did you come from?" she laughed, and she reached up to give me a hug.

I sat down next to her.

"You are bigger than life," she said. "I'm totally your fan now. Wow. I mean, you are just so good. I didn't realize how good you would be. You should be famous. And I didn't realize how much I like jazz! What's the name of that third song you played?"

"That was 'Four On Six,'" I said. I hadn't anticipated how passionate and excited she would be.

"That's my favorite so far," she said. "I mean, I liked them all, but I really liked 'Four on Six.'" She bopped around a little to demonstrate her enthusiasm.

I felt giddy, even buoyant, and needless to say, it was Tara who was making me feel that way. I would have suspected that maybe she was just being nice, but if she was, she was a gifted actress, because her energy and zeal seemed completely genuine. I decided she was being authentic. I could feel my ego swelling, and I could feel something else swelling, too.

"So I hope you don't mind," she was saying, "but I've been texting a little. Here, I'll show you. Full disclosure. No secrets."

Tara held her phone in front of me; she had a text chain going with her friends. There were some photos of me playing on stage, and some selfies of her with me and the stage in the background. The various replies were things like, "Wow, he's hot!" and "That's so cool, Tara!" (punctuation added). One friend asked, "How old?" Tara had answered "He's like 43," and there were multiple replies to that, along the lines of, "That is such a hot age gap!" I was a little surprised at that reaction.

"An age gap can be 'hot'?" I asked, curious.

"Oh, yeah. Going out with an older guy is hot." Her smile was sweet, sincere.

I gave her a puzzled look.

"It just is," she shrugged. "I don't mean in a daddy-issues kinda way. For us, it's cool, 'cause, well, for one thing, it means you're a woman," she said. "Like, you have to be mature enough if you're dating an older guy, so you can meet him on his same level, right?" Tara gave me another smile. "Emotionally mature, I mean. For girls, that's really cool. And anyway, older guys are just hot. A man who's 10 or 20 years older: being with a guy like that is hot."

I just nodded; I felt my eyebrows raising a little.

"By the way," she continued, "I'm not out with you just so I can show off, or anything like that. Don't get the wrong idea. You know why I'm here; you know I already like you a lot. But I did have to brag a little, especially 'cause my friends all have older boyfriends. Some of them are with guys around your age, I think, like, about 45--and there's one who has a boyfriend in his 50s. It's a pretty common thing, really."

I admitted that I had really never thought about age differences this much, and that I was still kind of mystified about why a girl would find an age gap so attractive--or "hot."

"Oh, I think it's lots of things," she said, taking another tiny sip. "A guy being older is just plain hot, period--like, maybe a little silver in his hair, a few creases on his face, totally attractive. But then also, there's this sense that your age makes everything nicer. Like, an older guy is easier to get along with because you're better matched, emotionally. Everything is just more stable, right? Know what I mean?"

I was not sure that I did know what she meant, or why we would be "better matched emotionally."

"I think it really comes down to maturity," she said. "That's a lot of it. Like, guys my age haven't really grown up yet. They're mostly just overgrown boys--all they want to do is goof around and play the field, try power games on you, try to manipulate you. They're all worried about social status and who's on top, they throw tantrums when they don't get their way, all that kind of thing. They don't know how to be emotionally available. Never know when to be serious. They still just act like children, really."

She turned to face me directly. "You are a man, a fucking sexy man. And women my age, we're ready for that. It's just so attractive for a guy to know who he is and what he wants and, like, isn't going to fuck around and play games and act like a little kid." She smiled again. "Fucking sexy man," she repeated, looking right into my eyes.

We were sitting very close together at that point, and I realized that our lips had been getting closer and closer as she talked; she'd been subtly moving toward me. Without warning, Tara leaned in to kiss me; immediately I started kissing her back. I'd wanted to make an attempt at this myself, but I hadn't yet worked up the courage.

"Just so you know," she said, in a quick break, "this isn't the alcohol. I mean, I've had a couple drinks and I'm not gonna pretend I don't feel it, but I've been thinking about kissing you for a while now. This just made me brave enough." She laughed a little, indicating the now-empty glass in front of her.

We kissed a little more. It was getting close to time for my next set.

"While we're doing full disclosure," I started, and paused for a second.

Tara was looking at me, smiling beatifically.

I continued: "I used to see you around campus sometimes--before we bumped into each other in the admin building, I mean. And I thought you were probably a student; it was at a distance and you looked really young. I did notice you, though. I may have had kind of a crush on you."

She just nodded, still grinning, not seeming at all surprised or offended by my confession.

"And the funny thing is," I said, "even knowing that you're an adult, I never would have thought I'd have a chance with you."

Tara suddenly looked sensitive and sympathetic, and slightly surprised. "Why?" she said. "You're a totally hot guy. A totally hot older guy, and that's like even ten times hotter."

"Yeah, well, I guess I just didn't know."

She gave me another soft kiss. "You definitely have a chance with me," she said, her voice delicate.

I headed back to the secret door and up to the stage.

That next set just breezed by; I was barely aware that I'd even played it. This was not because of the drinks. This was because Tara had kissed me, and had kept on kissing me. That made me feel a lot drunker than whiskey could have.

Of course, now she'd upped the ante. Now I really wanted to take her home and fuck the living shit out of her. I wanted the girl, and badly.

I somehow managed to contain my lust.

Between the second and third sets, we sat and talked and kissed a little more. We'd decided not to order more drinks; both of us agreed that we didn't want anything to call into question that we were making out because of real attraction and affection, not just because we were drunk or something. Plus, at some point, I'd need to be able to drive her home.

"You make me feel kinda drunk, just sitting next to you," I laughed.

Before Tara had a chance to react, a group of my students--all girls, of course--approached the table.

"Mr. Andrews! This is so cool." It was Emma, who was taking a music theory class with me.

"Oh, hi, Ms. Ross," said another girl (Dara). She explained that she'd had Tara for a class the previous semester.

"I got an A," she grinned, and Tara smiled and nodded.

"I remember," Tara told her.

"We're gonna go get some more drinks," said another girl (Juliet). "We're gonna be here for the third set, too."

"You're taking Ubers home, right?" I was fully in Uncle Mode.

"Well, yeah," assured Juliet. "We took Ubers to get here. We're not driving."

As they headed toward the bar to order, Tara started laughing.

"What a cluster of fangirls!" she cackled. "I'm kinda surprised you haven't taken advantage of them. They're so clearly obsessed with you."

I gave her a dry look; I knew she wasn't really serious. "I don't know that they are, but I'd never do something like that, anyway. Way, way too young, and I'm not into getting fired."

"God, I don't miss being that age. Such a world of difference between then and now." Her face looked stormy for a second. "I hope you don't see me as too young."

"No, not at all," I said. "You're a grownup. Big difference between you and them." I was more confident about that than ever, now.

"I'm glad you see that," she smiled. "I think I'm the perfect age for you. And besides, the Rule of Seven."

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's kinda dumb, but there's this Rule of Seven to know the right age for a guy, when you're a girl. Like, the girl takes her age, subtracts seven, and then doubles it. 29 minus seven is 22, times two is 44. So you're just about perfect. Maybe just a tiny bit too young." She laughed.

"Why is that a rule?"

"Oh, it's just this old idea, from a long time ago, that you should marry a man who's a lot older so he can provide for you. But I think the general idea is right. Women in their 20s, or 30s even, a lot of us feel like we can't really date guys our own age, like I was saying. The idea is to figure out how much older the guy should be. And about 10 or 20 years is usually about the right amount."

"So you really think women are that far ahead of men?"

"Oh, totally." She looked sheepish for a second. "Sorry. No offense. Facts, though."

---

The third set zoomed by, too. I tried to stay in the moment, sharing meaningful glances with Tara from the stage, and pouring my heart into channeling Montgomery. Still, the set was over before I knew it, and so was my night on stage.

I'd been doing mental math: two drinks would take two hours to get out of my system to the point where it would be safe for me to drive. I had to be careful; I didn't want to get pulled over, and how much worse would it have been to get arrested while on a date with Tara? I couldn't have imagined, so I was not going to let it happen.

That meant about another hour at the club, which was fine anyway; we were having a good time. I explained my thinking to Tara, who shrugged as if to say, "Of course."

She helped me pack up my gear, which took more time than you might expect. I didn't take my guitar out to my car yet, because I didn't want to risk it getting stolen. The club wasn't in a bad part of town or anything, but things had happened to other musicians I knew. The guitar (in its case) stayed where I could see it, next to a stack of equipment at the edge of the stage.

I ended up leading Tara to the back where the office was, just off the private hallway to the stage. She liked that she got to go into the secret passage--"I love hidden things like this!"--but I wanted to introduce her to Janna, the owner and manager of the club.

Janna was maybe 50 or so, friendly and always very nice to me. She wasn't unattractive, and she had large boobs--which I didn't mind sneaking peeks at, I admit--but I'd never seen her as any kind of sexual conquest. Besides, she had a husband, Rick, whom I liked.

"Heya, Janna, I just wanted you to meet Tara. She's a new friend, and she loves jazz."

Anyone who's a jazz fan is automatically Janna's friend, so she warmed up to Tara immediately. For her part, Tara was wise enough to pepper Janna with questions about running a jazz club ("How do you find musicians to play here?" she wanted to know), and about the music itself.

As Tara and I were leaving, Janna leaned in my ear and said she thought Tara was "delightful" and told me I had done well. I just shot her a grin. Janna didn't say a word about Tara's age, nor did she seem fazed by it. Her husband Rick, I remembered, was in his 60s, years older than she was.

We went back to our booth; Tara wasn't going to order any more drinks, in solidarity with me. I looked at my Apple watch. "I think about maybe another half hour and I'll be good to go."

I turned to face Tara, who was looking at me provocatively.

"I have a secret to tell you," she said. "Or, maybe not a secret. Like, a secret question. Request. Whatever."

I was chuckling. "OK."

She leaned in close and kissed my cheek; she smelled really nice. "I'm probably gonna sound like a slut, and I don't care, because I think you probably know better. I'm really not slutty at all. I don't even believe in that word, anyway. And I'm not drunk, except that I'm drunk from stanning on you so much."

At first I thought maybe that was the whole secret, and that even though she didn't sound drunk, maybe she still was. Couldn't tell for sure, but if that was all she wanted to tell me, it was sort of odd.

But then she continued, and everything became clear. "I want you to take me home to your place tonight. I don't want to be dropped off. I want to come over."

Only then did I fully realize that it wasn't alcohol that was talking. It was something else.

"Look," she was saying, "I don't do this, like, ever. I mean, I haven't slept with a man since--well, it's been a minute. And it's not like, you know, like I'm just horny or whatever. It's you; you're like magic. I am so in awe, and I just want a chance to show you how much."

I kissed her, having no other ideas about how to answer that, what to say. I sat there for a second, lust and excitement boiling inside me.

"I can't imagine thinking you were slutty or something," I said, finally. "I don't believe in that word, either. I mean, what's a slut? A girl who likes sex? What's wrong with that? Why the name-calling?"

She laughed softly, shaking her pretty head, and said, "I don't know. I don't even know. I just know I want to find out what happens when the two of us are alone together after a night like tonight."

The moment I felt fully sober, I grabbed the guitar case, Tara grabbed her jacket, and we got the fuck out of there.

---

"How cute! This is your house?"

Tara was staring out the car window, apparently enchanted by the sight of my neo-Victorian mini-mansion in the misty night air. It had been a gift from my Aunt Ella, who had left it to me in her will--something I was eternally grateful for, because I knew how much it would have cost if I'd tried to buy it on my own, and it would have been way out of my price range. I didn't bother mentioning that to Tara, not then; I guess I wanted her to be a little bit impressed before I admitted how I'd come to own it.

"I love this so much," she was saying as the two of us walked up the front steps, which creaked just slightly. We were holding hands again. I made a mental reminder to turn the porch light off once we were inside.

A thought slipped through my mind: maybe someday you'll live with me here. I immediately censored myself, though. No way I could say something like that, not now, not so early.

I set my guitar down and gave Tara a quick tour of the first floor--she said she wanted a complete guided walkthrough at some point soon, but this was not the time.

I led her upstairs.

"Is this the bathroom? Mind if I use it for a sec?" she asked. The timidity in her voice surprised me a little.

Of course she could.

"Don't bother with turning on the lights; I can see fine. I'll meet you in your bedroom." She grinned at me, and shut the bathroom door. The light in there didn't come on, either, I noticed. I wasn't sure how she could see in the bathroom without lights, or how she would make her way to my bedroom in the dark, but I she'd sounded confident enough that I didn't worry. The light switches weren't that hard to find if she needed them, anyway. Turning on a bunch of lights might have killed the mood, so I was happy to leave it the way it was.

I sat at the edge of my bed, wondering if I should stay in my clothes. It would have been a little too much if I just stripped naked before she even entered the room. I pulled off my Doc Martens and sat there, waiting. I really had no idea if Tara just needed a quick pitstop, or if she was planning something.

She appeared in the room, still clothed, smiling coyly at me. Indeed, she'd navigated the hallway despite it being very dim and found the room without any trouble, which was impressive. I'd been thinking about it while I waited, remembering how a onetime girlfriend of mine, Carla, would routinely trot around my apartment at night without any lights on. I tried to do the same thing once and stubbed my toe pretty badly.

Tara, though, had come slinking into the room with grace and ease. She looked so beautiful it made me ache.

"Hi," she purred. "I just needed a second."

Without warning, she marched up and climbed onto my lap and kissed my lips. We sat there making out for a bit; I held her in place, and she had her arms firmly around my back. Tara was a dainty little thing and didn't seem to weigh a whole lot, so I didn't mind her kneeling on my thighs.

She broke a kiss and grabbed my hand, and next thing I knew, she was leading it down between her legs and under her skirt. I was beside myself, barely even able to believe the moment was real.

My fingers felt something bristly and bushy--her pubic mound. No underwear, and she wasn't shaved, at least not completely--I immediately liked that. I would have expected her to be bare, like so many girls, but Tara was definitely not; her thick mass of hair didn't even feel trimmed.

I could feel a lot of heat between her legs. I moved my fingers around to find her vulva, and then zeroed in on her clit. Tara jerked when I first brushed across it, and then whimpered as I started stroking gingerly.

"Mmm, that feels really good. I can tell you know what you're doing." Her lips were right at mine as she spoke.

I kept up the stimulation, starting slow and then gradually building up, making soft circles around her clit, while we continued our kisses. Her tongue felt magical against mine, and the way she sighed sent shivers through me.

Tara's hips were rocking against my hand as I worked, and she started to set the pace. My fingers were getting wet. She bucked faster and harder, pushing firmly against my fingers, faster, faster, faster, until her hips were jerking rapidly, obscenely, and she'd broken our kiss and was making loud sighs and cries, her face still at mine.

Then she suddenly froze and started shivering and twitching. Her lips, right in front of my own, opened wide to release a long, throaty moan. Her eyes were clamped shut. The shivering grew to the point where she was actually shaking. The whole thing lasted almost half a minute; I watched in fascination, and kept stroking her clit.

When it subsided, she let out a long sigh that blew my hair around a little; it made me laugh a little, and she started giggling.

Another sigh. "Wow. That--well, wow. You, uh, yeah, you really know what you're doing. That's so hot. Wow." Her face was still flushed, and there were tiny beads of sweat above her brow. She kissed my lips again and made a soft hum while she did it.

Tara pushed off my lap and stood in front of me, looking statuesque. She started pulling her skirt up, slowly, teasing; she had a wry, taunting grin. The skirt lifted like a curtain, revealing her beautiful brown bush, monstrously thick, a big, snarled puff. It was both dense and feminine; I just stared. The space on either side of her fat outer lips, her "bikini area," was bare, cleanly shaved. I noticed that both the outer lips did have little trails of hair, though. I thought she looked seductive and womanly, and I told her so.

Without a word, she dropped her hold on the skirt and reached behind her waist; there was a quiet buzz of a zipper, and then the skirt dropped away to the floor. She stepped out of it.

The black leggings she was wearing ran only up to her thighs. It was an erotic, lust-inspiring look, as if she had put the now-naked area between her legs on display for me, giving me fully open access.

"I took my panties off in the bathroom," she confessed in a quiet voice.

I wanted to reach out to touch her again, but she marched forward and pushed me back onto the bed, then climbed on top of me and quickly undid my belt and whipped open my pants.

"Let's see your instrument," she grinned, giggling. "Maybe I can play a tune." She was cackling, all too aware of how silly she sounded, while she pulled my pants and underwear completely off.

My very long, very thick cock stood tall and erect in the cool night air, red, swollen, and veiny. I heard her let out a little breath. Next thing I knew, my penis was surrounded in soft, hot, wonderful wetness; she had taken the meaty head into her silky little mouth.

She started bobbing on it gently, and I was terrified. It felt so incredible that I was sure I was going to blow my load any second, and I fought like hell against the orgasm. Thankfully, I won the battle.

"That just feels so good," I managed. "Better than good."

She just chuckled as she slowly sucked me.

"You shouldn't do that for very long, though, or it'll make me come. Feels too good." I really wasn't sure of her intentions at that point; maybe she wanted to just suck me off and be done? Maybe not?

Not.

Tara let my dick slip away from her mouth, and gave me a devilishly broad grin.

Without another word, she scooted up and stood on her knees above me. My cock was now pointing right at her vulva.

"You ready?" she said. Her smile was sweet and mischievous.

She didn't wait for an answer.

Slowly her hips descended, and I felt the head of my cock touching something very soft, very wet, very hot. One of her hands helped guide my penis, and then I was in her.

Tara had the softest, tightest, hottest vagina I had ever been inside. She sank down on me gradually, and I was hyperaware of how good she felt: velvety wet texture, tender ripples and delicate crags, the firm, slippery tight grip of the most erotic embrace imaginable. Just past halfway in, she withdrew a bit and started a slow hip rhythm. She was rocking and thrusting with easy, fluid motion; this girl knew how to fuck. Her body smelled wonderful, a bewitching alchemical mix of skin lotion and perfume, combined with the enchantingly pungent odor of her wet pussy.

I found myself wishing she would take her sweater off, and wondering why she hadn't. Her nipples were poking out from beneath the thick material, looking hard and thick, which really turned me on.

Then again, I realized, it would probably be better if she kept her top on; Tara felt so good inside that it was already a struggle not to come, and seeing her bare tits would have made things all the more difficult for me. Watching the fat outer lips of her vulva being pushed apart by my huge cock was such a turn-on, and hearing her loud breathing and watching her face beading up with perspiration was plenty enough.

One of her hands went between her legs to play with her clit while we fucked. I looked up at her face and our eyes met; she held a fragile expression of affection and longing and vulnerability. It made me want to be deeper inside her body, but she was controlling the movements, and I wasn't going to try to take over, not yet. As we continued, more and more of my penis was slipping into her vagina, though, and soon she was easily taking my entire length. She started pulling her hips up further to give me full strokes.

I reached toward her chest, wanting to touch a breast. She gently moved my hand away, though. "Not yet. I'm not ready for that yet."

That seemed odd, but I knew she probably had her reasons, so I just let it go.

Tara's hips changed their movement; she switched from a steady up-and-down stroke to a rapid back-and-forth energized jerk, erotically gyrating her pelvis, grinding her clit against me. My cock wasn't slipping as far now, but there was no question what she was doing felt really good for her. I just watched, enthralled, as her face registered more and more intense pleasure. She held onto me for support.

She bucked faster and faster, then let out a sudden grunt and then a long, sensual moan. Her hips kept rocking hard and fast, as if she was now just using my body, lost in ecstasy. She jerked and jerked, and her moan became a low, agonized howl. It lasted for so long I could barely believe it.

Finally, it was over. She let out a breath and grinned at me. "I came again," she confessed, and she giggled softly.

"Yeah, I could tell," I said, also smiling.

"You feel really good," she said, leaning down to kiss me, sitting fully on me so that she was completely impaled by my long cock. "Something about the way you're shaped, I dunno. Just feels really good inside me, pushes on all these places. Like a perfect fit. And god do you make me horny."

With that, she sat back up and pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it to the floor carelessly.

Underneath, she had on a white spandex tank top. As she lifted the sweater over her head, I realized there were petite clumps of dark hair in her armpits; she was unshaven.

I had never thought a whole lot about women and body hair, really, but in that moment, I had a reaction that surprised me: it made me even more turned on. I liked that she had a thick bush between her legs, but this was even better. There was something incredibly hot about this really pretty girl having underarm hair--it didn't diminish how feminine she was, not at all, and somehow that made her seem even more attractive. She had revealed the hair unabashedly and casually, and that was arousing, too.

"That's hot," I heard myself grunting. "You're beautiful, so beautiful." I almost felt like the words were coming out of me involuntarily. I wasn't even sure if she knew what I was referring to, but I got the sense she probably did.

She looked down at me, smiling sweetly, and started bouncing her hips up and down again. I kept thinking that I loved how she didn't seem self-conscious at all about her body hair, any of it.

Tara was thrusting her hips fast again, and I knew I really couldn't last much longer. When she reached behind and grabbed the headboard for support, it bared the fluffy hair under her arms, and my arousal hit a fever pitch--she was just so feminine and erotic. I drove my cock hard through her brown bush, gritting my teeth against the deep, hot sliding pleasure.

As if reading my mind, she breathed, "It's OK for you to come. Go ahead and come in me. I'm on birth control. Just let go now. Let me have you." Her voice was soft and lust-filled, dusky and persuasive. "I want you. Just let me have you."

It was more than enough to trigger me, and I gave in. I heard my own groans, loud now, and felt the telltale burst of euphoria around my groin. I was moaning.

That seemed to trigger something in Tara, and she started having another orgasm, now pumping her hips up and down on my cock. She yelped and twitched.

I was ejaculating inside her: I felt quick, hard, satisfying contractions, hyperaware of tightness in the head of my penis, the sensation of spewing, exploding.

And then it was completely over for me. I breathed out. All was well with the world; I was where I should be, and with the right girl. I felt exhausted and satiated and spent, and definitely done with sex.

Tara wasn't finished, though. She kept up her rhythm, still working her way through her protracted orgasm, moaning and bleating. After maybe another 15 seconds or so, it finally waned. She collapsed on me, peppering my face and my lips with kisses.

"Was that good? I hope it felt good." Her voice was breathy.

"Yeah," I managed. "Yeah. You feel amazing. You're amazing. Loved it."

She kissed my lips again.

Then, she slid off my wilting cock and climbed out of bed. "I'll be right back," she said. "Just gonna clean up." She trotted off to the bathroom.

I looked down at my poor, depleted dick; my erection was dwindling away, leaving it looking withered, wet, and red. Still, though, I was pretty fucking satisfied, and pretty fucking happy. Tara and I had just had sex. I could still barely believe it: I had been inside her!

And I'd made her come more than once--I could barely believe that. Thank god she'd gotten off. She seemed really orgasmic; she might have been the most orgasmic girl I'd ever been with, maybe. (Kayla Takahashi had been pretty amazing that way, too, but it was hard to compare at this point.) She had come something like three times! Or four? I wasn't really sure. Whatever! Multiple orgasms--really long ones. So hot.

Then she was back, and we were cuddling again. We kissed for a bit.

"I hope you had fun," she said, her voice just above a soft whisper. "I know I did. I'm glad we did this."

"Yeah; really fun, yeah. I loved it." I kissed her again, and gently brushed some of her hair away from her face. "And it was everything I could do to, you know, not have too good a time too soon. You're amazing. You feel amazing." I wanted to tell her how happy I was that sex between us had been so easy and natural--I'd not felt uncomfortable or awkward in the slightest--but I decided I should not effuse quite that much right then.

She purred and then we kissed some more; her tongue was so soft and delicate. "So, think we could do this again sometime? I think I'd like that."

I just chuckled; there was really no need to answer.

"Um, yeah, so, something else," she said. "Is it too early to ask you on another date?"

"Not too early at all."

"I think I'd like to have you over for dinner on Tuesday. Just you and me--I don't mean like a group thing. I'll cook. That OK? I want to cook for you." She was stroking the side of my face.

I just nodded.

"And--" she continued. "And you should bring a suitcase. A bag. Some clothes and stuff. I want you to stay over with me."

I couldn't help but burst into a grin. "I'd love to."

Tara stroked my hair, which was still slightly sticky and stiff with gel.

"Sorry about no boobies," she said softly. "It's--I'm not disfigured or anything, nothing like that. I have pretty nice tits, really." She giggled a little. "It's just that I'm just not ready yet. I'll explain at some point. You'll see them soon enough."

"It's OK," I said. "I like seeing everything else."

She grinned warmly. "I think you did more than just look."

We were both chuckling a little as we kissed again. Tara's arms wrapped around me, embracing me, squeezing me.

"I wish I could stay over with you. I don't even want to budge. But I can't stay. I have to ask you to take me home."

"Everything OK?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah, totally. I have a group ride I'm leading tomorrow, so I have to be ready early. Cycling. A cycling group ride."

"Oh, I don't think I knew you did that."

"Don't worry," she laughed, "I'll get you out on a bike with me. Soon."

---

"Peppermint tea @ cafe? 10?"

The text came at 7:58 AM that next Monday, just before I was about to start a class. I figured she probably had an 8 AM class, too, and was sneaking in a message just before she started.

"CU there," I texted back. Moment of self-consciousness: I suddenly wasn't sure if people still used "CU" for "see you." Maybe that was kind of corny? Even if it wasn't really used anymore, I knew Tara would forgive me.

10 AM could not have come soon enough.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you--I was listening to Smokin' at the Half Note this morning while I was getting dressed. I love it so much." We were at the cafe; Tara seemed slightly proud of herself, telling me that. "On Spotify."

Smokin' was one of Wes Montgomery's better albums, and I was impressed that she'd discovered it already, being kind of new to the jazz world.

"I like that one," I said, sipping at my tea. "I'm really glad you like this stuff."

Tara was sipping, too. She was wearing her round tortoise-shell glasses again. I liked how she looked just in general (a lot), but now it seemed almost a shame that she'd worn her contacts on our date the other night. I thought about trying to convince her to wear her glasses all the time and just forget the contacts. She looked hot in glasses--not in some tacky "sexy librarian" sort of way, just hot. They were a good look for her.

"Yeah," she was saying, "I've always liked jazz and stuff, at least in theory, you know, the idea of it. I just had no idea where to start, though."

She was dressed that morning in a nice cream-colored cardigan-style sweater over a light purple blouse; the blouse was not especially tight, but the swells of her breasts were still clearly pronounced--an exciting sight. I really wanted to see the top half of her naked, and wondered when I would.

Tits aside, Tara was such a pretty girl, even beyond just pretty, and I still felt elated just to be sitting with her. And she was pleasant. And intelligent. And interesting. And fun. Oh, and apparently she was really horny, and orgasmic as hell, too. An image of her as she'd been a couple nights before suddenly flashed through my mind: her lovely face, wet with perspiration, wrenched with ecstasy.

My cock was swelling. I had to dial it back; I really just wanted to relax and enjoy our time together.

We sat quietly for a few moments in simple, comfortable silence, just sipping and smiling at each other.

"I wonder if anyone's going to figure out we're dating," I mused, "or if they just think, well, two colleagues."

"Oh, we're dating?" she grinned.

"Well, we're on, what, number three, coming up? I think that would count as dating, yeah." I lowered my voice. "Especially with the activities of the other night."

She gave me a snarky grin. "Yeah, I know we're dating. I'm just teasing you." She gestured. "This could even be a date, really."

"I dunno. With the age difference, maybe everyone assumes we're just having a meeting or something."

Tara's face darkened. "Is that bothering you? Our age difference? I don't think you should let it bother you."

I shook my head. "No, it doesn't. Sometimes I feel like maybe it should or something, but it really doesn't. In a way, that's kinda the strange part, that it feels so natural, that everything with you feels so natural. But I'm--well, you know how much older."

She shrugged. "But I think that's what makes it so natural. Even in a biological way, it's natural."

"Why, though? What makes you say that?"

"It's the fact that you're older. That's why we feel so comfortable together. Well, it's a whole bunch of other things, too, not just our ages. I like you, not just for your age or anything like that. But you get my meaning."

I sat there and thought for a second. "I'm not sure I do. Why is it natural? You mean like a social preference thing?"

Tara took a small gulp of tea. "Well, now I guess we're getting into my area. Science stuff. It's just that it's natural for couples, men and women I mean, hetero couples, to have an age difference--a big one, lots of times. 14 years isn't all that unusual. And it's always been that way, all through recorded history and way before that. Part of that is just about preference, yeah, but it's natural in a deeper way, too. There are reasons for that preference."

I furrowed my brow a little. "Deeper--you mean, like, biological?"

She said, "Sure, I mean, just from that standpoint--biology, I mean, yeah--females mature a whole lot faster than males do, in a lot of different ways. Pair bonding between men and women usually works better when the woman is younger and the man is older. It's not just about what girls prefer; it's about what tends to work."

Tara paused and took off her sweater and then hung it on the back of her chair. It was kind of a cold day outside, but the cafe had the heat turned up a little too high, so I understood why she wanted that sweater off. The blouse she was wearing turned out to be sleeveless. As she moved to hang her sweater on the chair, I could clearly see the pretty tufts of brown hair under her arms. I didn't think anyone else would notice, but I felt a tiny burst of thrill in my stomach at the sight. I would have thought I'd discovered I had some kind of new kink, except that I'd never had interest in seeing other women with body hair, only Tara; it looked so natural and feminine and nice on her. There was something innately attractive about the fact that she could get away with not shaving, that she could pull it off so effortlessly--this excited me. It seemed strange that I felt that way, but also not strange at all.

"I thought the girls-mature-faster thing was just like, you know, in sixth grade or something," I said.

"No, it's a lot more than that. I mean, sure, yeah, girls start growing way sooner than boys--like when they're maybe eight or ten, and boys don't really start until like 13 or 14 or whatever. But that's not the whole story. I mean, think about the classes you teach. Do you see a difference between the guys and the girls?"

I nodded slowly; I didn't even have to think about it. "Yeah, I guess the guys are still pretty immature, and the girls are a lot closer to being women."

"Not even just close to being women, really," she said. "I think they are women already, for the most part. Girls become women way before boys ever get to be men. There's a whole brain and biology aspect to all this. The reasons goes back to evolution. Like, thousands and thousands of years ago, survival was an everyday struggle. If you were female, a lot of your function in life was to have babies and take care of them. So you wanted a mate who could provide for you, right? You'd be pretty occupied if you were a prehistoric mother, so you needed a guy who could bring you food, protect you, protect your children. Lots of threats out there: wild predators, other tribes, weather, stuff like that."

I nodded. "I guess that does make sense. I just never thought about it in survival terms before. Or how it would actually shape things like, you know, the instincts people still have now."

"It really does, though, yeah. And the thing is," she continued, pausing for a half a second to sip the last of her tea, "back in that prehistoric era, a male who could provide like that would need to have been a lot older. He'd have to be established and experienced, probably in hunting and battle, experienced with fighting off anything that threatened his family and threatened the tribe. A young guy wouldn't be ready for all that. Probably not even fully grown. Right?"

I nodded again--she was making a lot of sense, even though I didn't want this stuff to be true.

"So, it makes sense that girls would have mates who are older than they are, probably years and years older," Tara said. "It really was a matter of survival. A young guy, one who's around the same age as the girl, he just wouldn't have what it takes to provide food and safety. And the assumption in biology is that girls mature so much faster--really in every way, almost--so that by the time they're likely to become mothers, they're ready for a mate who's got some years on them. So it's not just their bodies that are way ahead of the boys their age. It's their minds, too, their brains. The females needed to be emotionally compatible with males who were a lot older--and compatible in practical ways, too, in pretty much everything. It's not about girls being helpless, it's about survival being a team sport. And older males were the ones equipped to carry their half of it."

"I mean, yeah, sure," I said. "I've always heard that girls were ahead, but if we're talking about male behavior today, right now, part of me wonders if it's really about biology, or if it's just boys trying to figure out what they can get away with. I know I did."

She smiled gently. "Well, that's the subject of debate," she said; there was a light laugh in her voice, but I could tell she was completely serious. "I don't think that's it, though. There's been a lot of research, recent research, that's shot holes in those ideas, all those old assumptions. It's not just 'boys will be boys' or that kind of thing."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's pretty interesting, too," Tara said, leaning forward, clearly enthused. She seemed happy that I was interested and engaged. "So for starters, there's synaptic pruning."

I gave her a blank look.

"Right, not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's not a very well-known thing. So, this is kind of esoteric neurology stuff. What I'm talking about is that girls, starting between like nine and eleven, they have way more advanced cerebral organization and better-organized neurological activity than boys their same age. And that's 'cause synaptic pruning has already started--in the girls, I mean."

I was sure the look on my face showed utter confusion.

Tara paused for a beat, thinking. "OK, so what this means is: when you start growing up, when your mind starts maturing, the brain will prune off synaptic connections that aren't being used. That makes everything work more efficiently; it's sort of like cutting out the fat. You can think faster and do better reasoning after the pruning starts. A girl's brain kicks off that whole process when she's like about nine or ten. Boys, they eventually go through the same thing, but it doesn't start until they're at least, like, 15 or even older; sometimes it doesn't start till they're 20. It's years later in boys. And that shows up in things like grades and test scores, but it shows up in maturity, too--neurological and emotional maturity, self-regulation, impulse control, all that kind of stuff."

She leaned forward over the table a little more, and lowered her voice. "OK, so, like, when I was 13, I used to babysit for this family with three kids. They had two girls who were maybe seven and eight, but there was also this older brother--he was 14. He went to a different school than me. I'm pretty sure he didn't know I was like a full year younger than him; he never acted like he resented me or anything. Part of it was that I looked a lot older than him--that's biology again. I think he was about a foot shorter than me, and he had a baby face, and I already looked way more grown up. He seemed like he had about zero body hair, and I already had all mine. So I don't think he realized I was younger than he was.

"Anyway, I was the one in charge, right? He wasn't ready to stay home alone without someone to watch him. His mom was very clear that he was one of my responsibilities; it wasn't just his little sisters. And the boy--I think his name was Ryan--he knew it, too. He knew I was his sitter. I was the one cooking dinner and getting them all to clean their stuff up and making sure they all did their homework. I was the one telling them when it was time to stop playing on their phones and get ready for bed, and when it was actually bedtime, I had to make sure they all really did go. That included Ryan. I let him stay up later than the girls, obviously, but when it was his bedtime, I let him know. And he did go. I remember he used to try to argue a little, but he'd always end up giving in and heading to bed."

Tara's grin looked a tiny bit smug.

She continued: "So, he wasn't ready to be left at home without supervision, but I was mature enough to be the supervision, even though I was a year younger than him. Their mom understood the situation. She knew how old I was, and she got it. It's just a huge difference between boys and girls at that age, and way beyond that age. Funny thing is, I didn't really even think about it at the time, not much. But the mom--her name was Shelly, I think--she understood that for me, at 13, my brain was already rewiring itself for adulthood, had been for years. And her son hadn't even started that process yet. She knew he had a child's mind and I had more of an adult mind. I don't think she knew about synaptic pruning per se, but she obviously understood the effects."

"Yeah, I can see that," I said. "Honestly, I felt like the girls in my neighborhood were always running the show, too. Even the younger ones kinda bossed us around." I chuckled at the thought: tiny me, being managed by cute, even tinier girls.

"Yup, that's pretty common, and it's based in biology. It's not just a psychology thing or a social thing. This is why girls are always just so much farther ahead. By the time you're a teenager, as a girl, you're way more ready to be an adult than boys your same age, biologically ready. Girls are close to being women; teenage boys are still boys. Ryan was super-impulsive, just this ball of chaos. There were chores he always forgot to do, and I had to remind him. Homework was always a problem; he just never wanted to do it and I had to put my foot down--and I had already had all mine done before I even showed up at their house. He just needed someone more grown up to keep him on track. He couldn't do that stuff on his own."

"And so you were the grownup," I smiled.

"In that situation, so to speak, yeah. I was." She giggled softly. "You know, this stuff, this disparity, it goes on for a long time. Even after the teenage years, there's frontal lobe development, too. More big differences."

"OK, yeah, I've heard of that," I said, laughing a little, glad that I wasn't completely clueless. "Frontal lobes."

"Yeah, so this is the very front part of the brain." Tara gestured to her forehead. "It's really the last thing to develop, and it's the thing that helps you truly become an adult."

I winced. "Feels like there's so much I don't really know about."

She shrugged. "Most people have no idea about this stuff. Keep hanging around me and you'll hear all about it." Tara grinned again.

I did intend to hang around her, and a lot, enough that I figured I'd end up almost being able to teach some of her classes. Maybe.

"Anyway, we're really talking about the prefrontal cortex. And it's really what finally makes you a mature adult. It does things like help with emotional control and reasoning, stuff like that."

I nodded, feeling like I was one of her students. It was fun.

I was also getting pretty aroused--not just by Tara herself, but also by the things she was talking about.

See, when I was a kid, we'd hear all the time about how girls started growing up way before boys did, and about all the different ways they were more mature than us guys, and how that meant they were allowed to do things long before we were. For one thing, they were taller than us early on, and things stayed that way for years before we started to catch up. People would always treat the girls like they were a lot more grown up; the same people treated us boys like we were all still children. The girls could stay up later, go do things out in the world all on their own, manage responsibilities, do stuff we boys weren't allowed to do. And that used to really piss me off.

We guys would be accused of immaturity a lot--both by girls our age and by adults. It was as though they had suddenly joined the Adult Club, and my buddies and I didn't qualify for membership. We had to stand on the sidelines and watch while the girls all joined adult society. Now, even the laws had caught up to this idea; for example, a girl could get her full, unrestricted driver's license at 14, literally years before a boy could even start driver's training. The injustice of the whole thing had always bothered me. And I had felt ashamed, even humiliated when I would hear and see how much more mature girls were, how far ahead they were, and I would seethe with envy about all the advantages it gave them. It seemed like there were so many things they were allowed to do that we weren't.

It slowly became kind of a kink for me, in a way. Thinking about being constantly outdone like this, especially when it was codified in law or as a proven scientific finding, started making me feel aroused. What else can you do with intolerable feelings like that?

So now, hearing Tara explaining this stuff in detail--in a totally matter-of-fact tone--was turning me on. She was patiently explaining her biological superiority to me, and it was giving me a hard-on. This was all about power, I supposed. It made me feel unmoored, or like I suddenly didn't know where the top of the ladder was. I think my body didn't know how to respond to feelings of being completely outdone except to get turned on.

Meanwhile, she went on: "So the thing is, the prefrontal cortex in a girl's brain is close to being fully developed by the time she's around 18 or 20, probably at the latest by about 22. But even before that point, when she's 17 or 18, she's ready for the adult world--or at least, she's got a good foundation laid. But in a male, it takes years longer. Like, it's probably not done until he's between 25 and 30--the prefrontal cortex doesn't finish developing until he's at least that old, or maybe even older. It can go into a guy's 30s before he's fully developed. Kind of explains a lot, doesn't it? This is what the new laws are all based on, by the way, all this science about sex differences, physical differences. Honestly, they didn't get the alcohol thing quite right; I agree that girls are pretty much ready at 18, but the age for guys should be at least 25, not 23, if we're going off frontal lobe development.

"Anyway, it all ties into emotional maturity, so that's why we see such a big difference in classrooms. You've got classes full of women and boys; the boys aren't ready to be men yet, but the girls are already adult women. That's why they're starting girls in school so much younger than boys now. I guess this happened a few years ago, where the girls go to kindergarten at four and the boys have to wait till they're seven or eight. That way the boys can have a chance to catch up. The experts say they want girls graduating from high school at around 16, and boys at maybe 20, for parity."

"Yeah," I nodded, "I sort of did that. I was 19 when I graduated from high school. And I didn't really start my growth spurt till I was about 14."

"Right," she smiled. "It's just about biology and readiness. And for that matter, there's a lot of research in psychology that says women typically get to full emotional maturity around the time they're maybe 30. And for guys, for men, that doesn't happen until they're well into their 40s."

I looked at her. "So, like, us."

"Like us. Exactly. I mean, I don't think that's the only reason you and I, like, click." Tara grinned at me. "It's a lot more than just that. But it seems like a pretty good foundation. I think it's why we feel so comfortable around each other--part of why, anyway. We both literally just reached mature adulthood, just finished going through similar experiences, right? It's science. I think it's kinda why you and I feel like we just go together. We fit together."

"Totally explains things," I laughed. "I probably should have known there was science behind it. I think people just assume that male behavior is all just society--just social norms--or something like that. I did."

"Yeah, and it's really not. There are people who get kinda mad about this, 'cause they think the science is making excuses for bad male behavior. But facts are facts. I don't think there are real excuses, but, like, there are some explanations, you know?"

"So tell me this," I said. "How come no one really ever talks about this stuff? Why don't I already know all about this, if it's established and scientific and, you know, like, pretty concrete?"

She shrugged. Her tone was tactful: "I think we mostly don't talk about it because it might make a lot of men feel bad, feel small."

"Oh, the fragile male ego."

"Yup." Her smile was warm, kind.

I smiled back. "Well, I don't mind hearing about it. It's really interesting. I already feel like I'm learning so much from you."

She looked concerned. "Oh, I hope you don't mind all the lecturing. I can be a bit much, I know. I hope it's OK."

I was shaking my head slowly; she seemed so self-possessed. It was kind of amazing. "I don't mind. The opposite. I'm loving every second. I really like that you can explain things like this."

"OK, good. Some guys I've been out with could get kinda weird about this stuff. Like, they thought I'm supposed to be this passive little thing who's just there to listen to them talk, listen to their ideas, listen to them mansplain the world to me. I wasn't supposed to have ideas of my own, nothing I could teach the guy. Just a one-way street." Tara seemed relieved.

"I don't know if it's obvious, but I'm not like that at all."

She smiled and nodded. "It's obvious. I just wanted to make sure. I can be a tiny bit insecure sometimes, like, you know, when I'm with someone I like a lot."

"I think everyone's that way."

Tara stood and pulled her sweater back on; her armpit hair was plainly visible in her sleeveless blouse--I got another tiny thrill in my stomach when I caught sight of it--and no one else noticed. She could really get away with it, partly because no one paid all that much attention, and partly because it looked good on her. Not that she seemed like she'd give a shit if someone did notice. She was not someone who would be ashamed of her own body. I just liked that she had the balls to defy convention like that. Or, well, not balls, but you know what I mean.

She turned and looked at me. "You don't know how rare this is, by the way, getting to talk about this stuff without someone shutting down or getting defensive. It's kind of amazing."

I didn't know exactly how to respond to that, so I shrugged and grinned. "I'm just being me."

Tara cocked her head for a second, and grinned back. "I think I like that," she said.

We walked out together, and I resisted the urge to be physically affectionate with her--not something we should do at work, not in public. This was private, none of anyone else's business.

I walked her toward her building, and we ducked around a corner where no one could see us. We kissed for a second, and I caressed her hand. I really liked this girl.

"I can't wait till tomorrow night," she said.

"Me too."

One more kiss, and we were off.

---

We didn't meet up on campus on Tuesday; both of us were too busy. That was OK with me, though, because it just made my anticipation grow.

Soon enough, it was evening, and then it was 7:02 PM and I was knocking on her front door, anxiously holding an overnight bag and a rose. It might have been ridiculous that I was still a little jittery at that point--I had been inside the girl!--but I still was.

The clothes I was wearing were nice enough, but nothing super-dressy. That was her idea. "You don't need to get all fashionable just to impress me. I'm already impressed. Just be comfortable." She'd texted that while I had been working in an acoustic guitar lab class.

Her door opened; Tara looked beautiful. She wore a really nice criss-cross v-neck sweater (dark gray, on the low-cut side, a bit revealing), matched with jeans and sandals, a delightfully casual look. The sweater made her pert boobs appear even more pronounced than usual, and that made me excited.

"Hi. Wow, you look, like--stunning, really." I knew I was probably gushing, sounding too enthused. So what, though. She knew I liked her. And I'd meant what I said.

She was blushing before she even said a word. "Well, thank you, sir," she managed. "You look pretty striking, yourself. Come on in." Then: "Oh, thank you! I love roses." She took it and held it, and gave me a kiss.

Five minutes later, we were sitting on her couch, very near each other.

"Hey, is that Brubeck?" I asked her. There was music coming from a pair of bluetooth speakers.

"Yeah, it's, um--" She paused and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling for a second, thinking. "It's Time Out. You mentioned where the club got its name, and I got curious and did some digging."

"Yeah, this is his most famous album. Easy to like, too. Nice choice." I recognized the song playing as "Blue Rondo à la Turk." I smiled at Tara, the budding jazz fan.

"I'd offer you some wine or something," she was saying, "but here's the thing: I really still want to keep that to a minimum right now. I know there's more to us than alcohol. It's just that I don't want it to be that much of a thing until we really, really know each other. Does that make sense?" She seemed apologetic but firm.

"Sure," I said. "I don't need wine to have a good time with you. I just like being near you."

At that, she snuggled close and leaned her head on my shoulder.

"I like just hearing your voice," I continued. "And I like a lot of other things, too."

We kissed for a few seconds.

"Dinner will be ready in about 15 minutes," she said. "I don't know if I mentioned I'm a vegetarian. Not vegan, just vegetarian."

I shook my head; she had not, in fact, mentioned it.

"Just means I don't eat meat," she said, and then she turned her head and looked at me. "I don't mind a nice bone, though." She giggled.

One thing I really came to like about Tara was how fond she was of making silly jokes like that.

"I'm making spinach artichoke enchiladas," she was saying, sounding slightly proud. "And I'm telling you, you're gonna love it. You won't even believe it's vegetarian."

"That actually sounds pretty good," I said, and I wasn't exaggerating.

"Well, whew, I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Seriously: I'm a pretty damn good cook and I think you're gonna like this. And since I see you brought your bag, well, we can probably both brush our teeth after dinner. Might need to. That's the downside of cooking with spices."

The scent of spicy food slowly cooking was in the air, and yeah, it did smell pretty good.

"I just think there's something kind of sensual about eating together," she said. "Or is it sensuous? I always mix those up. You know what I mean, though."

We talked a little more, and kissed a little more, and she went to check on things, and then dinner was ready. She made me sit at the table and let her serve me. The food really did look good--great presentation!--and the first bite told me that she had not oversold herself as a chef.

"Tara, seriously, I am not just being nice or anything: this is fantastic."

Her smile grew big.

"I mean it. Fucking delicious, seriously." I ended up probably eating too much.

Afterwards, we did head to her bathroom to brush our teeth.

"I'm probably a little too worried about stuff like this," she was saying while I was working on my molars. "I just hate the idea of being gross, you know what I mean? I don't want to have to worry about it. I'm probably a psycho, but still."

"Hm-mm," I managed, then spit and rinsed. "I know what you mean. I feel better this way, too."

As we walked back out into her living room, she was saying, "Well, I hope you saved room for dessert."

I was about to wonder aloud why she would serve dessert after we'd both just brushed our teeth, but then she forcefully shoved me down on her couch and pounced on me.

"I'm the dessert," she laughed. "Taramisu."

I was laughing, too--cute joke.

"You know, I actually am Italian," she said, sitting on my upper thighs, looking down at me. "And I do know how to make it--tiramisu, I mean."

"Italian? But--'Ross'?"

"That's my dad's side. Name wasn't really even Ross originally but that's a whole other thing. But my mom was born in Italy, in Sicily. Sicilia." Tara pronounced it like "see-CHEEL-yah." Continuing: "Her last name is Trapani. And she has this really great recipe for tiramisu, even though it's really a northern thing. I'll make it for you sometime; you'll love it."

"As long as I can still have taramisu," I said.

"Oh, you're definitely having taramisu," she grinned. "You're having that tonight. It's gonna be delicious."

Our kissing got intense. We had all night together, so I didn't try to rush things along, didn't let my hands go wandering. I wanted to just enjoy the sensation of our tongues (now minty fresh) dancing together, the feeling of her soft cheek against mine, the sensation of her delicate body pressed against me. My hard-on was already feeling huge, and I knew she could feel its bulge as we rolled and shifted around. She was threading her fingers through my hair, and making a soft humming sound as we kissed.

"I love that you're taking it slow," she purred at one point. "It's making me so horny. By the time I start having orgasms, I swear the neighbors are gonna think I'm being attacked." She giggled a little and started kissing me again, her tongue warm and soft.

I was thinking about trying to touch her breast again, maybe see if she was more agreeable to it this time. I glanced down at her chest.

That's when everything changed.

There were two wet spots right over her boobs. I blinked, but there was no mistaking it: dark wet spots on that gray top. I really couldn't figure out what was going on--it couldn't be sweat, could it? What the fuck was it?

Tara noticed where I was looking and glanced down. She reacted, horrified: "Shit. SHIT!"

She leaped off the couch and high-tailed it down the hall and disappeared. I was left there wondering what in the world I'd just seen.

A minute later, she was walking slowly back into the room. "Well, I guess my secret's out," she said, her voice plaintive. She'd changed out of her top and was now wearing a white v-neck top.

I felt confused, and also concerned. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," she said, smiling for a moment. "Yeah, I'm fine. Nothing's actually wrong."

"OK, so--"

"I'm lactating," Tara said. She paused for a second, probably just to let it sink in. She looped her hair behind an ear. "I lactate. But I'm not pregnant, never been pregnant. I'm not a mother. But yeah, I'm, um--I have milk in my breasts."

She came and sat next to me. I could sense her discomfort.

"I--" I started. "I don't--"

"Yeah, I know this has gotta be confusing," she interrupted. She took a long breath. "I did say 'no secrets,' so yeah. Get ready, 'cause it's kind of a long story." She took another breath. "So, OK, what you don't know about me is that when I started college, like when I was 18, I was a LUG." She pronounced "LUG" like she was talking about a lug nut.

"LUG?"

"Lesbian Until Graduation. You never heard of that?"

I shook my head, now even more confused than before.

"OK, well--so, there are girls who just don't want to deal with guys and their immature bullshit while they're in college. And I was definitely one of them. I wanted to date and have relationships and whatever, but I just got so sick of boys and all the stupid, fucked-up games. I tried partying and I hooked up with some guys when I first got there, but that's what put me off them. It was obvious what they were about; they were just selfish and childish. Even the seniors, they still seemed like children, still boys. I got tired of being seen like I was a conquest--like, for sex, just some one-night stand. I wanted more than that--and they didn't, not at all. It didn't matter who the girl was. They wanted one thing.

"So I decided I'd just date girls, you know? I thought it could be nice--they're soft and nice and different. I tried it and I kinda liked it." She smiled shyly. "So I started sleeping around a little for a few months, just trying things out, like with girls from some of my classes, girls in Science Club, things like that. It was the first time I'd ever had an orgasm, actually. Boy, there's a confession. I'd never had an orgasm before, not even on my own, and I sorta thought maybe I couldn't, and then one night I was with this girl from my Human Physiology class. She taught me how to stop thinking and just let go, lose myself, and yeah, she totally made it happen. More than once. I'm like: ohhh. OK, now I get it."

Tara laughed; her face was pink.

"Anyway, I wasn't even sure I was just gonna stay a LUG at the time, not necessarily--I mean, I wasn't sure it was only going to be while I was in school. I'd had such bad experiences with boys that I kinda thought there was a chance I'd end up being a lesbian for life. I even started thinking about coming out to my parents. But there were things I didn't know about myself back then."

I shifted a little. Tara's bobbed hair kept flopping and bouncing as she talked; she was just so damned cute.

"So then," she continued, "I met Althea. She's a professor. She wasn't my professor--I never had a class with her--but it was still forbidden for us to get involved and we had to keep it a secret. But yeah, we met at the end of my freshman year and one thing led to another, and we started sleeping together. I ended up staying with her over the summer, and every summer after that, too. It was kind of a huge deal for me, because she was in her 30s and I was still 18 when it started."

She bit her lip for a second, then shrugged. "So she ended up teaching me a lot. And she was my first real girlfriend. My last one, too, for that matter."

I was nodding along. This was not at all what I would have expected; Tara came off as a prim, traditional, strait-laced girl, so for her to have this kind of history was truly surprising. I wasn't sure yet if it was upsetting me, but I did feel somewhat in shock. I hadn't realized how much there was to this girl's past.

"So the thing is," she was saying, "Althea was pregnant when we met. She'd gotten inseminated with this gay friend's sperm and she was a couple months along. She wasn't showing yet, but that happened soon enough. You'd think that would be weird for me, but it wasn't. I was happy for her, and she wanted me to help with the baby and stuff, so I was pretty excited. I wanted to move in with her and help her out full-time but she was afraid people would figure things out if I was always there. It was bad enough that I stayed with her in the summer. But it couldn't be all year; she didn't want the attention. I was a student. She could have gotten fired, right?

"Anyway, so about a month after we started seeing each other, her milk started coming in." Tara paused for a second; she was blushing again, and she grinned. "This is kind of embarrassing to talk about. I've never really told a lot of people about this."

I waved my hand to indicate that she shouldn't be embarrassed.

"So you might guess that, well, the milk sort of entered into our sex life." Tara tugged absentmindedly at a thread on the couch cushion. "At first it was just little drips landing on me, and we'd laugh. Then she said she wanted me to try it, and I did want to try it. I tasted some drops, just by picking a little up with my finger, you know? But it didn't take very long before she said she wanted me to try nursing from her, to see what it would be like. So we did it; I tried feeding from her. You know, like, directly."

Tara looked especially timid right then.

"The thing is," she said, "I liked it. I liked the way it tasted, and I really liked what it felt like to suckle from her. We both liked it. It was--well, it was beautiful, you know?"

I was rubbing the back of my neck with my hand. At this point, I still really didn't know what to think about any of this.

She had glanced away for a moment and was fiddling with her bracelet. "I know. This is kind of a lot, isn't it? Sorry." She pulled one leg up onto the couch and rested her chin on her knee for a moment. "You deserve to know this stuff, though. Full disclosure."

I nodded. "It's a lot, yeah, but it's OK. I do want to know."

She took a breath. "OK, so a few months go by, and she's really showing, and milk is totally part of our sex life, and we're getting ready for the baby to come--getting her house ready, all that. And one day she just casually mentions that I should think about dry nursing once the baby arrives.

"I'm like, 'What's that?' and she says she means that she wants me to put the baby to my breast even though nothing was gonna come out, just for bonding and for soothing. She's like, 'That's what your boobs are for, milk or no milk.' I'd never even thought about doing anything like that, but it actually started sounding pretty great to me, and so yeah, I told her I'd try it. This was before the baby was even born.

"So I was mentally preparing to start using my breasts; that's where my head was at. And for the first time in my life, I really started feeling like a woman. It was amazing, knowing what I was about to start doing. I started learning about it, how to use my breasts that way, how to put a newborn to them, and I was thinking about it a lot. I went to a class for it and I read some of Althea's books, too.

"Anyway, so, a few weeks later, something weird happened. I was in the shower, and I noticed this tiny bead on my nipple. And I'm like, oh, that's probably just a soap bubble or something--at first. Then I saw another one, and I'd already rinsed the soap completely off my boobs, and I'm like, what the fuck.

"And it turned out I'd started lactating."

I had known this revelation was coming at some point, but it still jolted me.

"I know, right?" she said. "Sympathetic lactation, that's what it's called. So yeah, sometimes if a woman is around other women who are lactating, and she's thinking a lot about how a baby might nurse on her breasts, her milk can start to come in, and that's pretty much what happened to me.

"I went to the doctor and got cleared--no tumors, nothing seriously wrong. It just started on its own. Doctor's like, 'Welp, yeah, sometimes this just happens.' I looked it up in medical texts, too, and yeah, it does happen sometimes, probably more often than you'd expect. Just, no one really talks about it."

I shifted on the couch. "So, like, all on its own?" My face felt prickly. "I really had no idea that could happen."

"Yeah, I know, it's really crazy. Biology is crazy. Suddenly it was just happening! And it made me feel so different." She took a second to tuck her hair behind her ears again.

"Althea was thrilled, by the way. She wanted me to help breastfeed when the baby came--the baby was due in less than a month at that point, and Althea had gotten huge--and I was kind of scared by that idea, but also, I was pretty fascinated. How could I not be? And my milk started being part of our sex life, too, even though I only had a little bit at first.

"But the more Althea nursed from me, the more milk I started making--that's just how it works just in general--and even by the time Iris was born, I had enough milk to do these little feedings. Iris is the baby. Well, she's in grade school now, but I mean back then."

Tara took a moment to stretch.

"Anyway," she said, "so I did start breastfeeding her, usually right after Althea would finish feeding her, and so I would sort of top her off, top the baby off, give her a little extra.

"So it got to be an everyday thing. My boobs kept getting bigger, and my nipples and areolas were getting larger and getting darker, and more and more milk came in, and so we were a breastfeeding couple, both of us breastfeeding the baby. It was pretty great.

"Obviously Althea fed her a lot more than I did, 'cause I still had to go to class, and she still had a way bigger milk supply than me, but, still, it was like, in my private life, my non-school life, I was like a nursing mother. I had nursing bras and nipple pads and special nursing tops and everything. Around the house we'd both just be topless, but the nursing bras and tops made it easier for me to feed the baby when I was out in public. I still have the bras and some of the tops, actually. I use them sometimes when I help out at the PLA."

I felt like I had to say something. What, though? All that came out: "Um, wow."

She grinned for a second. "Yeah. Kinda wild, I know." A shrug. "Anyway, yeah, I gotta say, using my body to feed a child like that was, I mean, incredible. Nothing really could have prepared me for what it was like. It's just such an amazing experience, having a tiny baby feed from you, from your body. I loved it. I loved every second of it. I still love it when I get to do it."

She was blushing a little, again. I reached out to touch her hand again, feeling a combination of shell shock and empathy. I wanted to hug her, and I wanted to run away. I wouldn't have really done that--run away--but this was a lot more than I'd been expecting and it felt intense. Still, though, Tara was worth it.

She stood up suddenly. "I think I need some water," she said. "Be right back." She headed toward her kitchen and returned clutching a pink chug-jug. Quick sip.

"This really is a lot to explain," she said, sitting back down next to me. "I know it's a lot. We're getting there. Thanks for being so patient."

I nodded quietly.

"So anyway, Iris was three by the time I graduated, and we were still breastfeeding her. Althea believes you should breastfeed for a long time, until, like the kid is five or six or something. My milk had really come in by that point, like fully; I was making almost as much as Althea. But the thing was, I'd just graduated, and I got into grad school, the one I really wanted, and it was in another state. Hargrove, way back east. Anyway, so Althea and I had to split up. It was really sad; the sex had been good, and she was always so kind to me, but missing Iris was honestly the worst part. I had such a connection with her.

"Although I have to say, having had that whole experience, I learned that I'm really not cut out for motherhood. The idea of having my own kids is just kinda repugnant now. No interest at all--in case you were wondering. Like, I enjoy taking care of babies, but I really don't want to be a mom, myself. I'd rather swoop in and feed them and then head out and go home."

She giggled slightly, then took a second to just breathe.

"But also," she said, "I figured something else out, a really important thing about me." Tara exhaled again and leaned back into the couch, pulling her legs up. She turned to look at me with a meaningful expression. "Thing is, even before then, before I had to leave, I realized I'm not really a lesbian, not really."

She was looking directly into my eyes. "I realized I could never fall in love with a woman. I mean, Althea and I said 'I love you' and everything, and I kind of thought I meant it, but at some point I realized I really didn't, not like in a romantic way. I just can't really be in love with a woman. I never had deep feelings for her, and I don't think I could for any girl. I don't really know why, but this is just how I am. Like, I wanted to be in love with her, but I just couldn't be.

"Men are what do it for me. Not only just sexually; all around. I think I'm just wired for masculine energy, you know?" She was smiling at me, and I sensed that she was tempted to wink.

She was saying, "I guess I had to go figure that out, but now I know it's true. I have zero desire to ever be with a woman again, really. I know it's just not my thing. I like sex with women, it's a lot of fun, but what I really want is to be in love, and for me, it has to be with a man. I like sex with men a lot, too. I like sex with you--I'm sure you noticed. Don't get me wrong; I'm totally pro-lesbian and everything. It's just that I figured out that I'm not really one of them."

Sitting there, I was trying to process what she was saying. At first I'd worried that she was going to say she was thinking of dating women again, something like that. It was a relief to hear she wasn't.

"So, yeah, anyway," she said. "Obviously, um, nothing has changed for me in the milk department. I'm still lactating. That's what you just saw. Sometimes when I get really horny, milk starts leaking. Oxytocin rush, like when you feel all amorous and everything, it can cause a let-down. Anyway, so that's what happened. Pretty embarrassing. I usually wear nipple pads, and I just didn't this time. I got careless.

"Thing is, though, I like having milk, even though I don't breastfeed all the time, just the occasional baby at the PLA when they need extra help. It gets to be kind of a sexual thing for me, too--not with the kids, obviously, but with an adult the idea can be interesting. And I mean, I've dated a few guys, and they eventually found out, but none of them never wanted to try it. A couple of them acted like they were totally grossed out by it." Tara rolled her eyes. "I really hope you're not," she said. She rubbed the back of her neck and glanced away for a second, peeking back at me.

I shook my head "no," but stayed silent. Wasn't really sure what to say, not yet.

We were both quiet for a minute. Tara was starting to look like she might cry.

What I was thinking: well, OK, yeah, this was a lot to take in, sure. This girl is complicated. And she was brave. And she was more disarmingly open than anyone I'd ever met. It was a lot, but she had impressed me. She'd navigated some really unusual waters at a young age, and it seemed like she did pretty well.

"Look, I know this is a lot," she said quietly. "I know it's a lot. I really hope it's not scaring you away. Or freaking you out."

I shook my head "no" again, slowly.

She was saying: "I mean, if you need some time, I get it. If you want to just leave and try to figure things out, figure out what you really think, I understand. I do get it. I never meant to spring it on you like this."

I was looking directly at her. "Is that what you want? For me to go?" I reached for her hand again.

She was shaking her head violently, and looked even more like she was on the verge of tears. "No, god no. I want you to stay. I want you here. I just don't know what you're thinking. I'm a little afraid to imagine." I hadn't seen Tara this vulnerable before, and it made me feel horrible for her--but what she'd told me, about her being with other women, also had given me some moments of insecurity. Those feelings were leaving me, though.

Now I knew what I wanted to say. "OK, look, I don't care what you've done or who you did it with; that doesn't bother me. All I need to know is whether this thing is real. You and me. This." I was gesturing.

She nodded, and was quiet again for a bit.

"I think about you all the time," she said, her voice now soft and fragile. She reached out, her fingertips lightly tracing mine on the couch cushion. "Almost non-stop sometimes. I think about the sound of your voice, and your music and your playing, how much I've realized I like jazz, the way you make me feel when we're together and even when we're not together. Things we talk about, and the way you smell, and what your hair feels like in my fingers. I think about you, a lot. It's like you're always sorta with me."

Tara's thumb was slowly circling one of my knuckles.

"And maybe it's kinda early to use certain words, but for me, it's already way past 'like.' It's real, Adam. It's real for me. None of that other shit was, the girls I was with, or any of the stupid boys, but this is. This is real."

I let myself smile. "That's all that matters, 'cause it's real for me, too."

Tara visibly relaxed; she pushed herself up against me and we kissed for a minute. Her hand went to the back of my head, caressing.

"The milk thing doesn't weird you out?" she wanted to know.

I shook my head. "I don't think so. I mean, I'll be honest, I really didn't see it coming. But no, I don't think it's weird or anything. I didn't even really know it was possible. I always thought you had to have a baby for that to happen."

She grinned shyly. "Surprise!" she said, her voice still quiet.

"Yeah, but--no, it doesn't bother me," I said. "I think, in a way, it seems kinda hot. It's honestly pretty exciting that your body can do that. Sort of amazing. Seems like a superpower."

She burst into a grin. "It is exciting. And amazing. For me, too, I mean," she said.

Tara leaned in close to me and kissed me softly, tenderly, erotically. "You're staying, right? You're still staying over?" Her voice was a whisper.

I nodded.

Tara sat up and gave me a wanton look. "If you're staying, then, well, um." She paused for a second. Her fingers tugged a little at the hem of her top. "I think I wanna take my shirt off."

Without hesitation, I answered: "Go ahead." I could hear my voice wobbling as I spoke; I was nervous and excited.

Tara casually pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor, and now I was gawking at her bare chest. She hadn't been wearing a bra under that top, as I'd strongly suspected. Her hand brushed across her flat belly. She looked up at me and grinned.

Her breasts were wonderfully bubbly and round, and had a delightful up-tilt. They were a little bigger than I'd even imagined, bulbous, jutting away from her chest, peach-sized, wonderfully shaped. Her breast skin looked very soft, with faint, veiny blue lines, very attractive. Her areolas were surprisingly large, a deep, lovely pink-brown. Her nipples were attractive, too: smooth, hardened cylinders, ruddy pink, long and erect. Her breasts looked powerful.

I felt like I had to catch my breath. "You're so beautiful," I managed to say.

She grinned and blushed. "Thank you."

"No, I mean it, Tara. You're just so fucking beautiful."

"Well, come here, then. Do something about it. Come close."

I scooted toward her. My fingers reached out and touched a hard nipple, then gingerly stroked a soft, bumpy areola.

Tara let out a long, throaty sigh. "They're super-sensitive; that feels really good. Feels amazing."

She started touching her other breast, stroking the areola, pinching the nipple. Nothing came out. Her body shifted; she was clearly getting more and more aroused.

I tried pinching, too, the way she had.

Reading my mind: "You have to do certain things for milk to come out," she said, "so don't worry. You can play as much as you want; nothing will happen. Even if milk does come out, or if I leak again, I don't care, not if you don't."

I leaned in close and started kissing her lips. My hand cupped her breast and squeezed gently; it was soft but firm. My fingers pinched her nipple again, pulled on it slightly, and she reacted immediately, moaning into my mouth.

She popped open the top button of her jeans with a free hand, then jammed her fingers underneath and started playing. Her moans got louder. This went on for only a few seconds before she suddenly pushed me back, stood up, and pulled her jeans and panties completely off.

I was staring, hyper-aware that I was seeing Tara completely naked for the first time. She was truly beautiful, more hypnotically captivating than any nude girl I'd ever seen, in real life or not. Her body was lithe and trim and alluring, slender yet curved, and her glowing smile made want to be inside her again right then and there. I noticed a small tattoo on her midriff, cursive writing that looked like Latin. I made a quick mental note to ask her about it later.

"Take off your clothes, right now," she ordered, "and come in my room."

A minute later, we were naked together underneath her soft, silky covers, kissing and getting ready to fuck.

"I like foreplay a lot," she was saying, "but tonight, for right now, I just really need you inside me again. I don't need the other stuff, not this time. I'm ready for you. I'm ready for us to be together."

Without a word, I pushed the covers back and stood on my knees between Tara's legs while she spread for me. I held the base of my cock and slid the fat head around her clit, toying with her; she shivered and jerked a little, and giggled.

"That feels good," she told me. "Man, you're so huge. I can't believe that thing fits inside me."

I just shrugged as if to say: well, it did fit, and it's about to again.

I let my cock head drop to her vagina and started pushing. It slid in.

She was really hot inside, and already dripping creamy wet; I held off for a moment, knowing I needed to get my bearings. Tara's vagina felt so incredibly good that I actually felt a little light-headed.

I took a couple of breaths and said, "Ready?"

She grinned at me and nodded quickly.

I stretched my body out over hers and thrust further in, just a few inches; Tara groaned, and so did I.

I pulled out a little, and then I started a nice, gentle rhythm. It felt astonishingly good. My dick was suddenly very wet.

"Oh, GOD," she howled loudly as I pushed into her again and again.

I wasn't going all that fast, but I wasn't going especially slow, either. My cock felt like it was going a tiny bit further inside her with every thrust, and within a couple minutes or so I was sinking my nine inches all the way in. I started going harder, pulling almost all the way out and then driving it all the way back inside, in and out, in and out, huge strokes.

One of my hands reached out to lightly stroke her breasts and upper belly, and then squeezed and tugged a nipple. I leaned down to kiss her tenderly. Then I alternated, tugging nipples, caressing skin. I was starting to fuck her really hard. I was panting now, and sweat was dripping from my forehead.

"Ohmygod I'mgonnacome," she blurted, as if warning me. "I'mgonnacome."

Her fingers played with her clit for a moment, and then she yelped and froze, shivering and twitching, mouth agape, her eyes glassy and staring into space for several long seconds.

After that, she let out a long, low howl, her lips pursed, her face blotchy. I don't know how long it lasted, but it was a while, like half a minute. Her body jerked a few more times.

It was obvious when her orgasm was over; she was in a throaty pant.

"God, that was--ohmygod," she breathed. "Do that to me again. I want more. I want more of that."

I started pounding her with big, rapid-fire strokes; I was trying to grind as our bodies pushed together, trying to push my trunk against her clit. I wasn't sure if it was working, but it didn't really matter. We were at it for only a couple minutes before another huge orgasm erupted.

Tara's face went burgundy red and she looked catatonic while her body froze and then shivered and twitched again. After that, there was a long, telltale shaking moan. I slowed my pump as her orgasm went on.

I dared to look down to watch my cock piercing her body; she was hairy and wet between her legs, which was a highly erotic sight for me. Her inner labia had turned a delicious bright red, and I was sure I had never seen anything that turned me on more. I was already losing the battle with my impending orgasm; it was going to happen and I wouldn't be able to hold it off for much longer.

So, I figured, oh, what the fuck. Once Tara seemed to have recovered, I went full speed all over again, propping myself up with my arms and thrusting hard. Our bodies slapped together, sweaty, hot, carnal.

I looked up at her pretty face, grimacing, eyes squinting. Her arms reached up around my shoulders to hold onto me, and I could see the clumps of dark, damp hair under her arms, feminine and pretty, and it turned me on even more.

And then I noticed that tiny droplets had formed on the blunt ends of her long, swollen nipples.

That was what finally did it. I lost the battle: a brief wave of euphoria washed through my pelvis, quickly followed by hard contractions as I ejaculated powerfully inside her. I grunted and groaned while it happened, and then, when it was finished, I collapsed onto her body. I was panting.

She may have still been coming; I wasn't sure. I tried to keep semi-thrusting while her hips were still undulating.

After she was done, too, we were both quiet for a minute or two, recovering.

I rolled off, finally having caught my breath. "I think I need to get in better shape."

"We need to get you on a bike!" she chirped. "But you're doing pretty good already. You're making me come, like--wow. Huge. I'm still seeing stars."

I felt Tara slide out of the bed and scamper away, and then I heard a door close down the hall. I closed my eyes and tried to rest a little. She was only gone about a minute, and then she was back, slipping in next to me, warm and soft. She smelled nice.

Tara kissed me gingerly, and I opened my eyes and smiled at her.

"You really know how to give a girl some beautiful orgasms," she said, her voice sweet.

I'd never really had a girl say something like that to me before. I didn't know how to answer, so I just said, "Oh, really."

"Yeah." She was grinning now. "Huge ones, really long. That thing of yours--it's kinda magic. Maybe it's just you, all-around: magic." A light chuckle. "You really know how to use it."

Tara snuggled into me and squeezed me tightly.

Then she did something I wasn't expecting.

She scooted her whole body up so that her chest was level with my head, so that her breasts were right in front of my face; they looked bulbous, ripe, slightly veiny, potent. Her nipples and areolas were bright red. I watched as she took hold of a breast, and then her other hand was around the back of my head, pulling me even closer to her. As my face drew near, her thumb stretched out to softly trace my jawline.

The breast was immediately in front of my mouth. Her deep red areola had a shiny, moist sheen, and it had grown puffy, enough that it had become a raised ridge. It looked really erotic to me, even post-orgasm.

"Have some," she whispered.

She shifted her breast around a little, moving it just slightly so that her swollen nipple grazed across my lips. This was all happening so suddenly that I had no idea what to think, or how I should react. I felt my mouth open for her, reflexively, and when she pushed the end of her breast in and held it there, it almost like it was happening to someone else.

Her breast skin was very warm and very soft; her nipple felt rock hard and slightly rough against my tongue. I felt myself start to massage her breast with my mouth, squeezing and sucking--it was an impulse. I'd never really done that kind of thing to a girl before, yet it felt completely natural.

Tara let out a quiet hum of delight. "That feels so nice," she whispered. "You're doing it right, just right." I heard her chuckle a little. "I swear, the suckling instinct never really goes away."

I felt her free hand gently playing with my hair; her other hand was still holding her breast to my mouth.

Tara said, "It's like, once you latched on, you already knew how to do it. It's so sweet. And you look really sweet. I love seeing you like this."

My mouth had started to work on its own. I was sucking with a soft chewing motion--or, as she called it, suckling.

Nothing was coming out, and I wasn't sure anything would. This was just something she liked to do, right? She'd told me her nipples were sensitive, so she enjoyed having them sucked on. Also, it was a nice way for us to feel close to each other.

"This feels so nice," she whispered to me, smiling warmly.

The scent of her body was light and pleasant. I couldn't taste much, just a tiny hint of sweetness, and the faint saltiness of her breast skin and her rubbery, puffy areola. I marveled at how soft and firm her breast felt in my mouth.

We just lay together like that, Tara's fingers gently fondling my hair, my mouth softly gnawing on her big breast. A couple minutes went by, and it was really pleasant.

Then I heard Tara sigh, and her back arched, and I was afraid I'd done something wrong. But then there was liquid in my mouth--very sweet, warm, delicious. I was devouring it before I completely realized it was Tara's breastmilk; there was just something about it that was so enticing that I felt urgently compelled to gulp it and try to get even more.

It was delectable, like the most amazing warm vanilla milkshake. In those first moments especially, it seemed like the most delicious thing ever. Maybe not quite a warm vanilla shake, no. It was more like if someone heated a bowl of milk until it was tepid, then put some very sugary frosted flakes cereal and some delicious herbs in it and let it sit for a few minutes so that it soaked everything up: that was what Tara's milk was like, except even better than that. It was fucking delicious. And every swallow made me want even more.

Tara purred as I fed, and she pulled me in even closer.

After a few minutes of this--I have no idea how long it actually was, maybe 15 minutes?--I felt her pulling the breast from my mouth. I opened my eyes. I hadn't wanted it to go.

"Let's switch," she was saying, and she rolled herself slightly to change angles. Her fingers were on my cheek, gently caressing me.

Her other breast was right up against me, and when she took hold and pushed the nipple to my lips, I opened wide to receive her, eager. I felt like I was giving her breast a deep kiss, a special, magical kind of kiss. Within a few seconds, there was a feeling of relief when warm liquid ran across my tongue. All I wanted to do was draw more out of her nipple and swallow it and just keep going and going. I wanted my stomach to be full of her.

I became aware that I was experiencing euphoria--I had a floaty, intense body high. I felt wonderful. My body tingled, and I had the sense that my every worry had vanished. I was nothing but a swirl of happiness, and had the feeling that reality was nothing except for me and Tara, drifting together. My hand had made its way around her back, lazily running across the silky skin.

I felt her fingers stroking my face while her other hand held the breast firmly to my mouth. Her leg wrapped around me, pulling our bodies even closer.

After a few more minutes, I let Tara's nipple and areola slide out of my mouth. I looked up at her and grinned: "Full."

"Aww," she effused, and kissed my forehead again. "Like a nice, sweet dessert, isn't it?"

"Taramisu," I smiled.

"Taramisu."

I couldn't believe we had actually done this, and at the same time, it seemed like it had been the most natural thing in the world. I felt so very, very close to her.

I drifted off for a bit.

---

"Hey," I said, groggily, "what's this?" I pointed to the small tattoo on the side of her belly, the one I'd noticed earlier. It was lovely cursive script that read ego sum fons vitae.

"Oh, that, yeah," she said. "It's Latin. It means, 'I am the fountain of life'." She was tracing the letters with her fingertip. "I got it after my milk came in. It was kind of a big deal, so I wanted to mark the occasion."

"I like it," I said. "It's nice. Tasteful."

We just lay together after that, cuddling, half dozing. And then I actually was dozing again.

Out of nowhere, her voice: "Wanna watch a movie with me?"

I squinted. She was a blurry image, but I could easily make out her golden-brown eyes; they always seemed to glow, even in the dark. Things started coming into focus. Tara had pushed herself up on one elbow, and I thought it was amazing to see her tits still jutting straight out from her chest, even though she was lying at an angle. "I want to show you a movie I really love."

"Sure," I said, still feeling groggy. "Yeah."

"It's called Contact; ever seen it? It's about this scientist who's searching for intelligent life outside of Earth."

I shook my head; I hadn't seen it.

"It's kinda old. C'mon, let's go stream it. I'm not gonna get dressed; we can be naked together. Let's just go."

We went into her living room, and at her direction, helped pull the cushions off the couch and set up its hidden sofa bed. Tara took out some sheets and we put them on. It was kind of entertaining to do this without any clothes on; my long, limp dick kept flopping around (which made her giggle). She threw a blanket over the bed and climbed in, and gestured for me to get in next to her.

We cuddled, and she reached around me and gave my ass a firm squeeze. I still felt indescribably close to her; it really didn't seem like I'd ever felt this close to another human being. Not only had we just had very intimate, satisfying sex, but now my stomach was warm and full of her. It was as if some of Tara had taken residence in me. It was a wonderful feeling.

I really liked the film, which was kind of a relief; if I'd hated it or something, things might have gotten awkward. I could easily tell what Tara saw in it, though: it was all about a female scientist who had to deal with sexism and with scientific and public ignorance. Jodi Foster played Ellie, the astrophysicist, who ends up discovering intelligent life in the universe and even making contact with it (hence the movie's title). I was surprised at just how direct that contact turned out to be, and I thought it was kind of a ballsy move by the director to take things that far.

Tara and I snuggled the whole time we were watching, and I would stroke her arm or give her little squeezes as the movie went on. Here and there she'd pause it for some commentary about what was happening; she'd also read the novel by Carl Sagan, so she would point out differences in the film or fill in some blanks. She would gesture as she spoke, and then her hand would come to rest on my thigh or my hip.

When the movie was over and the banner "FOR CARL" appeared before the end credits, Tara burst into tears and buried her face against my chest. "It's so unfair that he had to die young," she sobbed, her voice muffled. "I feel like the world needed him, and we still need him. I mean, yeah, his wife is a scientist and she's still alive, but they were such an amazing force when they were together." She looked up at me. "We were robbed." Tears were making their way down her cheeks, and I gingerly wiped one away and kissed her, trying to comfort her. "Fucking male mortality rate," she whimpered.

I held her for a long minute.

"We do have all his work, though, right?" I said. "And that TV show he did; I remember watching the whole thing in science class, for like a week. It was pretty great. We have his books. And this movie."

"Yeah." She smiled, sniffed, and then gave me a quick peck. "So what did you really think of it? The movie, I mean."

"Oh, I loved it; you know I loved it. Come on. Wanna hear why? Bunch of reasons."

"Yeah, I want to know why." Tara gave me an anticipatory smile.

"Well, for one thing, I had never thought about how you could use math as a universal language. That's ingenious. Amazing idea."

She practically bounced on the couch-bed: "They really do that! They really do use math that way, in SETI. That part isn't fiction."

"It's ingenious. What a perfect way to try to communicate, even just to indicate that we're all intelligent. OK, and then I did like that it was a woman scientist. Feels modern, and also, I just think she was easy to empathize with--all the bullshit she had to put up with; she had us all rooting for her."

The nice thing about all these thoughts was that I was being genuine. I did not have to lie or exaggerate, not even a little.

I went on: "But the part I liked the best is that there was this sense of wonder. That's what they had to capture, that big sense of wonder about the universe. And I think they did it. That one scene of her when she's out at that huge telescopic array--I had goosebumps. It was amazing."

Tara almost melted. She was quiet when she spoke: "That's exactly it. That's exactly why I love this. It's why I loved the novel."

She wrapped her arms and legs around me and squeezed firmly.

And then we started kissing. Within a minute, my erection was growing, standing up and starting to poke her in the belly.

"Well, well," she grinned, looking at it. "We may have to do something about this development."

The two of us rolled around on that squeaky bed for a bit; I really hadn't seen Tara this carefree before. She was silly, childlike, playful, affectionate, and I got the strong sense that she now felt truly safe with me. It was so gratifying. She tried tickling me (didn't work!), and then grabbed my face with both hands and covered it with soft little kisses.

I started playing with a nipple, lightly flicking it around, tugging on it. My mouth briefly covered it and tried to suckle; no milk.

Tara sounded slightly amused: "You have to do it for longer than that. You can if you want. I have more. You just need to keep going and I'll let down again."

I looked up at her: "Probably later."

Instead, I licked both her areolas and kissed her neck. She stretched out in repose, letting out a soft purr, her arms reaching out above her head. My fingers went to the hair in one of her armpits, playing with the silky-soft strands delicately.

Tara giggled again. "That tickles!"

I just kissed her, and kept playing. She didn't say anything about it, no mention of not shaving, no mention of the sexual politics of such a decision, nothing at all. It was as though her body hair was completely normal--which, let's face it, it was. The abnormal part would be removal of that hair. The fact that she was just so nonchalant about it all still excited me, made me feel hornier. Her nakedness felt primal.

I crawled down between her legs and pushed her thighs completely apart; she let out a conspiratorial cackle.

Such a beautiful bush. It was thick and full of curls, and it spread up to the lower part of her belly. I got near her vulva; the scent there was pleasant and pungent and entrancing. My pointy tongue spread her outer lips and pushed into the wet trough between her inner labia.

Tara let out a loud breath, and then, in a fragile voice, "Oh, god."

It didn't take me long to give her an orgasm--a huge, wrenching, loud orgasm.

After that, she got insistent: "Adam, I want your come in me. Get inside me."

I climbed on top.

It might have sounded suspicious, the talk about wanting my come, if she hadn't already carefully explained her birth control, "the depo shot," Depo-Provera. It was highly effective, she'd said, and even helped keep up her breastmilk. All the talk about shooting my come into her was just because the idea turned her on.

Tara was spreading her legs for me. "I've had a ton of orgasms tonight," she said, breathless. "I want you to have one now. Fuck me. Please. I've had so many. You need to have another one."

That made my cock get rock-hard. I leaned down and drilled into her, almost my whole length in one slide. I could tell that I'd had an orgasm already; Tara's vagina felt warm and wonderful, but my dick felt a little overstimulated. I just went with it, and after a few strokes, the sensations turned pleasurable. She felt hot, wet, tight, and soft, like her vagina was hugging me.

I was holding myself up on my arms, looking down at her as we pumped together; the fold-out bed was making creaks. Tara's face already looked sticky and damp, and a little blotchy. Her arms were stretched over her head, and the sight of all her body hair really turned me on.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck me. Fuck me." She reached a hand to my head and tangled her fingers in my hair, grabbing it as if trying to hold on for dear life.

I picked up my pace, driving myself all the way in and out of her. I looked down between our legs and watched my cock pushing her tight vagina open again and again; it was a really erotic sight, red, swollen, dripping.

"Ohhh," she moaned after only a couple minutes, "I'm coming again, I'm coming again."

I glanced back up at her face, which was wrenched up and turning red. Her eyes had been shut, but then she forced them open and looked at me while she came. Her orgasm seemed intense.

Then mine happened. I was pumping into her hard and fast, and I felt a rise of big pleasure in and around my cock, a rise that grew and grew, and then I became aware that sex was about to end, and so I let go. Ecstasy washed through my groin and my thighs; I heard myself make a grunt and a gasp. I was ejaculating--tight, hot contractions. I looked right back into her eyes while it was happening. Every spurt that shot from my dick felt so very satisfying.

I collapsed on top of her, and she wrapped her arms and legs around me and squeezed. She kissed the side of my neck. A few minutes went by with us laying like that, my weight on hers. Somehow, I managed not to crush her.

I'd almost fallen asleep like that when she gently started pushing me aside. "I gotta go clean up," she said softly, almost apologetically. She stood and started to walk to the bathroom, then turned for a second. "You made me come really hard," she grinned, looking slightly sheepish. "Again."

I had started drifting off when she returned; she climbed in, draped a leg over me, and slid up so her breasts were once again right near my face. She pushed a nipple to my lips, and I started suckling. After a couple minutes, I heard a soft gasp, and then I was feeding from her. Fingers caressed me, and our bodies pressed tightly together, warm, skin on skin, two people melting into each other, quietly falling in love.

Her milk flow was soft and warm, delicious and soothing.

I don't remember much after that.

---

I woke up to a hand pushing my shoulder, gentle but firm.

"Adam. Adam. You have to wake up."

There were fingers starting to brush through my hair.

I pried my eyes open and peered out; there was Tara, still naked, standing next to the sofa-bed. She looked concerned.

"We overslept. It's late. We gotta get going. My fault. I forgot the alarm. Don't worry about putting the bed away." She scurried away. The light tan lines that framed her creamy bare ass were really cute.

I managed to slide out of bed and headed to Tara's bedroom. I grabbed my overnight bag and went to join her in the bathroom. I could hear the shower running, and when I turned the corner, I saw her standing in front of the mirror, brushing her teeth. Her plump tits, bobbing along a little as she brushed, were looking sublime.

I stood next to her, got out my toothbrush, and started brushing, too. Our elbows lightly bumped each other.

"We're gonna have to shower together," she said through a mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste. "No time." She spit, rinsed, and then looked at me. "It's gotta be a real shower, though. No time to mess around or anything. And you're gonna have to see me doing things you might not like seeing."

I just shrugged at her. "Or maybe I won't mind. Maybe I'll help."

"Will you, now?" Wry grin.

I was rinsing toothpaste when she opened the shower door and stepped in. "I'm gonna get started," she shouted over the spray noise. "Just come in when you're ready."

I was ready pretty quickly.

Tara was running a sudsy loofah over herself: tummy, armpits, between her legs. She leaned toward my ear. Over the din of the spray, she called, "I gotta shave. Won't take very long. I only do my shins and a little between my legs." Tara grabbed her pink razor from a small tray, then leaned back over to my ear: "I guess you've probably noticed." She grinned.

My eyes sparkled back at her.

She didn't use actual shaving cream, which was a little surprising. Instead, she squirted some colorless gel from a small dispenser and spread it over her shins, letting out a quiet hum as she did. She slowly dragged the razor over the area. Then she bent her legs apart, spread the gel on either side of her outer labia (letting out another quiet hum while she did it), and very carefully shaved there, too.

"I don't like having hair right there." Her voice was reverberating off the tile. "Gets too long. Kinda gets in the way." She was smiling at me self-consciously as she shouted over the loud spray.

She pulled the showerhead off its rack--it was the type that could be hand held. Tara glanced at me, still looking self-conscious, and I intuited what was next.

"Let me do it for you," I said to her ear.

"OK," she shouted, "but--I have to do my ass, the inside of my ass."

"I know."

With that, I got behind her, holding the showerhead, and watched her bend over slightly and pull her ass cheeks apart, taut butt muscles flexing impressively.

She might have been a little uncomfortable doing that for me, but she also did seem willing to let me help. I sprayed between her ass cheeks, going over it again and again, and spending a fair amount of time around her asshole. The little black hairs in her ass ran straight as I sprayed; this was really my first good look at it, and I thought her asshole was pretty cute--a small, tight little pucker. The interior was clean to begin with, so there was nothing really to be grossed out by anyway. The whole area was kind of hairy--this wasn't a place she bothered shaving--but like the rest of her body hair, it somehow looked feminine and attractive.

When I was done cleaning, Tara turned around and spread her outer labia apart for me. I carefully sprayed that area out, too; I could hear her giggling. "Feels good!" she exclaimed. She pulled her inner labia apart, too, and I gave her a thorough spraying. "I think we could just stay in here all day, you squirting water at me that way," she said, still giggling. "Couple more minutes of that and I'd start coming."

"Another time!" I said into her ear.

Instead, she cleaned her sopping wet pubic bush with the loofah, soaping it up, and then gently ran it inside her vulva, too. I rinsed it all off.

We both shampooed, and while the conditioner was setting in her hair (she looked like she was wearing a tight little white hat), she took care of me, too, cleaning my ass, gently running her loofah around my balls and over my cock--which had gotten pretty hard. She kept looking up at me and grinning while she cleaned that area in particular. She did play around with my penis a little bit, but as she'd said, we really didn't have time to have any real fun. Final rinses happened, and she turned off the water.

Tara hadn't remembered to get a second towel for me, but I told her I thought it was nice for us to use the same (pink) towel. She seemed somewhat moved by that thought. I dried around her back for her, and she grabbed the towel from me and did mine.

I let her continue to finish ahead of me; she hurriedly pulled on panties, used her deodorant, put on a bunch of body lotion, put on a tan bra, and started messing with her hair. I was picking through my suitcase, pulling out clothes.

Tara said (while pulling on a long-sleeved blouse), "You know, look, it might be a little early for for this, but if you ever wanted to just leave some things here--toiletries, clothes, whatever--I really wouldn't mind. I'm not seeing anyone else, and I'm really not planning to."

I smiled at her. "I might do that. If you want, you could leave some stuff at my house, too." After a second, I added, "I wouldn't wanna rush things, but I just don't feel like we are. This all just feels sorta natural to me."

"Yeah, me too," said Tara, pulling on a knee-length blue skirt and fastening it in the back with surprising ease. "It does feel natural. We obviously need to be kinda careful so neither of us gets overwhelmed or anything, but so far, I'm fine with all of this. More than fine. Happy." She sat on her makeup chair and pulled on some thin blue thigh-high leggings.

What I was thinking about right then: I had completely forgotten how young she was, and that I was so much older. If it wasn't clear to me before that she was a grown adult, easily as mature as I was, it was clear now. And that was amazing. I remembered what I was like at 29, and it wasn't anything like this. I hadn't had my shit together the way she did. I'd been pretty much a kid, irresponsible, perpetually late, always forgetting things and blowing stuff off. Even if I knew I was running late the way we were that morning, I probably wouldn't have tried to hurry. But she was not like that at all. Tara was a grown-ass adult, amazingly so. She took responsibility seriously.

She went through her brief makeup routine--some light foundation, some mascara, a muted lipstick. We both finished and headed to her front door. She checked her phone. "20 minutes to get there. Probably just enough time."

I nodded.

"Will I see you on campus today?" she asked.

"If at all possible, yeah. I'll text."

She leaned in to give me a long kiss. "You know," she said to my lips, "I might be able to get used to this. Getting ready together, I mean."

I was smiling.

"It's fun being intimate like that," she said. "Like, when you were cleaning certain areas, I'm like, oh my god I should be mortified--but I wasn't. I was comfortable with you down there. I felt safe. I feel safe."

"Well," I said, "I dunno, I just think you're so beautiful, every part of you."

She gave me a peck. "Just be gentle with me, OK?"

"Always," I told her as I stroked her arm. I meant it.

---

I was walking back to the Music building (the "Hampton Building"--no one really called it that) with Charlotte, my colleague in the Music Department. She was on the way to do a choral class, and I had a music theory lecture to give.

I'd known Charlotte for a few years. She was slightly older than me, married, couple of kids, long and curly blonde hair, very pretty--just a friend. That day she was wearing a long gray cardigan that reminded me of something Tara might have sported.

"So," she began, "uh--are you and Tara seeing each other? Tara from the Science Department?"

I stopped in my tracks for a second. "Where'd you get that idea?"

She laughed a little. "I was just testing a theory; obviously right."

I started walking again. "Are people talking or something?" I really, really hoped they weren't. I did not want to be the subject of whispers, and I knew Tara wouldn't want that, either.

"No, no, not really. I don't think so. I just keep noticing the two of you walking around together, sitting together, and I started wondering why a music teacher is spending so much time with a biology teacher."

"Well, I guess we're being obvious enough," I admitted. "So: yeah, we're seeing each other. We're trying to stay under the radar, though."

"Why? It's not against the rules or anything. Instructors can date. Look at Jake--instructors can be married, even." Her husband, Jacob, was also an instructor at Cuesta, and I was aware that they'd first met on campus, long ago.

We navigated our way past the administration building, which meant following a path that took a few odd, crooked turns.

"Yeah, I just don't want it to be a big deal, I guess," I told her. I gave Charlotte a meaningful look. "I mean, it is a big deal for me and Tara. It just makes me uncomfortable thinking that a bunch of people are talking about it."

"Well, I hope I didn't upset you," she said. "Didn't mean to. Seriously, Adam, no harm intended."

"Oh, I know," I told her. "I'm not actually upset or anything. You just had me worried there for a sec."

She shook her head. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. I don't think anyone's really talking about it."

It was quiet for a few seconds before Charlotte spoke again. "So, um--when you say you're worried about people talking, you don't mean about your age difference, do you?" Her voice sounded tentative.

"I don't think so," I told her. "Why, you think it's a big difference?"

"Well, c'mon, I know how old you are, and I'm pretty sure Tara's, what, not even 30? But it's really no big deal--I mean your ages, and what other people think. And 10 or 15 years is a nice age gap, anyway. It's a kind of romantic." She glanced over at me, giving me a quick grin.

"You know," I said, "I really didn't know so many women thought things like that--before I started going out with Tara, I mean. She's got friends who are dating guys, like, 20 years older than they are. I didn't know this kind of thing happened so much."

"Oh, it's super-common. It's about maturity, for one thing; a lot of women feel like dating guys their own age is too much like working at a daycare, so they start dating up. Look at me and Jake."

"How old's Jake?" I really did not know.

"He's 62 now. Fifteen years between us. When we met, it just worked, just clicked. Before him, I dated guys barely older than me, and it always felt like an early taste of motherhood."

"Yeah," I said, "Tara told me something kind of similar, actually. She said younger guys, guys in her age range, they really aren't interesting to her because they're just so easy to read, and they're still children. Like, she can see the cracks--the fragile stuff under all the overconfident remarks, how badly they need to impress someone. She said it doesn't feel like real strength at all, doesn't hold her attention."

Charlotte was nodding. "That's pretty much it. They're tiresome. It's not like they're bad people--it's just like watching a kid put on his dad's suit. Cute for a second, but you can't take it seriously. What I wanted was someone I could take seriously, someone who could meet me at my own level. That turned out to be Jake--my perfect match. He just happened to be 15 years older than me, but hey, it's right. We fit together."

She turned to face me. "You know, our daughter Hailey just turned 20, and she's pointed out that with the laws the way they are, she has to date up just to be able to go to bars or drink at restaurants with someone. Not that she'd date anyone around her age anyway; her boyfriend is 35. She feels the way I did about Jake--good match."

I was slowly shaking my head. "I really never thought about this kind of thing before. And what's weird is, that's exactly how Tara and I feel, that we're, like, perfectly on par with each other."

"Well," said Charlotte, "you really are, I'd think. Girls her age are full-grown women already. They're ready to be with older guys."

"Yeah, that's what Tara was saying, too."

She shrugged. "If it works, it works."

We stopped in front of the door to the choral room.

"By the way," she said. "Have you heard her sing?"

"No, not really. Maybe singing along to Spotify a little. Why?"

Charlotte gave me a knowing look. "You should have her sing for you." She brushed some hair away from her face. "And by the way Adam--you have excellent taste. Tara's one of the good ones." She smiled, then turned and disappeared through the door.

I meditated on this subject all the way over to the classroom, listening to my Cole Haans clopping across the pavement. All the women I'd been out with in my adult years had been younger than me, usually around five years younger or so. One girlfriend, Sylvia, had been eight years younger than me, which I thought was radical at the time. (Now it seemed quaint.) They all ended up suggesting that I had some growing up to do, or that they felt like I couldn't meet them where they were. I always had the sneaking feeling they were right, even though I never could have admitted it.

Naturally, thinking about this subject always left me feeling kind of outshined--girls being so far ahead, outdoing the guys. But what others might see as a big age gap--14 years, with me in my 40s--felt like the perfect fit.

---

A couple days later, I felt my phone rumble while I was in the middle of a lecture on the history of jazz as a modern art form.

After the students left, I read the text message: "Hey any chance you can swing by later this morning? Want to run something by you." She'd put a kiss-lips emoji at the end of the line.

"Sure, free after 11."

The response text came after less than a minute: "See u then." (Not "CU," I noted.)

At about 11:10, I gave her office door a quick double-knock and pushed it open. There was Tara, sitting at her desk, turning to smile at me. She looked radiant, of course: dark earth-tone knit sweater, knee-length pleated skirt, dark brown leggings.

I walked up to her and gave her a quick kiss, and then sat down in her guest chair.

She turned to face me. "So, uh--this is maybe gonna sound kinda weird. I hope not. But it might."

I shrugged; she didn't need to worry about it. Her kind of weird was never weird to me.

"OK, well," she started, "here's the thing: right now is normally when I pump. I don't have a ton of free time today until later, and I might end up kind of engorged and uncomfortable if I didn't."

It took me half a second to realize what she meant. She was talking about pumping her breasts, removing milk. I knew she kept an electric breast pump contraption there in her office.

"But I got to thinking," she continued, "that maybe this is something you'd like to help me with." She gave me a timid smile.

"Like, help with the pump or something?"

"No," she said. "No, not exactly. More like replace the pump. You know what I mean."

I wasn't completely sure I did. Did she mean she wanted to buy a new breast pump?

She got blunt: "I mean, if you'd be willing to feed from me, I'd really like that, and it'd be nicer than using my pump. It just seemed like you kinda liked it when we tried it the other night. Maybe you'd like to try it again. It made me feel really close to you."

Oh. Of course.

"Uh, yeah," I said, answering immediately, not even stopping to think. "Yeah--so you mean right now? Yeah, we could do that. I want to help."

She burst into a huge grin. "Good. OK. This is a little bit exciting."

It was. I had thrill-bursts happening in my stomach already. Everything about this girl seemed electrifying to me--even the things that others might very well have thought were weird. Didn't seem weird to me. My mouth was already watering.

Tara stood up; I was gazing at her body, thinking yet again about how hot she was.

"OK, so I think how we should do this is," she was saying, "maybe you just sit there, and I can climb on your lap." She was still grinning, clearly as tantalized by the idea of this as I was.

She grabbed her Android phone and played with it for a second, and some soft music started coming from her bluetooth speaker; I recognized it after a few seconds as Enya, a soft, fluid, soothing song.

"You don't mind this, do you?" she said. "I always use this playlist. Helps me relax so I can let down."

I shook my head no, I didn't mind.

She approached, and then climbed up and planted her knees on the chair next to each of my thighs. I let a hand drift to one of her legs and stroked the material of her leggings. Tara sat her butt on my thighs and got comfortable. She was about 5'3" and didn't weigh a whole lot, so having her sit on my lap this way wasn't a problem at all; she barely felt like anything, really.

I did love being close to her. She had such a soft and gentle presence, and the scent of her body was always very nice. We took a few moments for a long, tender kiss.

Then, without a word, she leaned back a little and started to fuss with something on one side of her sweater. I wasn't sure what was going on at first, but then I heard a quiet zipper, and watched as she pulled part of the sweater open. A bulging bra cup popped out, plain white.

"Nursing top," she said with a wry grin. "Easy access."

Her hands started working on her bra, at the top of the cup right where it met the strap. It released, and she pulled the cup down off her breast. She took something out of the bra cup--a slightly damp nipple pad, I realized.

Her proud breast stood away from her body on its own, but she cupped it and held it, and pushed herself up so that her hardening nipple was near my mouth. I slouched down a little and leaned in and opened up to latch on; her skin was warm and silky and smelled sweet, and her nipple was rock-hard and elongated. As I started to gently gnaw on her breast, I felt her free hand reaching around the back of my head to hold me and pull me closer.

We settled in, and she let out a long, quiet breaths as I nursed. I loved the feeling of our bodies pressed together.

All I could think about: I can't believe I get to suck on Tara's beautiful breast--feed from it, in fact. It was exciting, and it made me feel good--and I knew it felt nice for her, maybe better than nice. I kept recalling my first sighting of her, that first time on campus, and then the second time, too, in the administration office, when I was sneaking looks at the swells in her top. And now her breast was naked and it was in my mouth. The excitement was almost overwhelming.

After about a minute, I felt her take a big breath and let it out, and about the same time, I tasted sweetness. Very quickly, there was a small pool of warmth in my mouth, and I instinctively started working harder, wanting to draw as much of her as I could.

Tara let out another big sigh, not as quiet this time.

I could hear Enya singing in something that sounded like Latin.

Feeding from Tara's breast meant massaging it with my lips and tongue. I was softly squeezing her with a slow rhythm, which she later told me felt incredibly good. Milk sprayed onto my tongue, and I swallowed enthusiastically. Her milk was beyond delicious; there was something about its flavor that was just plain magical.

I'm not sure how many minutes went by before I started feeling high. Slowly, a wash of euphoria had started building up in me, a tingling goodness that increased until I felt like I'd been transported to a land of hazy pleasant warmth. The rest of the world faded away, and now there was only the two of us, pressed together, united by mouth on breast. Even the music faded into the background. I could feel my stomach filling with her soft heat.

She was tapping my shoulder: "We have to switch now. Gimme a sec."

I released her nipple and puffed-up areola reluctantly, and gazed while she wiped her breast with a small washcloth; the areola had been covered with my saliva and a thin coating of blue-tinted milk. Quickly enough, she put in a fresh nipple pad, then fastened her bra cup back in place and zipped up the side of her sweater. Now she went to work on the other side. In short order, she had her other breast bared, and I shifted slightly so I could attach my lips to it. She was all business, matter-of-fact about something so intimate and sensuous. That turned me on.

Tara held the breast as I started feeding again. I felt hyperaware that her body was flowing into mine, sweet and satisfying. Her other hand went around the back of my head, pulling me into her, a loving and erotic embrace. I kept swallowing, and I was still floating; time seemed to crawl. Her breathing was slow and steady, her body felt warm, and I could feel her heart beating. My arms were securely wrapped around her back.

"I miss you when we're not together," she said, her voice soft and gentle and serene. "I miss us. And I thought: well, if we can't just be together all day, maybe if part of me is inside you, that would almost be as good. And now it is. I hope you feel like that, too."

"Mm-hmm!" I didn't want to take my lips off her breast, but I definitely felt the same way: Tara was slipping into me, and it felt amazing. I loved feeling her there.

It was disappointing when the session had to end. We both had things to do, though, and her breasts had been emptied enough that she wouldn't be engorged later.

She stayed on my lap and we kissed for a couple minutes, tenderly, lovingly.

Then she started laughing a little: "God, we have to stop or I'm just gonna have my way with you right here in my office." She fanned her face, red and flustered.

I was pretty flustered, too, and I had a mammoth erection.

"Look," she said, climbing off my lap and putting her top back together, "I keep getting worried that I might be smothering you or just seeming too needy or some shit like that. And now that just feels ridiculous. It is ridiculous--right?"

I nodded. I wanted to say more than just a single word, but it felt like I was having trouble forming sentences. "Ridiculous," I managed, nodding. "Yeah."

"Like, if we both want to be together a lot, that's a good thing, right? You do feel like that, don't you? I hope you do."

I just nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely." It was all I could manage to say.

"Oh my god, you're milk-drunk," she cackled. "I didn't realize. You've gotta be milk-drunk."

I looked at her curiously.

"Like, you can't find words, and you feel all euphoric and stuff, and really close to me, right?" She was smiling at me kindly. "You feel dazed? Like you can't really talk? Can't form sentences?"

I was grinning stupidly. "Yeah."

"OK, yeah, this happens to guys--that's what I've heard. I'm not sure about the biology of it, why it only affects men, but I know it should go away in a few minutes. Did this happen before? Like, the last time we did this?"

I shrugged.

"You're just so sweet," she said, and she leaned down to kiss me again. "I hope you don't mind it, the weird feelings. I sure feel a lot better, and that was a lot more fun than using that stupid pump." She giggled softly.

Indeed, after a couple minutes, I was starting to feel like I could manage more than one word at a time. "Let's--um, you should come over tonight. Can you?"

"Aww, yeah, definitely. I'd love to come over, maybe spend the night. Tell you what: I'll cook for you again. I'll just bring stuff to make. That OK?"

"Awesome," I said with a big, stupid grin.

"And I'll bring an overnight bag and sleep over. Maybe I'll just leave some of my stuff this time, if that's still OK."

"Still OK," I said. "I want you to."

"And obviously, I'll bring dessert, too." She had a naughty smile.

And so it was a plan.

---

Around five, I was sitting in the front room playing my Martin acoustic (mahogany) when I heard her knock.

"It's open!" I yelped. We were at a point where I was completely comfortable with her letting herself in, and I knew she was OK with it, too. Soon I would give her a key.

"Hi!" she said, stepping in. Tara had an overnight satchel and was carrying a grocery bag. "Hey, I've got a couple more bags in the car. Can you help?" She set her stuff down and turned.

"Yep," I said. I put the guitar down and followed her out.

"It's not too much," she was telling me as her sandals plopped down the front steps. "But I kinda maybe went a little crazy at the store. I got extra stuff--extra ingredients--to just leave her for another time, for other times. I hope that's OK." She turned to smile at me as we approached her car.

"It's totally OK. There will definitely be other times."

Tara had changed outfits: she was now in a pea-green v-neck tee with sleeves that ran down just below her elbows, capri pants, and huarache sandals. It was a cute look. I watched her ass shifting sensuously as she walked. It was just how she moved naturally; she didn't seem to be playing it up. I always liked the way her breasts gently bobbed as she moved, too. The v-neck showed a little cleavage, and that was exciting, too.

We grabbed a grocery bag each and headed back inside. The sun was still out, I noticed. Spring was on the way.

I tried to help her arrange things in the kitchen, but she shut me down pretty quickly.

"Look, I've been accused of being kinda controlling and stuff, like when I cook, and I know this is your house and it's your kitchen. But I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I can just do everything my way tonight."

I nodded. "Tell you what, just pretend it's your kitchen. Take over and make it yours for the night. I am completely fine with that."

She gave me a quick kiss and then got back to work. I headed to my front room and started playing the Martin again. I goofed around a little bit, but ended up playing "Swing 42," a tune by Django Reinhardt, always fun.

Meanwhile, Tara was hard at work with bowls and wooden spoons and ingredients; the occasional clanking I'd hear from the kitchen let me know she was busy. I'd glance back there on occasion and watch her. The look of concentration on her face was really cute.

At one point, after only a few minutes, I glanced over and realized she had taken off her top and her bra; she was naked from the waist up.

I caught her eye, and she started laughing. Her bobbed hair bounced around a little.

"Yeah, I was getting kinda hot, and I get so sick of wearing a bra anyway," she said. "And I knew you probably wouldn't mind."

I put my guitar down and pulled off my shirt, and she giggled at me. For half a second, I thought maybe we were gonna just do it right there and then, but she picked up a wooden spoon and went back to it, still grinning at me playfully. She looked remarkably seductive, standing half naked in my kitchen, cooking me dinner. I was never one of those guys who thought it was a woman's job to cook for her man, but it was fun that she wanted to.

I went back to fooling around on the guitar.

"OK!" she announced after a few minutes. "That has to go for about 45 minutes." I turned and saw her setting a timer on her phone. "Whattya wanna do?"

What I wanted to do was to pick her up, lay her on my bed, strip off her pants, and fuck her silly. That wasn't a good idea, of course, not at that moment, and I had to cool my jets. I waved her over, and she sat down near me on the couch.

"So I was talking to Charlotte the other day," I said.

"Oh, Charlotte Cleary? I love Charlotte."

It was funny that she was sitting there speaking casually while half-naked, as if it was nothing unusual. Her tits were so nice.

"Yeah," I said, "and she told me I should listen to you sing sometime."

Tara was quiet for a second. "Oh."

"I mean, you don't have to," I said. "I'm not trying to force you or anything. I just thought--"

"OK." She was smiling. "I don't know what to sing for you, though." She thought for a second. "I don't really know how to sing any jazz songs, I don't think."

"Well, that's OK, we can--"

"Wait," she interrupted. "Is Billie Holiday jazz? Or was she blues?"

"Oh, she was jazz."

"But Lady Sings the Blues..."

"The movie? Diana Ross? Yeah, that's--there was a time when the lines between genres weren't super-clear. A jazz singer could sing blues and still be a jazz singer. Some blues songs have jazz elements, and some jazz songs have blues in them. So it really wasn't all that clear-cut, and no one thought anything of it." I turned to look at her directly; her face was bright, her eyes were wide. "Why, you know a Billie song?"

"Yeah, I did 'God Bless the Child' once. Solo in high school, in choir."

That was exciting. "Oh, I know that one." I started searching on my guitar for a key, and tried to remember the chord progression. "And by the way, that's a jazz standard but with all these little bluesy things in it. Good example of what we were talking about. So you still remember it?"

"Yeah. I know it in E-flat," she said. She started singing in a soft voice, just a little bit of the chorus.

I played an E-flat major seventh; Tara's voice was perfectly in key with it. I was surprised.

"Wait, how did you do that?"

She stopped and looked at me. "Do what?"

"You just--you sang in E-flat, like, perfectly in key. I wasn't even playing anything and you just, you had the notes, the right key."

She shrugged. "Why wouldn't I?"

I got suspicious. "What note is this?" I turned the guitar away from her so she couldn't see and played a B, just the B string.

"B," she said, matter-of-factly.

I played an E.

"That's E."

I felt my mind blowing. I played an A-sharp.

"A-sharp."

I played a D-sharp, but bent the string a little to make it go out of key.

"D-sharp, but it's not right. Out of tune. Too high."

"Jesus, Tara," I said, "I think you have perfect pitch."

She just looked at me, not following.

"You have perfect pitch," I said again. "That's--like, that's really rare. It's a gift. I don't have it. It's like one in 10,000 people or something. I guess it's supposed to be more common in women than in men, but it's still really rare. This is amazing."

"I don't get it. I don't know what that is."

"OK, if I play any random note, you know what it is, right? Immediately?"

"Sure," she said.

"And--OK, sing me an F-sharp."

She sang a note: "Laaaa."

I played an F-sharp; she was dead on. Her voice matched the guitar's note perfectly.

"Christ almighty," I said. "That's incredible."

"I don't--"

"Tara, most people can't do this. I can't do it. We don't hear notes and immediately know which one we're hearing."

"Really?" She seemed very surprised. "I just thought everybody could hear the colors."

"No, no, not at all." I had to sit there for a second to compose my thoughts. "You are really gifted. That's an amazing gift. And I can't believe you didn't know. Not that you'd have any way to know without someone explaining it, but--I dunno, it's like being able to read minds or something. It's amazing. No one ever noticed this, never said anything?"

"Um, wow, well, no, and I really had no idea. You sure? It's really not very hard."

"Yeah, not hard for you. It's really hard for most people, though; practically impossible, really. So we're gonna have to fool around with that," I said.

Always another layer of surprise with this girl, I was thinking.

"OK, so, wanna try the tune?" I started playing an E-flat major seventh chord again, then A-flat major seventh, and so on. It was kind of a complicated chord progression, but I did mostly remember it, because I'd played it with a combo a long time back. "Ready?"

We started. Tara's head cocked slightly and her hair shimmied a little as she sang the opening lines.

Them that's got shall get

Them that's not shall lose

So the Bible says

and it still is news

At very first, her voice sounded a bit shaky and constricted; she seemed self-conscious. As we got to the first chorus, though, she started to relax, and I heard her true singing voice for the first time, full and throaty and completely captivating.

Mama may have

Papa may have

But God bless the child that's got his own

That's got his own

Her voice was big and confident and beautiful, slightly hoarse but coated with honey, inviting and lovely. Charlotte had been absolutely right: I needed to hear Tara sing. I knew immediately that this girl had talent. I found myself getting goosebumps. Did she not realize what she had?

It wasn't just the delicious quality of her voice, or her wonderful delivery. Tara sang in a way that put me in a mood, transported me. I felt enchanted.

Rich relations give

Crust of bread and such

You can help yourself

But don't take too much

Mama may have, Papa may have

But God bless the child that's got his own

That's got his own

It was like a siren's song, and I was lulled in, consumed.

I stopped playing. "Tara, your voice is beautiful. Really beautiful." There was emotion in my tone.

She looked embarrassed. "You don't have to say that."

I was shaking my head. "You're right, I don't. I'm saying it because I mean it." I paused to shake my head again. "Why are you hiding this? Here, let's just keep going."

We picked up the song from the beginning and did the whole thing again. By the end, I had tears in my eyes, and had to fight them back.

"I don't know what to say," Tara murmured, smiling a tiny bit. "I mean, I like singing, but--"

"Yeah, I'm not sure what to say, either, except that I want to hear a lot more of this. I love your voice. Anyone would love your voice."

"You're so nice," she effused.

"No, not being nice." My voice was insistent. "I'm telling you the truth. Your voice is beautiful and you have amazing control, too." I was shaking my head in awe. "And it's almost like you were born to sing jazz."

Her singing voice barely sounded anything like her speaking voice. I'd heard other singers whose speaking voices didn't match, and I always thought it was so impressive. I had no idea how they did it.

A buzzer in the kitchen went off.

"Welp, dinner's ready," she grinned, standing up. Her lovely bare breasts bobbed gently.

I put my guitar down and let out a long breath.

The smell of spicy food cooking had slowly filled the air while we were playing and talking, so I was really ready to eat by the time Tara pulled the food out of the oven and served it. She'd made vegetarian stuffed bell peppers, and it was every bit as good as the veggie food she'd made for me previously. I was entertaining serious thoughts about going vegetarian myself; if the food was this good, why not?

Over dinner, we talked quite a bit about what it meant to have perfect pitch, and why it was such a big deal. I explained that to tune my guitars, I had to use a device that "listened" to a string and then automatically wound the tuning knob to get it to the right note. Or if I didn't have that, I'd tune the strings myself with a tuning app on my phone.

"I can't do it myself, though," I told her. "I don't automatically know that the E string is in tune. Usually I can sort of tell if it's close, but not exactly, not for sure. And I don't even know for sure that it's E. So maybe you can just help me from now on. You'll be my new tuner." I laughed a little.

She shrugged. "Sure, I can do that. Sounds kinda fun."

I changed the subject. "So you really never had any vocal training, voice lessons, nothing like that? Your voice is fucking amazing."

Tara shook her pretty head. "My mom used to sing around the house. She has a nice voice. I always wanted to sing like her. We'd kinda sing together sometimes. That's about it. Well, I was in choir, in high school. But there was no real training. We just sang."

I looked directly at her. "You have some serious musical gifts. I can't believe I'm only finding out now. You can hear yourself sing, right? You can hear that your voice is beautiful."

"Awww," she cooed. "Thanks. I guess I like my voice. I think it seems kinda limited. I'd really like to sound more like Billie Eilish or Chappell Roan or someone like that."

I laughed. "They couldn't hold a candle to you, seriously. Talk about people who should be famous. You're beautiful and you have an amazing voice."

"Stop it." She was blushing.

I took a few more bites, sneaking looks at Tara's face and her beautiful upper body.

Sitting across from her, enjoying the food, I did find myself gazing at Tara's breasts a lot. I loved her face, and the rest of her, but my eyes kept straying to her bare chest. Her breasts were wonderfully round, her broad dark-pink areolas a temptation all their own. And those thick, erect nipples--ripe, red, inviting--made it hard to look away. Add all that to the rest of her, and I was completely smitten.

I tried to distract myself. "Tara, this is so good," I reiterated.

"Man, you're so full of compliments tonight. You're gonna give a girl a big head."

I chuckled a little. "Well, if the compliments are all deserved, maybe the girl deserves a big head."

We finished up, and we rinsed the dishes together.

"So," I said, "what do you feel like doing? Wanna do another song?"

She shook her head. "I would, but--I'm really horny and I just want to go to your bedroom and feed you dessert."

I noticed that her nipples seemed even more swollen and seemed an even brighter red.

"So let's go brush," she said.

We brushed our teeth together in my bathroom. Back in the bedroom, I pulled my pants and underwear off; I already had a full erection. Tara had followed and was taking her pants and underwear off, too, after which she pushed me back toward the bed and then shoved me onto it. She climbed on top and sat, and leaned in to kiss me sensuously.

"I want to feed you. I hope you're hungry for taramisu." Her voice was soft and sultry. She kissed me again, then said, "C'mon, let's get you milk-drunk again."

She scooted up slightly, looked down at me with a wickedly cute smile. She was so sweet and so girl-next-door pretty in that moment. The way her bobbed hair framed her face was adorable. I was full of desire and excitement, and yeah, I was hungry for her.

Tara leaned down a little and put a breast in my face--it was the one with the cute little brown mole a couple inches above her large areola. At that moment, it was like putting raw meat in front of a starving lion.

I opened up and took her in, stretching my lips around her areola to latch on with a tight seal. I suckled urgently. Her breast skin felt extra-warm and soft, and her scent was pleasant.

Tara sighed.

No milk at first, of course. I let my hands stray across her back, gently stroking her, and massaged her breast with my lips and tongue, trying to coax the breastmilk to let down. My fingers, with a mind of their own, made their way down to her curvy ass and slowly traced her butt crack.

"Mmm, I like that. Feels nice," she purred. "All of it. I like the way you touch me." Her voice got even softer. "I love the way your whiskers feel against my boob. And your tongue on my nipple, the way you're stroking it--I can feel it tugging on my clit."

I was already tingly and feeling very affectionate toward her--not that I didn't always have strong, tender feelings for her, but when we did this particular thing together, it made me feel like we were especially close. There was something very powerful and very real about the way she could share her body with me. What amazing abilities she had, I kept thinking.

My fingers dared to push into her butt crack just a little bit, feeling the ribbed skin between the cheeks. I stroked her some more, then pushed further and tickled her hairy little asshole.

She giggled at that. "Feels nice."

Soon after that, she took in a quick breath, and I sensed sweetness: her milk had let down and was coming out in strong sprays over my tongue. I swallowed immediately and worked for more.

One of my fingers was pressing on her asshole now, not quite pushing inside, but threatening.

Tara was stroking my head affectionately, looking down, watching me feed as she held the breast to my lips. She had an especially wanton expression on her face; she seemed very aroused.

I was very aroused, too. My cock was still standing up almost completely straight. I grabbed it and brushed it against her ass crack, teasing her with it.

She laughed a little. "Hey, I feel that," she said. "Just so you know, I've never done that before. I don't think I'm ready to try it tonight, but I wouldn't be opposed to it another time."

I just kept on feeding. Her milk tasted better and better as I suckled; the euphoric haze was descending again. Doing this was as enjoyable as having actual sex with her; the closeness and pleasure I felt as we lay together were glorious. It was a little like meditation, just a constant chewing motion, my mind completely blank, my body feeling euphoric. It was pleasurable for her, too, probably even more so. It was nice.

I got more and more lightheaded as I took her in, feeling more blissful with every swallow. The pleasure of it was stirring a deep, aching need in me.

Tara's body shuddered a little, something I hadn't felt before while feeding. My hands were kept stroking her ass and playing with her ass crack, and my fingers ventured inside to play with her asshole again. I was trying to reassure her, comfort her, in case I'd done something to make her jump like that (although that might seem like an odd way to do it). I could have just asked, but right then I really didn't want her nipple to leave my mouth.

She shuddered again, and let out a sharp grunt. I looked up at her--my mouth still firmly latched onto her breast--and opened my eyes wide, wanting to know if everything was OK. Her face was wrenched, her mouth moving almost as though she was trying to speak but no words were coming out. She gasped, and her eyes shut for a few seconds. Her cheeks were glowing red. Then she let out a breath and seemed to relax.

After several seconds, she giggled softly and looked down at me. "I just came." Her fingers were stroking my cheek.

"For real?" I said. My lips brushed across her nipple as I spoke.

"It happens sometimes. I have to be really relaxed and comfortable." Tara shifted a little, cuddling my head. "I'm surprised it took this long, really. I feel so safe with you. I've never felt like that, not with a guy."

"So that's possible?!" I said. "To come from that, I mean."

It was a revelation for me, and it inspired in me a new sense of determination. At that moment, I resolved to push her to her limits, to see just how much pleasure she could take.

"It's definitely possible," she was saying with a smile. "I doubt that's the last one you'll ever give me that way."

I didn't answer. I moved my hand to her bush and pushed a finger between her labia, stroking.

Tara gasped softly.

In that moment, my sex life with Tara truly began. What followed that night was the most amazing exhibition of female sexual capacity I had ever been witness to.

I continued to feed from her breast while I very gingerly stroked her clit. Her breathing sped up, and her chest started rising and falling dramatically. I could feel her clitoris stiffening and swelling. She started making little grunts and groans that vibrated in her chest; I could sense it with my lips.

And then she came again, a loud shivering orgasm that made her body writhe. The sprays from her nipple got a little stronger while it was happening. When it ended, she was almost panting--and then she giggled. Later, she boasted about having had a "blended" orgasm, with her nipple and her clit both coming separately but at the same time; she called it a "heavenly experience."

In the moment, I persisted, doggedly determined. I released her breast--I'd had enough of her milk for the time being--and flicked and licked her nipple with my pointed tongue. The nipple had grown longer and thicker in my mouth. It had turned deep red, and her areola had puffed up. I ran my tongue across the nipple head, picking up occasional dots of milk that appeared, and traced all around her swollen areola; Tara shivered.

My fingers picked up the pace around her clit, and she responded. Within half a minute, she was coming again, shuddering, wailing, jerking. As she recovered, I flicked her nipple with my tongue some more. I diddled her clit. She came again.

It all started repeating: I would play with her nipple using my tongue and lips and dance my fingers between her legs, and she would react, dropping back into orgasm. Eight or nine times in a row this happened, and each time a new orgasm started, it was after a briefer and briefer rest period in between.

And then there was no break between them at all. The last couple of orgasms happened literally back to back. The only reason I knew they were separate was that her voice would start to drop off as one orgasm waned, only to break into another ecstatic moan as the next orgasm started. It was remarkable how easily she slipped from one to the next. I couldn't imagine what that could be like.

She was panting. "Oh my god," she breathed, "oh my god." Tara opened her eyes and looked at me. "Fuck me. Get inside me now. I need you inside me."

I did. I rolled her over and climbed on top of her and slid my cock all the way into her wet vagina; when our bodies were completely merged together, I bent down and kissed her sweaty face. Tara raised her arms, stretching and giggling. Her armpit hair was damp, dark, feminine, and beautiful.

"Fuck me," she urged.

I pushed myself up and started thrusting rapidly.

The whole cycle started again. She fell into another orgasm--"Fuck, I'm coming!"--which lasted about half a minute. I could sense it ending (her moans told the tale again), and I took that as a cue to speed up, which launched her right into another orgasm, which she also announced ("Oh god, I'm coming again!"). I had slowed my thrusting as the orgasm seemed to hit its peak, and then sped up as it washed out--which threw her right into the next huge orgasm ("Oh fuck, oh fuck, you're making me come again!").

This went on for a long while. I'm not sure exactly how long, but it had to be at least 45 minutes or so; sweat was dripping off me, and I was starting to get really tired--but I was still fiercely determined. Tara's body was covered with sweat, too, and her nipples were ripe, swollen, and beaded with tiny droplets of milk. We'd stayed in missionary the whole time (it was her favorite position).

This amazing creature had been having orgasms for close to an hour, sometimes back to back, sometimes with a break of a minute or two in between.

"More," she would pant. "Don't stop. I want more."

I was getting close to losing control, and that idea alarmed me. I didn't want sex to stop, either, not yet. I pulled my dick out of her and scrambled down between her legs and put my mouth over her hot red labia, sucking up her wetness and slathering my tongue over her clit. Her scent was strong and carnal.

"Oh, god, oh no--" Her voice had become an intense whine.

She started coming again; it was happening so effortlessly at this point.

She was getting louder and louder during the orgasms, which I took to mean the pleasure was getting deeper and more intense. I kept working my tongue on her clit; sometimes I'd put my lips around it and suck, but then I'd go back to flicking it. A couple of my fingers drove into her tight vagina. After a few more orgasms passed, on a whim, I let my ring finger get wet and I slid it into her asshole. Now I was thrusting two fingers into her pussy and one into her ass.

Tara's moans broke into full-on bloody screams when I did that. And then she was sobbing.

I'd lost track of how many times she'd shattered beneath me--it felt endless, as though her body had transcended all limits. I'd heard myths and rumors of girls coming so many times in a row, but I'd never taken it seriously. No way, right? Just porn exaggerations. But her she was, doing it. And it was undoubtedly all real; her face was splotchy and sweaty, her hair disheveled, her body covered with perspiration. This was not acting. She was simply responding to stimulation.

Orgasms came so easily for her. It made me horny as hell, stunned and amazed, and also bound and determined. How much pleasure could she handle? Was there such a thing as too much?

I kept at it, eating her pussy, stroking her skin, reaching up to squeeze her swollen breasts. Tara kept responding, slipping from one orgasm to another. It went on and on and on. I could not imagine having the ability to respond that way, and I could not imagine experiencing that much pleasure and for such a long time. It was completely beyond my ability to conceive.

Then, at some point, she got quieter. She was still moaning, but quietly; there was no more shrieking, no more orgasm announcements, very little jerking or shuddering. I wondered if it was all finally ending for her.

I glanced up at her face; she looked catatonic. Her mouth was slightly agape, and her eyes were squeezed shut. She was breathing slowly and steadily, her chest visibly rising and falling. There were light shivers and long, quiet moans.

My tongue just kept working on her clit. I didn't know what else to do, and if she was still in ecstasy, there was no reason to stop.

Still, I wasn't completely sure what was going on, and I worried that maybe something was wrong. She'd tell me, right, if it hurt, or she was in pain, or bad things were happening. Right?

Glancing up at Tara's face reassured me. She did have a wrenched expression, and she did look like something intense was happening, but it didn't seem like pain and it did not appear that there was anything wrong. Quite the opposite: it really did seem like she was experiencing extreme pleasure.

So I kept at it. I flicked and sucked while I drilled my fingers in and out of her, steadily, doggedly. She continued to shiver and moan, lightly.

After several minutes, she mumbled something unintelligible. She repeated it: "Fuck me," she murmured. "Fuck me."

I fucked her again. I climbed up and on her, slid right back inside her body, and started a steady pace of thrusting. She reacted, moaning slightly louder at first, and then she was back to her steady droning.

Tara felt wonderful inside, of course. She was hotter than ever, and felt super-tight; each thrust, I had the exquisite sensation of forcing the soft, grippy walls of her vagina open, and that she was massaging me, stroking me.

It was so difficult not to come. I kept my pace on the slower side, just steadily pushing into her, trying not to go too fast for fear of overstimulating myself. She felt insanely good, but I couldn't let it feel too good or the whole amazing experience would be over. It would end at some point anyway, but I wanted it to go on for as long as humanly possible.

Meanwhile, Tara was back in that trance. Her jaw was slack, her eyes clamped shut, and she was letting out long, quiet, almost-continuous moans. Tiny white beads kept forming on the heads of her nipples, eventually dribbling down the sides of her breasts; occasionally I would bend down to lick some of it up. Down between her legs, her thick bush was soaking wet, a dark mass of twisted snarls coated with creamy wetness. Her vagina was still extremely lubricated. If I was going to be sore later, it would only be from the powerful squeeze she was giving my penis.

It was a challenge to me to keep even a slower pace. It reminded me of the one time I'd run a marathon, years before--exhausted determination. I was really spent already, fatigued, light-headed, nearly drained of energy. Yet I would not stop. Somehow my cock was still rock-hard inside her, probably because what we were doing felt so primal and intimate, and because her continuous response was just so hot. My cock ached from having erect for so long, and I did not care. I was pretty sure she was still feeling a ton of pleasure, and if she was, my cock was the thing providing it. Yeah, it didn't hurt that I would massage a breast, squeeze a nipple, stroke her arms, caress her belly, gently touch her cheek. But my penis pushing her vagina open again and again and pressing up against her G-spot was what clearly had her in orbit.

We went on like this for so long I completely lost track of time. I really had no idea how long we were at it, just that I was exhausted and determined, and that she was in some kind of ecstasy. I realized, watching her half-conscious body still trembling, that female pleasure wasn't a goal to be achieved but a force to be endured--and if I was lucky, to be invited alongside.

Of course, I finally lost control. I'd been gazing at her beautiful face, still wrenched in pleasure, framed by lovely, disheveled hair. Her breasts were bobbing along to our rhythm. Without realizing it, I'd been letting my guard down, and when I did recognize what was happening, it was too late: a burst of heat swelled up in my groin, and next thing I knew, I was ejaculating--copious hard, powerful spurts, like I was emptying my soul into her.

Then I collapsed on Tara's body, drained and debilitated.

After a few minutes, she turned onto her side, sliding me off. She faced me, smiling warmly, and started circling one of her areolas with a finger, stroking it. Her nipples glistened, flushed and slick, the skin tightening around them as more tiny beads welled to the surface.

Tara didn't speak, but she held out her breast as if to say, "Come and feed some more." There was no command in it, no expectation, just quiet kindness. Even after everything, she still wanted to nourish me.

I must have looked exhausted. I scooted in toward her and she wrapped an arm around me, while cupping and holding a breast with the other hand. Her nipple looked absolutely delicious to me at that moment. I opened wide around the areola and latched on tightly, and started suckling. Milk arrived.

She watched me feed, and she looked happy, but said nothing.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up and it was light outside.

---

Morning sunlight was spilling across the breakfast nook as we sat with our coffee, idly playing with our phones. Tara hadn't bothered with makeup yet, her was hair tousled and wild, and she was casually topless. Even in that state--especially in that state--she was stunning.

She glanced at me. "You OK? You're quiet."

I looked up, realizing she was right. I shrugged. "Yeah, I'm OK." I hesitated, then straightened in my seat. "Last night, that thing that happened--I mean, that was something else."

Her face lit up. "You mean when it was like I was zoning out?"

I nodded. "Yeah, you were like that for what--half an hour? After, like, an hour of orgasms. I thought maybe something was wrong."

Tara grinned, shaking her head. "Nothing wrong. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever felt, seriously. I mean, I don't wanna be melodramatic, but yeah, I left the universe for a while."

I stared, wanting her to explain.

"It's called jouissance," she said, the word rolling from her tongue with a perfect French accent. "A state of jouissance. It's, well, it's like being somewhere else entirely. Like being transported to a whole other existence. Pure warmth and pleasure and emotion." She sighed. "Words don't really cut it."

"It looked a little scary."

She laughed. "I know it probably looked like a seizure, but it's the opposite. I wasn't in pain--I was in heaven. It's happened before, but never like that, never to that degree. You were amazing." She sipped her coffee. "The way you kept going, the places you touched--it's like your body was made to trigger mine. Something about how you kept touching me and the way you fit inside me just kept me there. It was like you knew exactly what I needed."

I leaned in a little. "So what exactly happened?"

She thought for a moment. "It's, like--total, sustained, identity-melting bliss." She paused again. "OK, so, for you, an orgasm is a goal, right? You chase it, you delay it, you control when you get there, you reach it, you're done. For women, especially when you're talking about this, it's a totally different thing. It's more like slipping into this soft, euphoric world. That's what jouissance is like, a whole other plane. I don't know if that makes sense."

"A little. So what is it that gets you there?"

"Well, I need to have a ton of orgasms. Like last night--sixty, eighty, I don't even know. They keep building up, getting deeper, getting more intense, and it gets to where every one of them feels like the first time, like the way it felt when I had my very first orgasm ever. It happens like that over and over again, and they just keep getting better. It's kinda like hearing your favorite song again and again, and every time it sounds brand new, except it's even more awesome than the last time."

She smiled. "And after so many, my whole body just goes all hypersensitive. Every touch, everywhere, starts to feel like my clit's being stroked. And then I just slip away. I stay in that orgasmic rush--like those first moments when an orgasm starts and everything feels so glorious--it doesn't fade, that feeling doesn't fade away. It keeps going and going, and it gets deeper. My skin tingles, my body won't stop quivering. It's physical, but also, like, mythic. Emotional. Everything feels cosmic and meaningful and like the universe is made of ecstasy."

She reached out and touched my hand. "I've gotten there before--with Althea, a couple times--but never like this. You took me deeper, a lot deeper."

Her words were tender and they were devastating; something was tightening in my chest. I felt myself wincing. Yeah, sure, I'd noticed long ago that when I had sex, the woman always seemed to be the one having a better time--I just hadn't thought about how much better.

"Oh, god," she said, noticing immediately. "It's bothering you, isn't it." Her voice was soft and quiet. "I'm sorry if it was overwhelming. I know my response can be, well, maybe a bit much. I didn't mean to be so insensitive about it."

She paused, took a sip, and thought for a few seconds. It was like she was reading my mind. "Look, I'm gonna be real: a lot of sex is a girls-only thing. I know you already realize that. A girl can have more than one, a lot more than just one, and well, you probably know we experience more baseline pleasure just in general. There are real, biological differences between the sexes and this is one of the bigger ones."

"What you felt," I started, my voice croaking a little. "It sounds like it's the greatest pleasure any human could ever have. And obviously it's something I can never feel, right? If that's true, I gotta admit, it does kind of sting."

She nodded and then tilted her head. "Yeah, it is a girl thing. You have to be able to come again and again without much time in between. That's just not something a guy's body is wired for. I wish it wasn't true."

I nodded, trying to absorb it.

Tara continued: "I do get it. I see why it's bothering you. But think of it this way--there are things you can do that I could never. Like, you can pick me up and carry me around, right? It's hilarious and I love it! It's sexy, and it makes me feel safe and protected. But I could never do that to you. You're way too big for me to pick up; I wouldn't be strong enough. That's just biology, just biological differences."

She was smiling warmly, as if trying to soften the blow. "And mine, my biology, gives me stuff you don't have. Like, I can see more colors than you, a lot more color gradients, and that's because I have two X chromosomes; I wish you could see what a sunset looks like through my eyes. My hearing's better, too, more sensitive. And I see better in low light--you've noticed. We have more rods in our eyes and more rhodopsin, so I can walk around with the lights off and still see pretty well."

I sighed. "It's just a little hard for me. I mean, that thing last night, what you were going through--it seemed like it was pretty much at the very top of the pleasure scale. And, well, guys just can't, right? I could never have that."

She nodded, unflinching. "Yeah. There are gonna be certain things that are girls-only. Girls can have babies. Girls can breastfeed. Girls can have multiple orgasms, and we get to feel them more, longer, deeper. That's biology. But this isn't a competition. I'm not winning anything."

I was thinking: didn't you already, though?

She smiled, leaning closer. "But you know who took me there? You. I didn't do it alone. I couldn't; I can't do that, never been able to. Like, remember how in the Bible, Moses led his people to the promised land even though he never entered it himself? You're my Moses." She laughed. "So yeah, I got there, but really, we got me there as a couple."

"Yeah, I guess that's true," I admitted.

"OK, so picture it like this: what if we both drank wine, and it made me feel really super-euphoric, but you could only get a tiny bit buzzed. Would you still drink it with me?"

"Yes."

"Exactly. Same thing here. And honestly--I get off watching you, too, feeling you when you're inside me. When you have an orgasm and I feel you pulsing and twitching, and I know your come is getting way deep inside me, that turns me on. Sometimes it makes me have another orgasm. So it's not about scoring points or winning anything. It makes me happy when I know you're feeling good, especially if I helped; I love when I can milk the pleasure out of you. And like I said, last night only happened because we did it together. I didn't get there by myself. We did it. The relationship achieved jouissance."

I smiled, feeling a little better. "I still want to understand, though," I said. "Tell me what it feels like. And the science, too. I want to know."

"It's kinda hard to do that, though," she smiled. "Describe it, I mean. Like, try to imagine explaining the taste of salt to someone who's never tasted salt."

"But I've tasted salt," I told her.

"Not like I have," she said.

She slipped into professor mode. "OK, quick stats: male orgasms last three to five seconds. Ten, maybe, if you train your pelvic muscles enough. Female orgasms are usually more like twenty to forty seconds, minimum. Longer than that isn't rare. Ten seconds would be a really short one. And we have like 12 to 15 contractions per orgasm or even more, where you guys have maybe four or five. So even our 'little ones' are bigger than your biggest."

She shrugged. "It's just a physical difference. And it's not only about length. After you come, your brain, the male brain, dumps a bunch of neurochemicals: serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, prolactin--they're the boner-killers. Prolactin especially--it makes your dopamine levels drop like a rock, and that kills arousal. It's why you want a nap after.

"But women don't get that chemical cocktail. There's no shut-off switch. We can just keep going; our dopamine levels stay steady. That's why multiple orgasms are possible. The more we come, the higher our arousal gets. It doesn't dip--it escalates, builds on itself, doubles down."

"And that leads to jouissance," I said.

"Eventually, yeah, it becomes possible. Enough orgasms in a row, a lot of them, and we can slip into this sustained, full-body bliss that's just otherworldly. I feel everything, everywhere. Every touch means something. Every emotion feels cosmic. It's like an out-of-body experience, but better. I tried acid this one time in college, and I gotta say, jouissance makes it seem kinda quaint. It gets so overwhelming that I think I hear myself crying, when I'm not."

I shook my head, amazed. "Half of me is seething with envy, the other half's incredibly turned on."

She laughed. "I guess you should be both."

"I want to know more," I said. "I know I'll never feel it, but I want to understand it."

She reached for my hand again, squeezing gently. "I have some books I can drop by your office at some point; there's one in particular that will probably answer all your questions. But look, keep in mind: it's not about winning or losing. It's about being in this together. I love that you want to know, but for me, this is something we did as a couple. Something we keep doing, hopefully."

I smiled, feeling both completely conquered and yet grateful.

---

The next day, Tara showed up to my office and gave me a textbook, a physical textbook. "Start with this," she told me, "and I've got more stuff after that if you want. But this is a good start. Maybe all you need."

The title of the book was Ecstasy Unrestrained: The Limitless Nature of Female Sexuality. It opened with this passage:

"There is no question that the human female is infinitely more capable of responding to effective sexual stimulation than a male ever dreamed of being."

-- Masters and Johnson

As definitive as that statement may seem, coming from esteemed sexuality pioneers Virginia Johnson and William Masters, many sex researchers today believe it is an understatement. Not only is a female's ability to respond to sexual stimulation far greater than a male's, but she is capable of a vast variety of deeply pleasurable sexual responses, and has a virtually infinite capacity for sexual pleasure. These capabilities are well beyond male imagination, beyond even his ability to conceptualize theoretically. Limitless, deep, and abiding sexual pleasure is solely female territory, and incomprehensible to the male of the species. The levels of ecstasy females are able to enjoy are well outside the realm of his experience and even of his ability to understand. Descriptions of the feminine orgasmic experience are just empty words to him. Yet to many women, this kind of pleasure is a deeply meaningful and substantial part of reality.

Reading it, I felt a sharp pang of recognition: it rang true. Tara's capacity fit that description perfectly, and it made some sense of my past partners too. None of them seemed to approach what Tara could do, but even the "ordinary" ones had multiple orgasms, every one of which put mine to shame. I'd always sensed it--the longer, deeper spasms they rode out when I could only coast on a brief high--but now I could see it for what it was. There was a fundamental, unbridgeable difference.

Of all the biological gaps Tara had gently laid out for me, this was the one that hurt. She wasn't cruel about it. She never lorded it over me. But she didn't soften facts to spare my ego, either.

What made it devastating was that it wasn't about strength or skill or intellect--it was capacity for pleasure, the deepest, most coveted thing a human body could experience. I'd never really heard anyone say outright just how unequal the playing field was. Every health class and half-baked article implied male and female orgasms were roughly equivalent. My own experience, though--starting with Kayla Takahashi on prom night, who came three times to my one--had quietly challenged that story.

It wasn't just the multiple orgasms or how long each one lasted. What gnawed at me was the open-ended, unlimited nature of female pleasure. Women could reach heights I could never approach, and they could have as much of it as they wanted. My orgasm seemed like a sparkler next to a rolling string of endlessly detonating fireworks.

And the cruelest part: any woman could do this. That was the thought that really shook me. Any woman I passed on campus might have had ten, twenty, fifty orgasms the night before and I'd never be able to tell she was capable of such superhuman achievements--except maybe from a subtle glimmer in her expression, a bit of strut in her walk. Tara swore every female had the capacity for this kind of ecstasy. It was like discovering that any woman you met might secretly have the power to fly, even though no man ever could.

The book brought up the subject of nerve receptors. The penis had maybe 4,000 nerve endings. The clitoris? It had been thought to have 8,000--but newer research pegged it closer to 13,000, densely packed and hyper-sensitive, which was unlike the coarser, less discriminating receptors in the penis. Worse still, even a woman's nipple and areola contained as many nerve endings as the head of a penis, which explained the look on Tara's face when I nursed from her. Breastfeeding me was her equivalent of what a blowjob felt like.

And the variations--dear god, the variations. Clitoral orgasms. G-spot orgasms, which turned out to be clitoral ones from a different angle. Anal orgasms, also clitoral. Anterior fornix orgasms, cervical orgasms. Breast orgasms. Different types, different qualities, different combinations layered together. The book called the clitoris a "magical super-organ," and I couldn't argue.

Meanwhile, male orgasms came in one flavor, a single variety. There were no alternative routes, no hidden modes. And that tired old myth about prostate orgasms? No scientific backing. At best, pleasant sensations. Not actual orgasm, though.

I read about vasocongestion next: how during arousal, a woman's pelvic region flooded with blood on a scale that made male arousal look like a trickle. It was what allowed for longer, more sustained orgasms, and the potential for multiples. Males swelled and finished. Females built and built.

And then the most brutal revelation: women have six nerve pathways to transmit orgasmic sensation to the brain. Six. As a male, I had a single one. The book listed the female pathways--pudendal, pelvic, hypogastric, vagus, intercostal, and a special oxytocin pathway--each capable of carrying waves of pleasure. That wasn't just more data reaching the brain; it also made simultaneous, layered orgasms possible. Vaginal, clitoral, nipple, cervical, anal--all potentially at once. I didn't even have to ask Tara if she'd experienced it; I already knew she had. I'd made her come like that before without realizing it, what she called blended orgasms. No wonder she said it was mind-bending.

I stopped reading for a while. The envy felt heavy. I knew it wasn't anyone's fault. Women didn't rig the system against us. It just was. They were just better.

After a break, I went back and found a section of quotes from highly orgasmic women. I read them with a mix of arousal and that same devouring envy.

One woman described how, after enjoying a string of orgasms, her entire body seemed to climax as a whole--her thighs, legs, stomach, breasts, even her cheeks and scalp.

Another said her plateau state after several orgasms felt like an orgasm itself--intense sensations that began deep in her cervix and uterus, spreading all through her body, sensations I could barely conceptualize.

One described an A-spot (anterior fornix) orgasm as "the holiest experience" and said she felt its after-effects for days. Days. The only thing I might feel for days would be if my dick got sore.

One particularly hard-to-read quote spoke directly to men:

"You know how you feel right at the time when you ejaculate? That little moment of peak orgasmic pleasure you experience? I can keep feeling that continuously, sometimes for hours, but for me the orgasm is also way more intense. Imagine that you're continuously ejaculating, nonstop; imagine that pleasure. Imagine the pleasure you feel in your dick, but that it's a lot deeper, and it spreads all through you. Your entire body feels the orgasm the way your penis does, but even more of it. That is the pleasure I experience."

Another: "Picture your orgasm lasting five minutes. Now eight. Now fifteen. Constant. Peaking the entire time. Or having one after another every few seconds, so fast they start to blur into one endless wave. Imagine having orgasms inside of other orgasms, like two, three or more at a time. This is our reality."

A few described jouissance--that transcendent state Tara fell into. One woman called it "better than heaven," another "the true home of the female soul."

And I would never feel anything remotely like it. After sex, I felt melancholy, an emptiness, "post-nut clarity." Meanwhile, the woman beside me could just keep climbing.

But strangely, envy wasn't the only thing I felt. I was deeply, darkly turned on. Watching Tara ascend to those heights aroused me more than any orgasm I'd ever had. It inspired me. I wanted to see it again--not for my own pleasure, but because I needed to witness it, to know it could exist, to live through it again, even though I was on the outside looking in.

The section ended with two final quotes from Masters and Johnson:

"The male can be a catalyst, but only the female experiences true catharsis."

"Women are the real sexual athletes."

Tara had said it: we achieved those orgasms together. Our relationship achieved jouissance. I could be the catalyst, the tinder and the spark. She was the explosion.

I closed the book. I resolved to be a bigger man, to accept that Tara was superior to me in some ways, important ways, but that it was something I could admire and encourage, and also could definitely help with.

I might never match her, but I could be the best catalyst she ever had.

---

s

A week later, though, I was still haunted by the shock and awe of what Tara had revealed to me that one night--the boundless nature of her sexuality, the seemingly infinite capacity for pleasure I couldn't begin to comprehend. I kept replaying the experience, boggling at how easily she fell into sexual rapture, again and again--or double down on it when I thought she couldn't possibly climb any higher.

Sure, we'd already had sex a lot, and her multiple orgasms hadn't wrecked my confidence. If anything, I had been able to last longer than ever before blowing my load. We didn't usually keep count, but that night she'd said she had come dozens of times before slipping into that protracted, continuous state. Maybe sixty, maybe eighty, she had said. And even then, we kept going for another half hour while she coasted through a persistent orgasmic state, before I finally got so overwhelmed that I lost control. My single orgasm sadly ended nearly two hours of ecstasy for her.

It was the best sex I'd ever known, better than I'd believed possible. Still, I had a lowkey, persistent sadness, a quiet ache.

I was in mourning, I realized.

Envy played a role, too, of course. How could it not? Any man who's been with women knows the truth of it--you don't need much experience to recognize she's enjoying sex a lot more than you. Women clearly feel more sexual pleasure than men, and a woman's orgasm is very obviously bigger, longer, deeper than the very best a man can hope for. With Tara in particular: watching her come was like watching the universe rattle apart. When I came, it was a brief, sharp snap of bliss--and that was the end of it. When she had an orgasm, it was the beginning. It only made her hungrier.

So of course I was envious. I tried not to let it invade our sex life, and for the most part, it didn't. The feeling lingered, though. I couldn't help wondering what it was like to come like that. Tara had made a joke that stuck with me: when a man's about to lose control and have his orgasm, he yells, 'Oh no!'--sex is ending for him. When woman is about to come she'll shout, 'Oh yes!' For her, it's just another one of many. Tara meant this to be funny, but it also highlighted how unfair it all was.

And there was something else. Something deeper, harder to name. One day, walking across campus, it hit me: it wasn't just envy. It was grief. I was mourning the loss of something I'd never even known: the capacity for the kind of deep, abiding ecstasy my girlfriend could take for granted.

It wasn't the same thing as envy. Sure, I wanted what she was having. But I also lamented the fact that I never could. The sexual heights she reached as a woman were beyond anything I could imagine. This wasn't just pleasure as I knew it; for her, the word had a different, deeper definition. Compared to Tara, I barely knew what pleasure was.

Maybe I brushed up against it, but she inhabited it. Tara's orgasms weren't just sensations; they were experiences. Each of her orgasms had depth and meaning; she could inhabit entire internal landscapes I'd never be able to enter. It was like watching someone dream: you could see that it was happening, get a sense of its gravity from the outside, but there was no way in, no way to live inside that dream with her.

It made me sad. Here was an entire realm of human potential, reserved solely for the female of the species. As a man, I was simply incapable of knowing it--or even truly understanding it. Tara's descriptions of her orgasms, her states of ecstasy--just so many words to me. It was all merely beautiful, aching theory.

Something she'd said once to me now made perfect sense; it was as if I hadn't really heard it when she first said it. The French call orgasm la petite mort, the little death. She'd told me that as a man, my orgasm was significant in the same way a human life is significant--it was precious and meaningful because it was so fragile, so quickly gone. Now, I understood what she'd really meant. A male orgasm meant something precisely because it was singular, just as a human life was invaluable because of its destiny to be extinguished.

In that light, a woman's view of male sexuality might be like an immortal's view of mortals--not looking down on us with pity, not with contempt, but with empathy and a quiet sorrow for our plight. Tara, with her limitless orgasms, was like an immortal who cheated death with ease, living countless lives of pleasure. I was like a struck match: easily snuffed out and then my flame was gone forever.

But rather than pity my fragility, she had empathy. She understood that because my one climax was all I was given, it carried weight. It mattered. It meant everything to me. That was part of why controlling it and timing it meant so much.

Still, I couldn't help but envy her immortality--the eternity of limitless pleasure, endless rebirth. I ached for a world where I might have known what that eternal life was like.

So yeah: one day, walking alone on campus, I finally recognized what I'd been going through. I was in mourning.

And somehow, that realization really helped. It was the recognition itself that cleared the fog, pushed aside the sadness. I wasn't made to respond at Tara's level. It simply wasn't in the cards for me, and I'd been grieving that fact.

Once I fully accepted it, I felt a kind of relief. The weight had lifted. The mourning was over.

I'd said these feelings hadn't affected our sex life, and they hadn't--not really. But that night, I was a driven man, determined to give her everything I had. Tara came countless times under my mouth, my hands, my cock. She slipped again into that long, sublime state of jouissance. She stayed that way, living in a universe of impossible ecstasy, for about 40 minutes. (She told me she lost all sense of the passage of time.) And after I finally let go and emptied myself inside her, we lay together for over an hour--kissing, talking, nursing, skin against skin, soul against soul.

As intimate as we'd already been, this felt like something else, something deeper. With the grief behind me, her boundless pleasure no longer troubled me. If anything, it became my joy. Nothing made me happier than watching her come, and if we had the time, the will, and enough luck to push her into that endless rapture again, it wasn't envy I felt. It was awe and delight.

Pangs of envy only visited me on occasion, and not usually for long. Usually.

One day, Tara told me about a notorious scientific experiment. Researchers had recorded the alpha brain waves of a highly orgasmic woman experiencing an extended state of jouissance. The waves were extraordinary, measuring nine times stronger than anything ever recorded in a man during orgasm.

Later, those recorded waves were replayed directly into the brains of male volunteers, to see how they endured the female orgasmic experience. It didn't work out well, she told me.

"They tried and failed?" I asked.

She shook her head solemnly. "They tried and died."

---

"So, I just wanted to tell you," Katie was saying to me, "nice choice."

We were sitting at a nice little bar not far from campus. Tara had run to the restroom, and I was sitting with her friend, a pleasant woman who was either 30 or 31 (Tara had told me, but I'd forgotten already). Katie was pretty--longish brown hair, nice black-framed glasses which flattered her cute face, and a up-turned, slightly pointy nose which I found charming. She had a trim build and she looked athletic--I found out later that Katie was one of Tara's cyclist friends--and she had nice, full breasts.

I kept my eyes focused on her face, not on her chest.

"Tara's, just, like, the best," Katie was saying. "And you seem like a pretty good guy, so I'm pretty sure I approve of you." She was laughing a little, trying to be clear that she was only half-serious. "Oh, and I like your age gap. It's totally, like, sexy and romantic and shit."

My eyebrow went up. "Oh, really."

"Yeah, my man's older than me, too--by a fuck-ton, actually. He's 53. And it's for real; best relationship I've ever had. He's like the perfect man--for me, I mean."

"Hmm, well," I said, "I'm sort of still getting used to the idea--not that I have any doubts about Tara, just that I'd never really realized that an age difference can be a good thing, you know? I always thought of it as something you have to kind of manage and work around. But it's not, at least with us. It feels like we're a good match. Like it was meant to be."

"Oh, I mean, look," said Katie, "I don't really know you, but I know what she's told me about you, and just from that, I agree, you're a good match, maybe a perfect match. She feels like the two of you are on right on par with each other. Like, really attuned to each other and shit." Katie leaned toward me a little and lowered her voice. "Just the fact that you're OK with--you know, with her being free about her armpit hair in public like this--well, I really think that's really cool of you."

I grinned, feeling slightly uncomfortable with how open and even blunt Katie was being; Tara had warned me that she was like that. What Katie meant was that Tara had arrived in a nice knee-length skirt matched with a sleeveless blouse; her underarm hair was plainly visible as she moved. There was no way I could feign ignorance about it. I just had to let go of whatever inhibitions I might be feeling. I wasn't embarrassed of it, but I liked to think that her underarm hair was a little secret between the two of us. On that day, though, she was exposing the secret to anyone who might notice. As always, I felt like the body hair didn't detract from her femininity at all, which in turn made her seem even more pretty. I did like the fact that she felt so free.

"I think it looks nice, really," I said. "I like it."

"Yeah," Katie said, "I think so, too. She does wear it well. Looks really nice in a bikini, by the way. Wait till this summer. I don't know how she pulls off making it look girly, but she definitely does. She's a little hottie."

I got an immediate mental image of Tara in a bikini and felt my penis twitch.

She said, "Sometimes I feel like I might do the same thing, actually--grow mine out, I mean. I don't know if I've really got the balls for it like Tara does. I think Scott would be OK with it, though. He made me grow out my bush, so I think he might be good with armpit hair. I think it would probably be fun. I wonder if that would turn him on at all. Maybe next winter. You know, sweater weather, so no one would really see it anyway. I wonder if maybe he might be kinda into it, like it was a little secret between us."

I was trying to figure out how to respond to that when she changed the subject: "So have you met her mom yet?"

I shook my head. "Next week. She's supposed to come and stay with Tara for a couple days. She's gonna have me over."

"Oh, wow, OK. So she really is serious about you. I mean, she said she was, but meeting her mom, that's kind of a big deal." Katie peered at me. "You know about her dad, right?"

"Only that he died."

"Yeah, really sad. I mean, he was older than her mom--there's another age gap--but he died on the young side. 62. Same fucking age as Carl Sagan, by the way, same exact age as when he died. I think that's part of why she's obsessed with him, with Carl. Oh, but don't get the idea she has daddy issues or any shit like that. She was like 22 when her dad passed away. Not a child."

"Yeah, I did know that."

Tara returned right then. She paused to give me a quick peck on the lips before she sat back down.

"You guys are so cute," Katie said. She flipped one side of her hair back and took a sip of her gin and tonic.

"Oh, by the way," Katie said, "Scott should be here in a few minutes. He had to stay late and meet with a client. But he'll be here." Her voice was soft and throaty, fun to listen to. It made her sound even more grown up and womanly--not that Tara's own rich, honeyed voice made her sound any less adult, but Katie's made her seem especially grown.

I was still marveling about this: Katie's boyfriend was more than 20 years older than her. It wasn't like such a thing was unheard of, but I was impressed that everything about her indicated that she was more than ready to be with a guy that age--and it was kind of amazing when I really thought about it. She didn't act old, but she did act very much like a grown adult. Maybe I noticed because I'd become more aware of age-gap relationships, but Katie was clearly self-possessed and emotionally mature.

I reminded myself of what I was like in my early 30s: my priorities were playing console video games and looking for new guitars to buy. I thought this was normal--man, was I wrong. I thought it was that I simply didn't care about relationships, financial organization, or making plans for the future--and I assumed it was OK to be that way. I had no idea that it was immaturity. Took me years to learn to do better. Katie seemed way ahead of that, on a whole other level.

It was even impressive that Katie wasn't bothered by Scott having to be late. It was easy to imagine myself at 30 and having a girl needing to be late for something. I'd probably have had a fit and accused her of not caring enough about me or how it made me look. I would have tantrums when I didn't get my way. Yet Katie wasn't acting like that at all; she took her boyfriend's absence in stride. So what if he had an important last-minute meeting? She understood, and she simply waited for him patiently. Huge difference, I thought. She was lightyears more mature than I'd been at 30 (or 31).

"So Katie," I started. "Tell me how you and Scott met."

"Work," Katie grinned.

Tara just gave her a look that said come on.

"OK, OK," Katie laughed. "So, he's like the first actual man I've ever dated. Not that I ever dated women; I didn't mean that."

She glanced at Tara, and so did I.

"Oh, he knows," Tara said.

"Well, OK, yeah, I know it's snoopy of me, but I had to wonder," she said, laughing a little, slightly embarrassed. "Anyway, yeah, I wasn't really trying to bring that up. I just mean up until I met Scott, I'd really only dated boys. Like, they were my age, or usually a little older, four or five years older, some of them, but, well--guys anywhere around that age are all just kind of adrift, you know? I'd be seeing a guy, and I'd start to figure out that he didn't really have an actual career or any real plans, or even health insurance, or any savings or budgets. Gig economy shit, pick up work when he ran out of food. No real plans for the future, just fuck-all. And the thing is, I prioritize those kinds of things. If you're an adult, you have to, right? But they just don't.

"They were fine with living in seedy fuckin' apartments that weren't comfortable for anyone coming over. They just seemed like they were coasting through life, no plans, not a lot of self-awareness, just didn't seem to give a shit about anything. My first boyfriend after college was this dude who was 25, and I was 21. Even back then, I felt more like his mom than his partner. I used to have to nag him about doing his laundry, and half the time I'd end up just fucking doing it for him, 'cause he kept running out of clean underwear." She chortled at the idea.

I felt myself wincing a little as she spoke; this sounded all too familiar.

"And for some reason I just kept trying. You know, just thought that well, that was a bad one, but the next one will be better. But they never fucking were. Even by the time I was 28, 29, I was dating guys who were like 10 years older than me, and they still couldn't do the most basic things on their own; they didn't do laundry, couldn't cook, they were always behind on bills, house always a mess. These were guys in their mid or late 30s, right? I have been doing all those kinds of things since I was 13, and I also took care of my younger brother. I didn't want to feel like someone's babysitter or their older sister--not when he was supposedly my boyfriend, my partner. I'd find myself cleaning a dude's house and helping him pay his bills, and I'd ask myself what the fuck I was doing and why."

Katie paused, took another sip, and flipped her hair back again.

"So after that, I was alone for a while. I was done with all that shit. And then I met Scott through work. I always thought he was sexy--he's got some nice gray hair and some lines on his face and he just looks kinda rugged and like he's seen some shit, right? And he acts like a grown man, like a real adult, you know? I was a little surprised at how comfortable I felt around him. But I wasn't thinking he was gonna ask me out or anything. I kept daydreaming about him, though, like wondering what it would be like if the two of us ever did go out. I wasn't sure he'd be interested in someone my age, right? I knew I could keep up with him, but I didn't know if he realized that.

"So one day I ran into him, and we got to talking--our talks were always fun and long and interesting. And before I knew it, I was asking him out."

Katie was laughing in spite of herself. Tara and I were both grinning.

"I know, right?" she continued. "I barely even knew I was doing it; the words just came out. He looked pretty surprised. I started getting scared--like, oh, shit, what did I just do. But then he's like, yeah, sure, I'd like to go out with you. He did know how old I was, but it didn't seem like it mattered to him. I'm all like, phew.

"And holy shit, once we started going out, it was life-changing. Like, he planned actual dates. He started taking me out two or three times a week. He introduced me to new bars and restaurants. He found interesting things for us to do in the city. He always had stuff to talk about. He would pick me up, he'd open doors for me, take my hand, and he'd flirt with me in a really cute way. He owns more clothes than just t-shirts. He dresses up for dates. He takes the lead in bed, too--I'm having orgasms like I've never ever, seriously."

"Oh, tell me about it," Tara interjected, grinning.

I cringed; this seemed like overshare.

Katie was unfazed, though: "Yeah, girl!" She turned to me and gave me an approving look.

Tara was blushing a little.

"Anyway," Katie said, still laughing, "the point is, he's actually a grownup, a real fucking man. Scott owns a house, with actual grown-people furniture. He has a full-on career, and he plans real vacations for us. He puts effort into his life and into our relationship--and it shows. He really impressed me, still impresses me.

"So now, suddenly I don't feel like someone's mother, like I felt with all my exes--it's like I have an equal partner in life. He's a full-ass adult man, not a boy. Plus, he's confident, he's a leader, he doesn't sit back and wait for something to happen. He says what he wants, takes what he wants, never hesitates or fumbles or stalls at all." Katie grinned. "It's sexy as hell."

Tara smiled along, clearly charmed by the story, even though I was sure she'd heard it before. I had the sense that she'd heard it all before, and not just from Katie.

"So you're a good match," I offered.

"Yeah, we totally are. We're right for each other. I also think it's an emotional maturity thing, though. It just seems like guys who are maybe 15 or 20 years older than us are more at our maturity level than guys our same age. And you always hear that women mature faster than men, so that's gotta be the reason."

"I'm pretty convinced that's it," Tara said. "I mean, yeah, you do always hear about girls maturing faster than boys, but usually when people say that, they're just talking about how girls start puberty so much earlier. But it's more than that, way more than that, and it goes for way longer than that. People just aren't really aware of how long it really goes for. It's years and years."

Tara turned to look at me. "We've actually talked about this, Adam and I have--there are brain differences, big differences, not just about, like, girls being taller when they're 13; we end up being way, way more mature a lot sooner--emotionally mature. It keeps going right through your 20s and into your 30s. There's a whole longterm brain development thing that makes a huge difference--it's what you're really talking about." She was looking at Katie. "Developmental maturity."

I was nodding along. "I'd really never thought about it before, but I gotta admit, Tara's got a real point. Thinking back, it just makes sense. I never really had a very serious relationship before, and when I sort of did, my girlfriends would always end up telling me they felt like I needed to grow up, stuff like that. At the time I thought they were just being toxic, but I do get it now."

"People give me shit about it sometimes," Katie said. "Our age gap, I mean, mine and Scott's. Like, this one chick actually said, 'Girl, he's grooming you.' And I'm like, 'Bitch, I'm a grown-ass woman, don't tell me I'm being groomed. How do you know I'm not grooming him?!'" She laughed.

"Yeah, that grooming shit seems like it's a fad idea," I said. "You'll hear about it with any age gap--oh, the guy's a few years older, so he must be grooming her. He's just manipulating her."

"Do you two ever get that kinda shit?" Katie asked.

"Once," Tara said.

I looked her direction; I hadn't known this.

"Someone I work with in biosciences," Tara said. "She found out I'm seeing Adam, and she tried to 'warn' me about it. It's this older lady, another instructor, like in her 70s."

Tara turned to me. "Doris Greenlaw."

I just nodded. I knew of Doris, and it sounded about right.

"Anyway," Tara continued, "I just laughed. Like, I'm 29 years old. I'm not some young, naive little thing. I'm as mature as he is. Back off."

"Good on you," Katie said.

Scott arrived right about then. He bought everyone another round of drinks before he sat down, which I thought was pretty cool of him. I found him an affable guy, easy enough to talk to. I also didn't think he quite looked his age; I wouldn't have guessed he was over 50. He did have a slightly rugged look, though, like Katie had mentioned. He wasn't the Marlboro Man or anything, but he did have character in his face.

The thing that impressed me the most was how easy and comfortable it was for the four of us to chat. Before all this, I wouldn't have thought guys in their 40s or 50s would have a lot to talk about with women in their 20s or early 30s--but we did, and it was effortless. We were all at about the same level.

I realized in the course of the conversation: their maturity, Tara's and Katie's, didn't show itself so much because of anything in particular they did. It was all about what they didn't do--no neediness, no insecurity, no whininess, none of the self-indulgent drama of unformed youth. Sure, Katie was in the habit of swearing a lot, but her actual behavior was that of a grown woman. Both of them never really reacted emotionally to anything; they just responded. These were traits--being needy or insecure--that I myself might have displayed within recent memory. It was only around the time I'd turned 40 that I had finally shed that kind of stuff. I'd already been pondering this question for a while, since I'd met Tara, but it continued to haunt me: how was it that she and Katie were so far ahead? Tara had explained all that, but it still seemed like a grand mystery to me.

---

Tara and I were at the point where we spent a lot of time together--most of our free time, really. At work, we'd stop by or meet up whenever possible. We'd walk together on campus (and I was now a little less concerned about what anyone else might think or say). Off hours we mostly spent together, too. The two of us went grocery shopping a lot, whether for her place or mine. We'd eat out, or she'd cook for me, or once in a while (at my insistence) I would attempt to cook for her. (She was always kind and polite about it, but I'm pretty sure she was mostly just being nice.)

She had always been relatively modest with her clothing choices, but as time went on, I noticed that she was wearing things that were tighter and more revealing on days when we were able to see each other. One time, we met up for tea at the cafe and I was all but shocked to see her in a top that blatantly revealed three full inches of cleavage. (I was also very turned on by it.) At either of our homes, she rarely bothered wearing anything on top. It was as though she was trying to tease me, constantly--or tempt me, rather, since I could do something about the feelings she inspired in me.

Even when we didn't have time for sex--or when we'd already done it--just seeing her, talking with her, being with her was always a joy. Tara wasn't merely a beautiful woman; she was like a work of art to me, an erotic sculpture come to life, and simultaneously she was the best friend I'd ever had.

I could be myself with Tara, completely and without holding anything back. I'd never had that before, and I only was realizing that as the days and weeks went by. This was indeed real for me, for the first time in my life.

I adored everything about her. I enjoyed every moment we spent together. Occasional disagreements? Sure, they happened, but neither of us ever got mean-spirited or especially angry. We simply worked out our differences, logically, tenderly, compassionately. With her, I learned that I should always try to understand the other person's point of view. It seemed suddenly obvious to me that this was a good idea.

I loved our conversations; they went on forever sometimes. I also liked being with her when neither of us felt like talking. We'd just lay there, watching or listening to something, or even just in silence; there was an implicit comfort in our time together.

I liked Tara's form a lot, of course. I adored the shape of her breasts, the way they ballooned out from her chest, plump and endlessly enticing. Even clothed, they were hypnotic. I knew every inch of them bare, but when covered, they still held mystery, still teased with suggestion.

One day it hit me: it wasn't just their shape, or the dramatic contrast against her slender frame, or even the simple fact that she had a body part I didn't. I'd always sensed there was more to the male attraction to breasts than curves and softness. And now, I felt like I understood.

It was because her breasts could do something. They had a purpose. They weren't just ornamental--they were functional, life-sustaining organs. On top of that, they were also sex organs.

Sure, they existed primarily to feed babies. That was their evolutionary purpose. And yes, people throw around jokes about men being overgrown babies, "playing with the kids' toys," all that snarky nonsense. But that missed the point. Breasts were symbols of power--feminine, biological power.

I never wanted to have breasts, or milk, or anything like that myself. But her innate ability made an impression. I had nothing that matched it. What, stronger muscles? Speed? None of it stacked up to a woman's ability to create nourishment from her own body, or to feel intense pleasure from being stimulated there.

I was drawn to Tara's breasts not just because they were improbably full for the size of her narrow frame, or because of their luscious, round shape, or because her red areolas were large and beautiful and fun to get my lips around, or because her long nipples were perfectly succulent. Not even just because they were hers.

I loved them mostly because of what she could do with them: feed, and have orgasms.

I'd never been with a girl who had milk, but I'd still sucked on women's breasts and loved every moment of it. And so did they, it seemed. Why had I done that? Was it some subconscious regression? Had I been pretending to be a baby? No. It wasn't that. It was about loving a woman's body--and the power it held.

Even then, I think I subconsciously knew. When I took their breasts in my mouth, it was an unspoken acknowledgment of what those breasts could do. And maybe the women I'd been with hadn't just enjoyed it for the sensation, but because on some primal level, they knew I was recognizing their power, their potential. I hadn't seen it that way at the time. Now, with Tara, I understood.

When I gazed at her breasts--clothed or bare --a longing would rise in me, gnawing and insistent. I wanted them. In my hands, in my mouth. I would have craved them even if she'd never made milk. She did have milk, though. That made my connection to them, and to her, something deeper, more elemental. She could literally share her body with me.

As much as this fed my unspoken desires, it was even better for Tara. I didn't have orgasms while I suckled from her. But sometimes, she did.

---

Well, she did end up getting me on a bike--a road bike, to be specific.

We ended up at Bicycle Bliss, the shop Tara haunted the most frequently. She'd convinced me that there were road bikes that were halfway decent and wouldn't cost me some extravagant amount.

Spring was on the way, but it was still slightly chilly in the mornings. That day, Tara was wearing another sleeveless blouse--again, I admired her pluck for casually revealing that she had hair under her arms without seeming self-conscious about it. She did have a jacket, but that came off in my car on the way, and she didn't bother putting it back on.

"Am I pushing you into this?" she worried aloud.

"Nah," I said immediately. "I could use the exercise, but also, the way you talk about it has really got me interested."

"OK, good," she grinned. She took my hand as we walked.

I had never realized how much work went into picking the right bike. I was measured carefully, and then we tried several bikes before finding one that had my blessing, Tara's blessing, and the shop owner Mike's blessing. "You're gonna like this one," he told me, and Tara concurred.

Bundled with the purchase: special shoes, a cycling jersey, padded bike shorts, a helmet, gloves, goggles, spare tube, a CO2 pump, some tools, a theft-proof lock, and a pair of tall plastic water bottles.

Tara pronounced me ready for the road.

---

A few days later, we were out on a trail. It was a paved bike path that wended its way through Albright Park, a large, forested open space. I'd been around its outskirts before, but never far inside.

Tara looked adorable in her tight yellow cycling jersey and equally tight black bike shorts, and I also thought her bike helmet looked cute on her. (She dismissed my takes, telling me that it was all "just cycling gear" and that this wasn't a fashion show. I countered that I was going to find practically anything she wore to be charming and attractive, so there.)

That jersey really made her breasts stand out, which was fun. When she caught me staring at them, she told me that she hadn't pumped much that morning, just a little bit to relieve pressure. "Cycling can take a lot out of you," she said, "so at some point, I think you'll need some nourishment." Her smile was warm and sultry.

The interior of the park was beautiful; I'd had no idea and was stunned at how lush it was. Tara, the experienced cyclist, took the lead. As nice as the park was, my eyes kept being drawn to her ass, flexing and undulating as she pedaled. She was visual poetry, sleek and elegant. My ride started to get uncomfortable, because I had to somehow pedal while dealing with a huge lump in my clingy bike shorts.

I struggled to keep up with her sometimes, partly because I had a hard-on, but mainly because she was a fast rider. It was surprising how easily she would unintentionally pull ahead of me, only to look back and then slow to let me catch up. She did that for miles and miles. Her stamina was remarkable.

I liked the bike and was having fun on the ride, but it was starting to exhaust me. Tara had been right about that. I wasn't used to it.

She seemed to sense my growing fatigue, and pulled over at a clearing; there were a couple of picnic tables a few yards away. I stopped, too, of course, and I spent a minute gulping down water.

"You know, you can do that while you're riding, too," she chuckled.

"I'm new to it," said between gulps. "Too busy trying to stay balanced."

"Well, here, let's dump the bikes and go sit down."

We picked a table, then sat and kissed for a couple minutes. "So how do you like it?" she asked.

"I like it a lot," I said, "but I definitely gotta get used to it."

"Yeah, I know how it feels," she said. "Things get a lot better. You just gotta keep doing it."

"I will," I said, and I kissed her again.

Tara broke the kiss abruptly, though, and started unzipping her jersey. I gave her a look--what are you doing, we're in public!--but she said, "Oh, don't worry, no one's out here, no one to see. I don't even care if they do."

Jersey now split completely open, she showed me her bra, a sports bra with a secret. "It's a sports nursing bra," she said with a delightful grin. Then she worked a little clip just above the bra cup, and pulled the cup down to fully expose her plump, beautiful breast. There was an absorbent nipple pad in the cup, and she took it out and put it aside. "Let's get comfortable," she purred.

"You sure? Out here in the open?"

She shrugged. "No one's around, and even if someone rides by, they're not gonna notice. And even if they do notice, good, enjoy the show. I don't think we have anything to be ashamed of."

We struggled to find a good position. We figured out that if I laid with my head in Tara's lap, and she pushed her legs up somewhat, it would put my mouth in range of her nipple. I put an arm around her back while she grasped a breast and held it to my lips. I opened up and stretched around her areola, and started suckling.

Tara let out a long, joyful sigh. "God, you feel good," she said.

It took a couple minutes for her letdown reflex to kick in, and then the tiny hints of sweetness coming from her nipple turned into sprays on my tongue. The wind was whispering through the trees, and it felt like Tara and I were alone in the world. Nursing from her was as pleasant as it had ever been.

I'd been feeding for maybe a couple minutes when Tara let out another long sigh. That was enough to make me stop for a second.

"You OK?" My lips were right in front of her nipple; the expanse of her areola was coated with saliva and milk.

"Yeah, yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, it just feels really super-good right now." She was looking down at my face. "It's like, every time you tug on my nipple, I feel it in my clit. It's like you're sucking on my clit, too. Feels so amazing."

Full of milk now, words were getting difficult for me again. I managed: "Keep going?"

"Fuck yeah, you should keep going," she grinned.

And so I did.

I couldn't help myself. I had been stroking her back under her jersey, but now I moved it to the back of her bike shorts and pushed my fingers under the shorts and her panties; she lifted her ass a little to help. My fingers went far enough to reach her thick little forest, and I found her clit hood--it was kind of large, easy to locate. I started stroking, and her hips shifted around erotically in response. She was essentially sitting on my hand, but she was light enough that it didn't bother me.

"Oh, god," she said suddenly. "Oh god, oh god."

Her whole body shivered and jolted, and she let out a long, mournful wail. The sprays of milk on my tongue became more intense. She shook.

When it ended, she was panting. "Oh, man, you really made me come hard," she laughed. "Wow. Blended, nipples and my clit. Although--" she looked down at me as I continued to breastfeed--"I felt like it might have happened even if you didn't put your fingers down there."

"Mm-hmm!" I didn't want to release her breast.

"Well, now I'm gonna need you inside me," she declared.

That was enough to make me release her breast. "Where? Right here?"

"Right here, yeah."

"Tara--"

"I don't care. No one is out here. I could scream and howl and there'd be no one to hear me. And maybe I'll end up doing that." She was grinning.

I sat up, and Tara stood and pulled down her bike shorts and her panties, and took them completely off (she struggled a little getting them over her cycling shoes). Her thick pubic bush was tousled, and the little hairs were practically stranding on end; I noticed little curled clumps of wetness. She looked primal and powerful.

I could hear wind still blowing through tree branches, and a few bird songs; otherwise, though, it was dead silent. Maybe Tara was right: there was no one out here.

"Sorry, I just can't help it, can't help how I feel," she was saying, standing there in front of me in her open jersey, cycling shoes, and nothing else. "After I come from my nipple, I need you inside me. The nipple gives me this high, sharp orgasm and now I just feel unfinished." She looked directly at me. "You don't mind being inside me, do you?"

I stood, pulled my bike shorts down to let my hard cock spring free, and then plopped back down on the bench. "Have a seat," I told her.

There was a difference between us as a man and a woman, I was thinking right then. Women love sex, love everything about it. They want the experience, to enter a world of intimacy and pleasure. Guys, we just want it.

Tara crawled onto my lap, facing me. Together, we guided my penis into her very wet vagina. She was hot and tight; we both moaned as our bodies joined. She worked on the clip of her other, still-closed bra cup and opened it so I had access to both breasts. I suckled her a little while she pumped her hips on me.

Within a couple minutes, she was taking my entire length into her body, thrusting herself down onto me with serious enthusiasm. I stopped feeding and kissed her upper chest, her neck, her lips.

"God, I feel like you're just so deep right now." Her face was slowly turning red. The scent of her sunblock was sweet.

Her hips started slamming down onto me harder. "Oh, gawwwd," she whined. "Oh, god, oh god. It's just so deep and it's so intense." She looked down at me. "I feel like--I feel like it's--I dunno, it's like it's hitting something, feels good, I'm not sure, but--"

She thrust even harder and faster, and yelped and howled. "Oh, god, Adam, I'm gonna come again, I'm gonna come. Shit, it's gonna be a big one. Oh god."

I noticed that I could feel a sort of popping sensation at the head of my dick, a weird sort of tightness there at the very end; I did feel like I was deeper inside Tara than I'd ever been. Maybe it was because of the position we were in?

Tara howled, very loud. The howl became a throaty scream. Her face went beet red, and perspiration beaded up on her forehead. Tiny droplets of milk hung from her swollen nipples.

"Ohhh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," she breathed. "Oh, god, this is big, oh god, it's big. It's so big. Ohhhh fuck it's huge." Choked moans gave way to sobbing. "Oh my god, oh my god," she cried, bawling. The orgasm went on and on. Her face had turned so red it was scary.

Having her unravel like this made me feel exhilarated and slightly frightened.

Right then, a pair of cyclists zoomed by on the path about 15 feet away. One looked our direction and gave me a thumbs-up.

Tara was still coming. She was fully crying now, her head on my shoulder, as her body spasmed and jerked. Slowly, her breathing went back to normal and she quieted down.

She put her lips on mine and kissed me deeply. "That was incredible," she whispered, out of breath. "Like, biggest ever, best ever. I can't even describe it. Like, I think I have to look this up or something."

I laughed a little.

"No, I'm serious. You touched something inside me, way up in there, you were pushing into it, and it felt--well, it felt like a religious experience or something, like God was talking to me. I know that sounds ridiculous. I'm not saying God was really talking to me, but it felt like it."

I really wasn't sure how to respond to this. I was happy and even a little proud, but I didn't completely understand what had happened to her, much less what I'd done right. And I could barely find words right then, anyway--the breastmilk had worked its magic on me, and I was drunk.

"I wonder if this was a cervical orgasm or something," she mused. "I dunno. I don't think it was. I know what it feels like when you poke my cervix, and this didn't feel like that. Hmm, I wonder."

My lips found a breast again and I started feeding a little; I figured she needed time to process whatever just happened. Oh, and I was so aroused at that point I felt like I was going to explode, so I needed something that would calm me down a little.

Her hand played with the hair on the back of my head.

"Oh, right, you haven't come yet." She was grinning. "Here, let's make sure you come." Tara climbed off me and knelt in front of my red, creamy wet erection. "Let me say thank you."

Without another word, she wrapped her lips around my cock and started bobbing tightly. It felt incredibly good, and I knew I wouldn't last very long. She popped her mouth off it for a second and jacked me with her hand: "I'm gonna swallow your come. I wanna taste you. Let me have it. I want to swallow."

If I was turned on before, I was ten times more turned on now. Meanwhile, Tara's mouth was back on my penis, bobbing faster than ever. She had a way of getting her lips really tight as she sucked, and it made the sensation overwhelmingly good. Her hand wrapped around the base of my cock and squeezed firmly, which felt good, too. She was lightly playing with my balls using her other hand. It felt almost like sensory overload.

"Oh no," I heard myself gasp. "Oh, no. Oh, fuck." Everything in my lower half was tightening and preparing.

A rush of pleasure coursed through my pelvis, followed by an explosion and some aftershocks that shot huge gobs of my come into Tara's mouth. She was sucking on the very tip of my penis, sucking really hard, as if she was trying to draw every drop of sperm out. I could hear myself moaning. I had the sense that she was drawing the come directly out of my balls. It felt like she was pulling my soul out between her lips.

When it was over, she just looked at me pleasantly, and then visibly gulped.

"Yummy," she said. "It's good for me, too. Lots of protein, zinc, folate." She swallowed the last bit. "I think it's so cool how our bodies are good for each other."

One of her hands was on my ass, squeezing. The fingers of her other hand spent a minute toying with my pubic hair and tracing around my scrotum.

Then she stood and walked over to her bike, grabbed a water bottle, and took a gulp. "We should head back," she said.

I'd really never been with a girl like this before--it was becoming more and more obvious.

---

After we got back to my place, we parked the bikes in the little garage and took a quick shower together to rinse off. After, Tara spent some time with my laptop, looking things up.

A few minutes later, she summoned me.

"Anterior fornix orgasm," she announced. "A-spot. That has to be what it was."

I just nodded, not really following.

She could tell. "It's this little area, kind of like a pocket next to the cervix. And it's not very well understood, but if you stimulate it enough, like get something in there really deep--you know, maybe a huge, long penis--" Tara laughed a little. "It can cause these gigantic, earth-shattering orgasms. Like, one woman said--" She paused to read a quote. "'Everything else stops. The world goes on hiatus as my body becomes my life.' Or, here's another: 'Bells were struck that never rang in churches.' Oh, oh, and this: 'The orgasm was incredibly intense and it had this gigantic afterglow; I felt its effects on me for days.'"

Those quotes reminded me of what I read in her female sexual response book.

Tara looked up at me with a big, excited grin. "And I had one! You gave me one. I'm so happy." She snuggled in and kissed me. "You're like the orgasm master. You make me come in all these ways I never even knew were possible. Kinda reminds me of jazz, in a way. You have this amazing rhythm and it makes me want to play all these crazy notes. It's like this utter chaos that's so enjoyable, so deeply enjoyable."

---

Late that afternoon, Tara was walking around my house, doing some straightening and getting ready to cook dinner.

"I know you were busy all week," she told me, dusting a vase. "Just thought I'd help a little. I'll start dinner in a few." She had brought groceries with her that morning, and had other ingredients in the fridge and cupboards.

I would have at least tried to help her clean my house, but the thing was, I could barely move. I was stiff and so completely exhausted from the ride (and from sex). I was not out of shape; in fact, I was a regular runner. Cycling may have been a different sport, but even after running I needed some recovery time. Tara was of course younger than me and would recover faster just based on that. Still, though! She was relaxed, carefree, full of energy, as if we hadn't just spent hours and miles in the park.

Some might say, well, you were 43, dude. But 43 was not all that ancient. Even if I'd been out on a road bike for the first time when I myself was 29, I still wouldn't have been bouncing around afterward like a caffeinated jackrabbit. Tara was, though.

This wasn't new to me. Memories drifted in--former girlfriends who always seemed to spring back after long runs, hikes, or marathon sex sessions while I was left feeling like I'd done three shifts at a steel mill. Wendy could hike six hours and would then want to go out dancing. April would run a 10K with me in the morning and then suggest a game of pickleball in the afternoon. I hadn't thought much of it at the time. Now, though, seeing Tara moving through my house without a hint of fatigue, it felt like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place, a pattern I hadn't known I'd been slowly recognizing.

I asked Tara if she was superhuman.

She smiled, reaching up to dust the upper shelf of my bookcase. "No," she said lightly. "I am female, though." She gave me a look over her shoulder. "I mean, I do rides like that all the time, so you can't be hard on yourself. But also, if you want the biology of it: estrogen protects muscles--it's good at preventing fatigue and damage and stuff like that. Girls just recover faster. It's why we're better at distance stuff, endurance. We're built for the long haul."

It made sense. It was also a little unfair--and still kind of beautiful.

Dinner was butternut squash with sage risotto, served with arugula salad (lemon vinaigrette, toasted pine nuts) and warm, crusty bread with olive oil for dipping. She poured us a bright, crisp Pinot Grigio. It was perfect--light but flavorful, exactly what I didn't know I'd been craving. And while we ate, I kept marveling at how she'd put this whole meal together after that long ride. I didn't say anything more about it, mostly because I felt that same old bio-envy creeping in and needed to quietly process it.

Later, when we had sex again, she got on top and rode me.

"I'll do the work," she said with a wicked little grin. "That way you can just rest and enjoy it."

I lay back, watching the way her hips undulated obscenely, slow and steady and sensuous, her body moving with effortless rhythm. I felt the warmth of her slide, the flex and press of muscle, the clench and release as she came repeatedly. I wanted to stay like that forever.

And yeah--I was bone-tired, every inch of me aching. But watching her move like that, hips rolling, eyes dark and hungry, gave me the kind of ache I wouldn't trade for anything. It was its own kind of recovery, a reward for all the exhaustion. It was something primal and soft and perfect.

---

It was a lazy Saturday morning, and the two of us were lying around in bed listening to one of Tara's science podcasts. This had become a habit, listening to (and sometimes watching) each other's favorite podcasts--I had my music ones and guitar ones and some others, and hers were mostly about science. (Yeah, she had a fashion one she liked, and one about makeup, but she didn't try to force them on me.)

This particular day, we were listening to a show I was starting to really enjoy--it was by a famous scientist who was pretty good on TV and did a lot of media stuff. He'd written books, and I happened to have read one of them, years before. Today's topic of discussion on the podcast was biology, so Tara was particularly enthused. The scientist and his guests were going over misconceptions about calories and food consumption and physiology and stuff like that.

Tara was excited enough about the episode that she was practically bouncing on the bed, which was especially interesting for me, since she wasn't wearing anything on top. Her cute tits were bouncing right along with her, and I definitely liked seeing that.

In our podcast ritual, both of us were usually half naked. (The ritual would just happen; we never really planned it.) Usually, we both slept with only some kind of pajama bottom--sweat shorts for me, girly PJ bottoms for her. This day, I had already been out to the gym to do some upper body, so after I came home and showered, I pulled on some shorts before climbing back into bed with Tara. We cuddled and talked while we enjoyed the show.

At one point, she paused playback on her Android. "This right here! That's totally it."

Tara was looking up at me, her face bright.

"People have this idea that all you have to do is exercise and you're healthy," she went on. "And it's really not true. I mean, it helps. I think of myself as sort of an athlete and stuff, but still, it's just not enough. Exercise matters but what you eat matters a lot more."

I gazed at her, listening; I found her little lectures entertaining and kind of fun. I loved that I had a girlfriend who was intelligent and had opinions, and I was always interested in her takes. One of my earlier girlfriends, April, from when I was in my late 20s, was essentially a robot. She would parrot stuff I said, but really didn't seem to have a lot of thoughts of her own. She'd been about 23 at the time, though, and I'd since wondered if it was just a product of her young age. Maybe she'd grown since then.

Tara was poking her finger into my chest. "You, mister. You're getting healthier just by being around me all the time."

My voice had a half-laugh in it. "Yeah, I think you're probably right. You've got me thinking about going full vegetarian. You're a really good cook."

She nodded. "Yeah, and I'm glad you like it so much, but I didn't mean just that."

I raised my eyebrows; I didn't understand.

"What I'm talking about is," she continued, "the other thing you're consuming a lot of."

I felt my face making a confused expression.

Tara gestured in front of her chest. "My breastmilk," she said.

I paused and considered this for a second. "It's good for me?"

Bursting into a grin: "Hell yeah, it's good for you. Really good for you. Bunch of different ways, even."

"I had no idea."

Tara scooched up and turned toward me. "Nutrients, vitamins, minerals--all that, and in really good combinations. And it's got anti-carcinogens, antioxidants, anti-inflammatories, even antibacterials. Lysozyme, that's the antibacterial. You can actually use breastmilk to disinfect an open wound. Amazing, right? And lactoferrin, that's an antimicrobial that has antiviral properties, too."

She stopped and thought for a second, looking up at the ceiling. "Immunoglobulins--those are the antibodies. Leukocytes--white blood cells. Cytokines, they're for immunity. Antimicrobial peptides, growth factors like EGF and TGF." Tara stopped, looked at me, and grinned: "Yeah, it's really super-healthy."

"It really sounds like it," I said. "Kind of impressive, really."

"Yeah, and then just nursing from me increases your levels of oxytocin--that's the cuddle hormone--and that'll help regulate your blood pressure, too.

"But every time you feed from me, it's like I'm giving you my immune system for a few hours. That's a really good thing. Like, for one, well, I hate to get back on this topic, but as a woman, my immune system is a lot stronger than yours--I make better antibodies, more flexible and a lot more powerful. But when you nurse from me, you're getting them, all my antibodies, so it makes your immunity so much better.

"The key thing is that you're getting female antibodies. They work a lot better. They have higher affinity than a male's--that means they bind tighter to the invading pathogens--and they fit onto them better too, sort of like matching puzzle pieces. And our antibodies are more diverse. That means they fit onto more places on the pathogens, so it's a more overwhelming attack. So it's like: they attack way more sites on the invaders, and every attack is more devastating.

"And then it's even better than that, even better than just getting the antibodies I've already made, 'cause it's all customized."

She stopped for a second and looked directly at me. "This OK? I know I'm lecturing again. You'd let me know if I was boring you, right?"

I was shaking my head, grinning. "No, you're not boring me. I like the fact that I'm always learning from you. It's one of the things I love about you."

We'd started saying "I love you" recently. And I wasn't just saying the words; I meant them, really for first time in my life. And I knew Tara meant it when she said it, too.

"OK, good," she said. She started gesturing a little as she talked. "OK, so yeah, my milk has customized antibodies for you. What happens is, when you nurse from me, your saliva gets on my areola, right? And my areolas have receptors that pick up on any pathogens you've been exposed to. So, say there are viruses and I have antibodies for them--they go into my milk, so you get them. And if I haven't been exposed, I make antibodies for it and I start passing them to you. Like I said, a woman's antibodies are stronger than a man's, so getting mine inside you means you're way less likely to come down with something. No matter what you get exposed to, whether I've been exposed or not, I give you female antibodies for it.

"Isn't that cool? So like I said, you're probably already way healthier than you were before." She had a sweet, satisfied grin. I noticed her nipples looked like they were swelling.

"This whole time," I said, "I was a little worried that maybe it was bad for me or something. Like, it's really for babies, so maybe it's not good for adults." I shrugged.

"Not at all. Really, the current thinking is that breastmilk was never just for babies. That's just an assumption people make because, well, when you give birth, you have milk, right? But look at me: I've never been pregnant and I have milk. I am really not that big an anomaly. And like, on days when you and I aren't together, I pump around 30 ounces. That's a ton of food; it's like 500 calories worth. On the days where you pretty much take all my milk, that's like a fifth of your total calories for the day, something like that." Tara looked proud.

I noticed the faint blush of the skin on her chest and the way her breath had slowed, and I recognized that this was one of those moments where the space between us had disappeared, where closeness just was, without either of us having to reach. Her nipples had darkened and tightened--a lovely, erotic echo of our intimacy.

"The thinking is," she said, "that since women can bring in their milk even if they've never given birth, there must have been a reason for it, like, in evolution. I'm talking maybe 200,000 years ago or so. Early humans."

"Well, maybe it's like that so the younger women could help out with breastfeeding," I offered.

"Probably," she said, nodding. "That probably did happen a lot. But I don't think it's the whole story. People lived in families even back then. Families and tribes. We know that from physical evidence, archeological evidence. So even before a woman has given birth, when she took mates, she was probably breastfeeding them. We figure they were probably polyamorous. But it just makes sense that she would feed them: she probably had breastmilk already just because there were babies around and she started out dry nursing them to help out, then wet nursing once her milk came in. And then when she started taking mates, it would only be natural that they'd feed from her, too."

"Why, though?"

"Well," she grinned, "for one thing, it's just part of sex, really. If you have milk, you want to share it. But also, food was scarce, or at least they had to work hard to get it. We assume that women had priority for the food, too, because there was such a big need for breastfeeding. Lots of kids around, right? They had to be cared for. But this way, the men benefitted too, and got better quality food--not that they really understood that, but it was true. Breastmilk is a superfood. Feeding the adults would be like protecting the tribe. I love that."

I smiled and kissed her, not just because of what she was saying, but because I could feel the quiet heat building between us. Her nipples had flushed an even deeper pink, and the skin around them glossed with a faint sheen. I knew what that meant; so did she.

I'd been staring at her breasts, and when I looked up, she flashed me a grin--I'd been caught.

"I was hoping you'd get the hint," she teased, her gaze dipping briefly to her breasts before locking on mine, a spark of heat in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It's important that we do this pretty often so we keep your immunity high."

I was already scooting down, and Tara turned back on her side and moved closer to me. Her breasts jutted away from her body, proud and firm, alluring and seductive. The hard bulb of her nipple was brushing warmly over my lips, and I opened up to take her in.

Tara sighed pleasantly.

After a minute or so, her milk was flowing into my mouth, and my stomach grew warm. Tara's fingers traced lazily through my hair as her other hand held the breast to my lips; I could feel her relax around me, as if this was exactly the place she'd hoped we'd land.

Tara's breasts never stopped playing a major role in our sex life. We had sex a lot, although neither of us thought of that as the foundation of our relationship, but it did play a big part. A lot of people think of (straight) sex as people joining their bodies to create mutual pleasure, an idea we couldn't help but agree with. Thing was, that idea was about the woman taking a man inside her--that's how two bodies were united. Obviously, we loved doing that, but we had another way to merge our bodies, something that seemed even more profound and meaningful: I would take Tara's breastmilk into my body as food.

Consuming Tara's milk was part of loving her; it seemed as vital a component to me as everything else we did. It felt very intimate for both of us, physically, but also emotionally; the taste of her milk was wonderful, but so was the idea that something she'd made in her body was becoming part of mine.

We talked about that on occasion, how amazing it was that at any given time, I was using calories and minerals from her breastmilk to make new cells, and for energy to go about my day. It was intimate because we were both very aware that our bodies were blending together; she was becoming part of me. Other things we did together just helped complete the picture--although those things were only temporary, whereas Tara's milk became a permanent part of my physical being.

I never talked about what we did with anyone, save for Katie, who knew that Tara had milk and knew that breastfeeding was part of our sex life. It's not that I was ashamed at all, because I wasn't. I just didn't think many people would understand (and besides, it was mostly a private thing between the two of us). The average person would probably assume two things: she must be pregnant, and I must have some kind of infantilism thing.

Most people do not realize that a woman can breastfeed without ever having been pregnant, and they would automatically assume that we had a baby on the way. The handful of guys Tara had dated before we met had reacted badly when she tried to tell them; one yelled at her in a restaurant and stormed out, accusing her of dating him while carrying some other dude's child. None of them could get it through their heads that her lactation had started spontaneously, entirely unrelated to pregnancy, and that she could keep up her milk supply indefinitely. Her abilities seemed like superpowers to me, so maybe those dudes were just intimidated or something, who knows.

After I finished feeding, I scooted back up and we kissed. Then, she lay back, I climbed over her, and then we merged our bodies.

---

I had to talk her into it, of course. We'd been working on "God Bless the Child" together, and I suggested we try picking up another tune. On a whim, I played her Sarah Vaughan's "East of the Sun." She immediately adored it.

"Why haven't I ever heard this song before?" she demanded. "It's so great! I dunno, you think I can do this one? Could I pull it off?"

"If you can handle 'God Bless,' you can definitely do this one."

And she could. She made it her homework for a couple of days while I got comfortable with the chord progressions. The first time we tried it together, it was almost perfect, and--don't judge me for this!--I had to hold back tears. Tara was really good and listening to her sing it made me emotional. The girl naturally sang from her heart and it always pulled me in.

The next week, we picked up Julie London's "My Baby Just Cares for Me," which was another sultry, sensual number. And yeah, Tara aced it; it seemed easy for her to sound throaty, smoky, and sublime.

We spent some time working out some small backup harmony parts, mainly at her request. "I just like the way it sounds," she told me, "and I like the idea of us singing together." I liked it, too, although it always took me a few to get my voice warmed up enough to stay in key. This was something I'd noticed about Tara: she barely needed any warmup at all. I kept thinking: must be nice.

I mentioned this to her, and of course she was ready with an explanation: women had thinner vocal cords--which is why their voices were pitched higher--but this also allowed them to warm up more quickly. But also, estrogen tended to keep vocal cords more elastic and hydrated, which made them more ready to work. Men were more prone to dehydration-related voice problems, apparently.

Then came the part where I had to convince her to join me on stage to try singing one of the songs. That's what took some serious persuasion.

"I'd just freeze! Just stand there like a statue!" she protested.

"You're up in front of classes every day of the week. You're used to that, right?"

"Yeah, but it took me a while. When I first started I was fucking petrified," she said. "And that's just talking, not singing."

I shrugged. "This is really the same thing, though. And it's even better, because with the lights in your face, you can barely see the audience. Sometimes it feels like I'm all alone up there. If I want to forget there's anyone else around--except you--I can."

"Yeah, but--"

"Here's the thing, Tara: you have no trouble singing these songs. No pitch problems, no tone problems. It doesn't even feel like you're even trying that hard, right?"

She nodded. "It kinda feels like I'm just playing around."

"That," I told her, "is why you won't have any trouble doing this. You don't need to concentrate; you just have to be in the moment. You won't see the audience. You can just stand there and sing and pretend it's you and me in the front room, goofing around. You'll see."

"OK."

Holy shit, I was thinking: did I actually just convince her? Yes, I really had.

What really helped calm her terror was a visit to Take Five one afternoon. I had the guys turn down the house lights and get us set up--I worked with Lucas the sound guy a little bit to get a foldback monitor set up for Tara, so she could hear herself when she sang--and with just the stage lights, it really felt like it was a Saturday night and we were playing a gig. You couldn't tell whether there was an audience. Meanwhile, I plugged in and set up and got myself ready, too.

"This doesn't seem bad," Tara said into the mic, her voice booming and reverberating through the empty club.

I was laughing. "You can just talk to me directly," I said.

She laughed, too, and turned toward me: "Sorry! It just felt like I had to use the microphone."

Lucas had Tara sing a few lines, a cappella, so he could add a slight touch of warm reverb and some other effects to her vocal feed. I couldn't tell exactly what he did (maybe some equalization or compression?), but it didn't take much before she sounded amazingly good, even without a backing instrument.

We tried "God Bless the Child" and Tara nailed it. Seriously, goosebumps and tears. There was applause at the end--from the five people at work in the club, preparing for it to open in the evening--but it was all five of them, and the clapping sounded enthusiastic, not merely polite.

"See?" I said. "It's just like there was a crowd. You can't see anything out there unless you really look."

"I think I can do it," she said. Her smile was only slightly weak.

Three days later, she did do it.

I introduced her as "Miss Tara Ross"--her idea, it's what she wanted to be called. There was polite applause, punctuated by whoops from a few of her female students who'd showed had up to see her, even though she'd tried to keep it kind of a secret.

"Thank you," she said casually into the mic, once on stage. She didn't sound or look nervous at all. It was like she'd done it all before in a previous life.

Later, she told me she had indeed been terrified, but I never would have known. On stage, I started the opening chords, and suddenly Tara's big voice was filling the room: "Them that's got shall get, them that's not shall lose..."

When we finished, there was dead, stunned silence in the room for a second or two, and then thunderous applause and whooping like I had never heard. Tara froze, not sure what to do. She was standing there, staring into the lights. I jumped up and put my Gibson L-5 on its stand and stood next to her.

"Just say thanks and maybe bow a little bit," I said into her ear.

Tara woke up. She did say thank you into the mic, and then she did a charming little curtsey.

"I'm gonna go now," she said into my ear.

I just nodded.

After the sets were done, we sat around having a couple drinks; people kept coming up to talk to Tara. I was used to people talking to me afterwards, and some did, but I was thrilled that they recognized Tara and wanted to tell her how much they liked her song. They all seemed genuinely enthusiastic about it, and wanted to know when she would do more. I started thinking about how we could fill an entire set for her.

Janna came up to say, "I thought, well, I'm sure she'll be halfway decent, from what Adam told me, but I really didn't expect this. You were fantastic. When are you doing a whole show for us?"

Tara laughed at that, very embarrassed. "I dunno. I'm not sure if I could handle that."

"I think you could," Janna told her. "And I think our audiences would love you. You really have no formal training?"

"Just singing with my mom and stuff when I was little. I sing around the house when I'm cleaning and stuff. I try to sound like singers I've heard, but I never really thought anything about it."

"Well," Janna said, "maybe you should have."

"She has perfect pitch, too," I added.

"Oh, c'mon, stop," Tara protested.

Later, Tara tried to claim they were all just being nice.

"No, they weren't." I got very adamant with her. "No one made them come up to you. You were a pretty big hit, Tara. Seriously. I know you think I am probably just saying that, but you gotta know I'm not. Examine the whole thing like a neutral observer." (She had taught me that scientific term.)

She stayed quiet for a long moment. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I see it." Her voice sounded resonant and a little raspy when she said that, almost like her singing voice.

Two weeks later, I did another gig there, and Tara came up to sing again. That time, she did all three songs we'd been working on. At home, we kept learning more, building our way to a full set.

---

"Babe," came a text late one weekday morning. "Can't meet for lunch today. Helping at PLA, 11AM. You can stop by and hang out. If not too weird for you." She'd added a heart emoji.

I knew what this meant. The PLA was the Prolactin Association, an organization at the college. Before I knew Tara, I had seen the name mentioned here and there but had never put together what it was about. Tara had since explained: it was a group that supported college women who were interested in inducing lactation, usually so they could breastfeed other people's babies, a practice Tara said was called wet nursing. I'd never even heard of such a thing, nor had I realized it was going on at the campus. It was an active group, Tara had informed me.

The PLA maintained a service that let mothers drop off their babies and toddlers to be watched for a few hours at a time, where they'd be breastfed on demand by the young women working there. It also had a service that placed its members as wet nurses in private homes. The PLA's main purpose, really, was to help female students bring in their breastmilk.

According to Tara, this not necessarily all that difficult to do. "It can take time," she'd said, "like several months, and it takes diligence with breast stimulation, a few hours every day. But it's totally possible; it's a natural thing. That's part of why the PLA exists, to make that whole process easier, kind of like a support group. Nutrition, supplies--but also emotional support and encouragement. There are lots of hormones involved with lactogenesis, and they can affect your mood and stuff, so having a support system helps. Once a girl has her milk, she'll start helping out at the little daycare center and work on increasing her supply. And she might get matched with a mother from town who's looking to hire a wet nurse. The money's good."

I often wondered if this affected the dating scene at Cuesta at all. I doubted many of the guys on campus knew that lactation was even possible for these childless women, so they'd probably have been pretty surprised if they had made the discovery. Then again, I wasn't sure how many of the women were dating boys from campus anyway. It was only a two-year school, so the oldest boys would be maybe 21; Tara had implied more than once that boys that age might be too young for many of them. "A lot of the girls do like to date up," she'd told me, meaning that they were more interested in men who were at least a few years older. But even guys in their 30s would be surprised to find out their never-pregnant girlfriends had milk in their breasts. I had to wonder how the girls handled that situation. Tara herself once had trouble with that kind of thing, and it seemed like it would be a pretty common problem.

So, was I going to visit Tara at the PLA? She was right: it might be weird for me, maybe too weird. Her breasts were mine as far as I was concerned, not just because a good portion of my caloric intake came from them, but because they were symbols of our relationship and of our sex life. I didn't really want to share them with anyone, even infants--as ridiculous as I knew that sounded. My better angels won out, and I reframed my thinking: Tara was using her bodily powers to help the helpless. The mothers who dropped off their babies must have appreciated it. Not only was the service low in cost, but their children were provided real breastmilk directly from a human source, skin on skin, which, Tara insisted, was a big benefit, too.

As she had explained before, milk taken from the breast is customized for the person consuming it at that particular time--nutrients and probiotics, and antibodies against anything they might have been exposed to. For a child to get all that from more than one woman helped work to promote better health, and Tara said she was convinced that in prehistoric societies, shared nursing was practiced a lot because it increased a baby's odds of survival. Nursing from a breast also was a source of emotional comfort and bonding, Tara said, not just because of the skin-to-skin contact in general, but also lips-to-nipple contact. Apparently this helped the child to be able to form social bonds more easily later in life.

That was all well and good, but the thing was, up to this point, it had all been hypothetical to me. Yes, I knew that Tara had once breastfed her girlfriend's baby, and yes, I was aware that she occasionally helped out at the PLA nursery when someone couldn't make their shift. I'd never actually witnessed any of this, though, so I had a certain detachment. It had been all theoretical.

How would I react if I walked into a room and saw Tara with a baby feeding from her breast?

There was only one way to find out, I supposed. It seemed inevitable anyway. I knew that at some point I would be in the room when she was doing it, whether it was a PLA thing or helping out a friend, which also happened sometimes. She had a couple of friends with babies, and she would sometimes sit for them, and they always wanted Tara to breastfeed. Somewhere down the line, a child or a baby would be at my house, or over at hers while I was there, and she would end up needing to feed it. I figured I might as well get used to the idea, right?

I told Tara I would swing by the PLA before noon. Fine, she texted. See you then. It was like it was no big deal.

At about quarter to noon, I was approaching the PLA office. It was in a smallish separate building, unmarked, not conspicuous at all. The large windows in front were all mirror-tinted; you couldn't see inside. I texted that I was out front, expecting that she might come out to get me. Instead, she told me to come in. I found a reception area, just like a normal office, with a student at the front desk. When I told her I was there to see Tara ("Ms. Ross"), the young woman smiled and told me to "just go on back."

I headed around the corner and entered a somewhat darkened room full of plush chairs; soft instrumental music was playing. The air seemed thick with a kind of permanent hush.

Tara had slept over at my house the night before. In the morning, I had noticed things about the brandy-colored sweater she had chosen to wear: there were faint seams near the sides, almost invisible unless you just happened to spot them. They were hidden openings designed to part easily, granting access without the fuss of undressing. It was, in its way, an elegant piece of female armor: practical, discreet, intimate. And beneath it, a nursing bra, with its wide straps, soft cups, and quick-release latches. She had used this kind of stuff with me sometimes, like if we were going to be out all day and she knew she'd need some relief, or if we knew we were feeling especially intimate and wanted to take a few moments to be close but didn't have time to go home.

Tara was in a chair holding a sleeping infant. One of the slots on her sweater was opened wide, and a cup of her off-white nursing bra was pulled down to completely bare her breast. The nipple looked wet and red and erect, and I noticed that her areola was puffy and swollen. She had been nursing.

"Just fell asleep," Tara whispered, smiling, indicating the baby. "Come on over and sit." She was gesturing to a chair nearby. "Oh, by the way, this is Chloe."

I looked around--the room was kind of dark, and I hadn't noticed anyone else was there. But sure enough, a young woman, definitely a student, was sitting in another one of the soft chairs, slumping a little, sitting slightly sideways. She was a pretty thing with very short brown hair; her cute face reminded me of a pixie. She was completely bare-chested, no top, no bra, sitting there casually in only a pair of jeans. Her breasts were on the large side, somewhat bigger than Tara's, full and round, practically floating away from her chest. There was a wrap-around pillow around her waist, and an infant was lying there on its side. The infant was enthusiastically nursing from one of her nipples; I could see its little jaw moving urgently.

The girl looked up and grinned at me. "Hi," she whispered. "I'm Chloe."

"Adam," I said, trying very hard not to ogle her. It was weird, yeah. Very pretty girl, beautiful body, and here she was, casually slouching in a chair, breastfeeding. She had probably never been pregnant, yet she was feeding a baby with her nipple. It was amazing.

"I think the mom is due back pretty soon," Tara whispered to me, indicating the snoozing baby in her charge. "Once the next shift starts, we can go."

So I had just missed Tara in the act of nursing. That mostly spared me from any weird feelings I might have had, although she did still have a breast bared, and a few feet away, there was a student--Chloe looked about maybe 19--actively feeding a child. I had to fight not to gaze too much at Chloe's other breast, the one she wasn't using at the moment, because it was beautiful; her areola was dark pink, like Tara's, but was even larger in size, and the nipple looked like a big knot, swollen fat and powerfully red. I wasn't sure if it looked like that because she expected to use it soon, or because she'd already been using it. I wondered what her boyfriend thought about her abilities.

Later, Tara mentioned that Chloe was indeed 19, and that she did have a long-distance boyfriend, 23, away at another school. "She says he's a little younger than the guys she would typically date," Tara said, "but apparently he's mature for a guy his age."

Surprisingly, it didn't feel strange to be there. In fact, it felt natural, even inevitable. I'd accepted that childless women could do this--and perhaps had always done this, long before we started believing otherwise. I couldn't help but think how men had no equivalent. We had no way to give of ourselves like this, to sustain another life with our own bodies. It felt like a magic I'd never know. I didn't really envy the power to nurse, but I also didn't have abilities that seemed anywhere near as amazing. What sorcery could I do that came close to this? None, really.

"Heyyy," came a soft voice; the receptionist girl was walking in, holding another infant--one who was fussing. "Ms. Ross, a mom just dropped off Gracie here, and Olivia is running late and can't get here yet. Is there any way you could help? She's getting hungry."

"Sure," said Tara. She was already rising, trading one baby for another with a practiced ease I had to marvel at. "Tara, by the way. Just Tara." She was cradling the child against her shoulder like it weighed nothing. The baby made a soft, fretful sound, rooting against the fabric of Tara's sweater. She sat back down with it in her arms.

I couldn't help but wonder why Chloe couldn't have helped instead; her other breast was still free. But feeding two infants at the same time probably took some real effort, and Tara was right there, willing and able to offer her breast instead.

The receptionist girl smiled, watching. "I'd try to help, but my milk hasn't come in yet. Still working on it. Thanks, Tara."

Tara opened the other side of her nursing top, and her bra cup popped out. With a quick flick of her thumb across the bra's clasp, the fabric fell away. My breath caught in my throat--not from arousal, but something closer to reverence.

The areola looked a little swollen and her nipple was mightily erect; her breast was already preparing itself. She grabbed a nursing pillow from out of nowhere (had it been near the side of her chair?) and fit it around her waist, and then gently laid the fussy baby on it. On the pillow, the infant was right at chest level, perfect height. Tara held her breast and guided it as she gingerly pulled the baby's head in toward her. I watched in fascination as she flicked her nipple across the little lips, teasing.

I knew what her body could do for me, the way her milk tasted, the way it soothed, but watching her offer it to a child felt entirely different. This was a deeper magic, something more primal. It was a soft superpower.

"Come on," she coaxed in a soft, sing-song voice. "Come on, now."

It took about a minute of persistently brushing the nipple around the fussing baby's lips, but just when I was starting to doubt Tara's skills, the little mouth suddenly opened very wide. Immediately, she pulled the child onto her. The lips fastened onto her areola, and the baby started suckling. The latch was imperfect at first--shallow, hurried. I watched as Tara adjusted the angle and pressed at the infant's lips on her areola until it took more in and the suction deepened.

"The struggle is real," I heard Chloe whisper. She had a grin and slightly squinty eyes.

Tara let out a quiet sigh and smiled. In that moment, whatever residual unease I'd felt--the idea of sharing Tara's breasts, even with infants--evaporated. There was no possessiveness left in me, only a hushed awe. I knew that taste, that warmth. But seeing it given to someone else--someone so small, so helpless--made it feel like something greater than a lover's indulgence. This was about survival, and legacy, and ancient feminine magic.

Chloe was in the process of switching breasts; she had pulled the baby away from her nipple, and it felt prompted to start making unhappy noises. I could see that her big red areola was coated with off-white fluid. She shifted the baby's little body around so that it could meet her other breast; she started grazing the infant's lips with her thick, meaty nipple until they opened to accept her. A few seconds later, the baby was feeding again, and Chloe looked slightly relieved.

"Never easy," she said, grinning at me, her face angelic. She seemed unbothered by the fact that I'd been watching that whole time.

My attention went back to Tara. I had a moment of guilt for having gazed so long at Chloe and her breasts, but I was a guy, and it was a strangely fascinating sight to see a young, childless woman in the act of feeding an infant like that.

The same went for Tara, though, even more so. She seemed frozen, holding her breast to the infant's mouth while cradling its head with her other arm; her eyes were blissfully shut. The child was feeding eagerly, its tiny jaw working hard as it suckled.

When Tara and I used her breasts, it was nothing like this. Yeah, on the surface, it might have seemed vaguely similar--I did feed from her nipples--but the intention and the mood were very, very different. These babies had no other source of nutrition aside from what came from women's bodies, from their mothers and from the wet nurses. It was a vital act that fulfilled a primal need, and that didn't remind me of what it was like when I breastfed from Tara at all. Occasionally, Tara would lean down to gently kiss the baby's head, but the way she did that didn't remind me of the way she kissed me in the slightest. Same as when she breastfed: same nipples, different purpose.

How could I help but be in awe of this? Without ever having been pregnant, her body had summoned this gift, and sustained it through will and want alone. Not from necessity, but because she could--because a woman's body had always known how.

I thought again, absurdly, about my own capacities. What powers did I have? I could lift heavy things. I could split firewood or open a stubborn jar. None of it meant anything next to this; it was all trivial. These girls had the power within themselves to sustain life, whether a child's or an adult's. Moving a hefty object seemed trivial in comparison.

I watched in fascination as Tara fed the baby. It suckled steadily, small cheeks working with delicate, greedy pulls. Tara had such a serene look on her face, looking down at the child through sleepy eyes. Occasionally she released the hold on her breast and slowly stroked the top, which apparently helped encourage milk flow. Most of the time, though, she just held it to the baby's mouth. I don't think she had to hold it to keep it there; her breasts were plenty firm and didn't really need to be guided like that. She just seemed to like the idea, it seemed. It was a soft and sensuous scene, yet entirely nonsexual. Tara did not actually even seem maternal--even though she was breastfeeding--but she did appear very feminine in those moments.

I didn't really mind watching, after all. It was a pleasant thing to see, really, and I was glad I had come. I was more impressed with Tara and her amazing abilities than ever before--which was saying a lot, because I'd already thought she was pretty fucking amazing.

Sitting there quietly, I noticed that Tara had started breathing deeply and had adopted a focused look of relaxation, almost like she was meditating. I quietly asked if she was indeed doing meditation; she opened her eyes a little and said that yeah, in a way, she was. She whispered: "If I concentrate, I can alter the content of my breastmilk so that it helps the baby get to sleep. Tell you more later."

My chest tightened in the way it did when Tara casually reminded me she was built of quieter, better magic than I was. The baby had begun to drift, its small body slackening, mouth still latched but suckling slower now, eyes half-closed. Tara was stroking its little cheek gingerly, still holding her breast to its mouth with her other hand. Soon enough, the baby was asleep. A few minutes later, the mother arrived to collect it.

Afterwards, as we walked to our cars, she explained how she altered the chemistry of her breastmilk. "It probably sounds like science fiction, but it's been proven in labs. If you get into the right mental state with a lot of focus, you can increase levels of melatonin and oxytocin in your milk, and that will make the baby start to drift off. It's something they teach girls how to do at the PLM. I've even tested myself with a breast pump, tested my milk, and the levels--melatonin in particular--go way up when I get into that state; I'm literally making it happen. It's just a matter of focused intention."

Of course she could do something like that.

I looked at her. "Ever do that while you're feeding me?"

Tara smiled and gave me a knowing look.

Then she said: "So what did you think? I mean about hanging out at the center."

It took me a bit to form the words. "It's humbling," I said. My voice sounded expectedly hoarse. "And beautiful. And I don't think there's anything I can do that comes close. You--women, I mean--you get to be the sky sometimes. The ocean. I can maybe lift things, fix things. This, though? Feeding someone with your body, making another human being go soft and weightless in your arms because you can? It's magic."

Tara gave me a warm, beautiful smile.

After a moment, she changed the subject. "So, that Chloe has some rack on her," Tara said, a light laugh in her voice. "I've worked with her before, and I always keep sneaking looks at her boobs. They're so pretty, and it's like they defy gravity."

I was surprised enough that I didn't know how to answer. I stayed quiet.

"It can be kinda hard being around all these hot young girls," she admitted. For the first time in ages, she didn't sound entirely unshakeable. "I saw you looking at her, too--not that I blame you. She really has nice tits."

I hadn't expected Tara to say this. "Um," I started. "So do you. I like yours better, really. You have amazing tits." As intimate as we had gotten, it felt a little strange to speak to Tara that way. I was rarely so blunt, and she didn't really use the word "tits" very often, either. But I wasn't lying.

"Oh, you don't have to say that."

I was shaking my head: "I'm not just saying that. Your tits are perfect. I love them. You know I do."

"Well, I mean, mine don't really stand up like that."

I shrugged, shaking my head again. "They do, though."

We got to Tara's car.

"Yeah, well, hers stand up more than mine do." She looked a little uneasy.

"I never would have even thought about it." I turned to face her. "I'm not even sure that's true, but I don't care if it is. I love you and I love your body just how it is, because it's yours. You don't have to worry about looking like you're 19 or something. You're beautiful."

She reached around me, stretched up, kissed me. "I love you, too. I love it when you make me feel better. It can be kinda hard to be around all these young girls. These smoke shows."

"As if you're old or something," I laughed.

We kissed some more.

Now, though, a thought was haunting me. "You think you'd ever go back to dating women again?"

Tara gave me a blank look of disapproval. "No. Fuck, no. You already heard me explain my whole thing. I'm not into women--not, like, romantically. I tried and it didn't work. You know my whole story, so why are you even asking me this?"

"Sorry, I just--you were saying how hot Chloe is and I started to wonder."

"I do think she's hot," Tara said. "If I was single and not a teacher at her school, I might have even tried to sleep with her. Maybe. But sex isn't love. I like women that way, but only that way, the sex part. And I don't miss it now, especially because of what you've got going on, what you do to me. And we've got so much more than just that."

I just sort of nodded.

"You know, I should read you something," she said. "When we get to your place. I'm gonna read you something I wrote last week."

"OK."

We were at my house a few minutes later.

She usually took off her top and bra almost immediately after we were inside my house, but she didn't this time. I wondered: was this because I'd seen her breastfeed? But no, it wasn't that, because she sat down on the couch, motioned for me to sit, and started scrolling through something on her phone.

"Oh, here it is." She scrolled a little more. "OK--this is what I wrote to this friend of mine. Her name's Eve. We write emails to each other like we're writing old-fashioned long letters, like pen pals. She lived down the street from me growing up, and she was always my best friend, and she still kinda is. Well, you are really my best friend now"--Tara gave me a warm look--"but you know what I mean."

I got comfortable and prepared to listen. If she wanted to read me a long email, I was ready to hear it. Anything this girl did was OK with me.

"I'm just gonna skip the first part--not that there's anything to hide, just, you wouldn't think it's all that interesting. OK. Here's where I talk about you. I told her some stuff about us before, and she asked for more." Tara smiled. "She wanted details, so be ready."

I braced myself. What had she given away?

She started to read. "He is older, like I said. I really think he's the perfect age for me. He's the most mature guy I've ever been with, and maybe the most mature person. He's also really hot. He's not overweight at all. Athletic, dark hair with little bits of silver that are absolutely fucking adorable. No facial hair but some scruffy beard growth that's pretty hot. And he is kind. I don't just mean he's nice to me, which he is. I mean he is gentle and protective; I always feel taken care of. I've never once been afraid of him. He's like a foot taller than me or something, but he doesn't make me feel physically intimidated or scared of him at all, ever. Sometimes he picks me up, just to be funny, and he'll carry me around his house, and we both laugh the whole time. I feel safe and close to him when he does that. And I feel seen and listened to, so much more than with any other guy I've known."

She looked at me for a second. "No real surprises so far, I guess."

I just nodded and gave her a grin.

"Hang on, though," she said with a slightly awkward laugh, looking up at me. "It gets a little more detailed now. Ready?" And then she read more: "Also: huge cock. I'm getting off like I haven't in years. He can go for literally hours and I really don't know if I've ever come this much in my whole life, even with girls. More than just orgasms, though. He just feels really good, and the sex is easy, too. And he pretty much gives it to me whenever I want it, which, you know me, is a lot. He never comes too soon, and he's usually ready to go again after maybe an hour or so. For a guy in his forties, I think that's pretty good. So yeah, I'm having a really great time with him."

I had been shifting where I sat, slightly uncomfortable. It was strange, hearing it laid out like that. I wasn't used to being described in those terms--the size, the stamina. Especially not as a subject of casual, unabashed praise between women. I felt a mix of pride, awkwardness, and the oddest twinge of vulnerability. I knew women were way more open with each other with this kind of thing, more open than guys would ever be, but it still made me feel a little uncomfortable to hear it. On the other hand, though: these were probably the best things I'd ever had a woman say about me.

"So no," she was saying, "I don't harbor secret fantasies about sleeping with other women." She grinned and blushed a little: "I like fucking you. And I happen to love you. A lot."

I didn't know what to do or say, except to emphasize that the same was true for me.

We kissed for a few seconds.

"After that," she said, perusing more of the email, "I just get into some other details. Yes, I'm sharing my milk with you, yes, you love it, blah blah. You get it, though. I'm really not a lesbian and I'm not going around lusting after girls on campus or anywhere else. Yeah, sometimes I'll see a girl and think she's pretty, but I'm never gonna do anything about it. I did sleep with some at one point in my life, but that part is over for me."

I believed her. I felt it in her kiss, in the way she touched my face. But there was still that old, male insecurity coiled somewhere in my gut--the knowledge that someone like her, built of magic and soft power, would always have the world at her fingertips.

---

Tara rode me hard that night. Her hips were undulating and thrusting with an urgency I'd never really seen before; she started pumping hard and kept it up through orgasm after orgasm, grinding passionately and obscenely. Her face kept going flush, sweat kept dripping, her nipples kept swelling, and she kept coming.

She was working ferociously, up and down with a hard stroking action, so much so that her tits were flopping. I mean, they normally bobbed around a little, but this was violent, their every big bounce a declaration of abandon. It was hot.

A few orgasms in, tiny droplets started falling from her nipples when she came. Mid-orgasm, she grasped her tits and massaged, and I got sprayed in the face--which was a little bit funny and hella erotic, too. I wasn't sure if she even realized it was happening; she seemed out of it, caught up in the moment, wrapped up in the pleasure.

It was right around then that chained orgasms began--three or four right in a row with no breaks in between. It was like she was coming for two minutes straight. Such things were possible, she had explained to me, but outside of jouissance, she didn't usually have single orgasms that were so long. Her orgasms would simply blend into each other sometimes, one after another, almost like one long orgasm, but not exactly the same. I knew her well enough at that point that I could tell, too; I recognized when she had passed from one orgasm to the next and to the next and so on.

"Oh, gawwd, ohhh gawwwwd, more, ohhh gawwwwd, more, oh gawwd." She was tossing her head around as the orgasms progressed. I was witnessing minutes of ecstasy.

When the final one finally washed out, she fell forward onto me, momentarily exhausted; her breasts were wet and hot on my chest.

"God, I love the way you fuck," she breathed.

But it seemed to me that she was really the one doing the fucking at that point. I tried keeping pace, matching her rhythm thrust for thrust, but after the fourth in the chain of orgasms, I gave up. There was no keeping up. I had to just let her fuck me. Thank god she was so wet all the time. If not, I would have probably gotten really sore pretty often--yet I never was. The only discomfort I ever felt was a slight ache after having been squeezed tightly by her vagina for a long time.

She pushed herself back up, and her hips started again.

We kept going for a good hour or so, with her in the lead. I was having a great time, by the way, in case I didn't mention it. No, not as good a time as Tara, but she felt really good inside (as always), and I adored watching her get off on my cock. Seeing her in sheer ecstasy for so long was an amazing experience, beyond amazing--superhuman, it seemed like.

But I was really starting to sense that I couldn't last much longer. My own deal-killing orgasm was on the way and I could sense its impending arrival.

"Tara," I said, "it's gonna happen soon. I can't hold off."

Still riding hard, her head bobbed in acknowledgement. "Go ahead," she croaked. "I want your come in me." Her hips picked up even more speed, sealing the deal.

"Oh, fuck," I let out. "Oh no, oh fuck." It was about to happen. "Oh, no."

That just turned Tara on even more, hearing my grunts of resignation. She started coming, again. I had no idea how many she'd had that night, but it had been a lot.

Her face went flush and she started shivering and moaning loudly. Tiny milk droplets appeared at the ends of her nipples.

That did it.

I felt a pelvic roar, followed quickly by tight hot spasms as I injected my come deep into her body. It was over in a few seconds, and I exhaled.

It wasn't over for her; she kept on riding and bucking her hips, still in mid-orgasm. After maybe another half minute, the orgasm relented, and she collapsed onto me, a hot, beautiful mess.

I kissed her sweaty cheek and the side of her neck, lazily stroking her back with my fingernails.

She started to react to that, shivering. "That's really nice," she said. "Feels good, really nice. Stroke my spine like that; bottom to the top."

I used both hands, gliding gently from the bump of her ass all the way to her neck, and then back down, and then back up. I kept at it.

Tara shivered, hard. She moaned loudly. Was this, was she--? Yes. She was coming. Just from me stroking her back.

It lasted about half a minute, her body convulsing and shaking while she howled, ecstatic.

When it was over, she kissed me profusely, very pleased with me. "You're gonna have to do that more often," she declared.

I played between her legs and made her come a few more times. After a long while, my erection started to return, and I slid back inside her. She didn't enter a state of jouissance that night, but we were up really late, and she came god knows how many times.

And I knew, falling asleep that night, that no matter how long we were together, I would never entirely get used to it, to her. And maybe I didn't want to.

---

The next day was a real struggle for me. Coffee helped a little; I nursed from a big travel mug and tried to wake up.

Across the kitchen, Tara was already dressed--her sleek bob was neatly brushed, her sleeves were pushed up, a faint shimmer of lotion was coming from her skin. She moved easily between the stove and the counter, pouring coffee for herself with one hand while buttering toast with the other, eyes still a little soft but no worse for wear.

"Morning," she'd said as I had crawled into the room. Her voice was low and warm, without any of the tight rasp I felt in my own.

I grunted something half-coherent and managed to sit at the table, watching her move. I didn't need to say it out loud--I felt like hell. My mind was foggy, body heavy. Four hours of sleep on the wrong side of midnight was just not enough.

Tara refilled my coffee and set the mug back in front of me, then took her own seat, cradling her own cup between both hands.

"Didn't get much sleep either," she said, more as an observation than a complaint. "I kind of like mornings like this, though."

She sipped, eyes drifting to the window. "Something about being a little frayed around the edges makes the day quieter. You notice things you'd miss if you were too sharp."

I watched her through bleary eyes, still trying to string my thoughts into something articulate, wondering how she did it--how she could look so steady on so little sleep, her mind apparently fog-free, her hands steady.

And it struck me, the way it always did in moments like this: this wasn't bravado. It wasn't a performance. It wasn't just that she was younger than me. This was just Tara being Tara, being a woman--body, a brain, a whole existence apparently tuned to weather things I never quite could.

She took another sip, catching my gaze and smiling a little.

"You'll feel better after breakfast," she said, then slid a plate of toast toward me, one corner already nibbled.

At work, I struggled just to get through, grasping for words and finding myself making stupid, clumsy mistakes. I mixed up clefs, called a scale by the wrong name, accidentally called Duke Ellington "Count Basie".

When I met Tara for lunch, she still didn't seem to be struggling at all; she seemed as sharp as usually was. At our table, I reached for the salt, and she gently pointed out that I had picked up the sugar dispenser by mistake.

At that point I had to ask: "Why aren't you exhausted?"

She smiled, a warm, reassuring Tara smile. "I mean, I am," she told me. "It just doesn't bother me."

I screwed up my face, shaking my head. "But--"

"It's another girl thing, probably," she said. "I mean, it might be that I'm younger, maybe. But girls do better with less sleep. If you want the lecture: estrogen and progesterone interact with neurotransmitters--you know, like dopamine and serotonin, those kinda things--and they buffer against cognitive lapses. There are these studies that show how sleep-deprived women outperform sleep-deprived men. It's stuff like attention, memory, decision-making, things like that."

It sounded like just a huge jumble of words to me at first, and it took some effort for me to make sense of what she'd said. Another "girl thing." Of course it was. Just another quiet, effortless advantage she carried, written in the fabric of her cells.

We went to bed early, and after sex was over, I slept hard. Same thing the next night.

---

"How come," I said, "you see these 21-year-old women around here and you just know any of them is probably lightyears ahead of the guys their same age, but they seem so, I dunno--"

"Insecure?" Tara was smiling at me. "It's a real problem at that age, for girls. We get the message our whole lives that we're second-class citizens in the world. So it takes a while for a woman to grow into herself, if that makes any sense."

"Yeah, they just--sometimes they seem like they're afraid of themselves or something. They seem grown up, but not--" I paused to think for a second. "Like they're not all that confident. Know what I mean? Maybe it's just 'cause they're still so young, but I get the sense they're holding themselves back or something."

She nodded, sipping her peppermint tea. (We were back at the campus cafe for a short mid-day date.)

"You could put it that way," she said. "The reason a woman at 21 doesn't seem like completely grown up is because she doesn't have a lot of self-confidence yet, not usually. What you're seeing is permission starvation. Those girls know exactly who they are. A guy at that age is still really immature, but he's overconfident. So they're polar opposites: he has confidence without the maturity, and she has maturity but doesn't really believe in herself. It's an empathy thing, really--we're so concerned about everyone else that we don't feel like we have social clearance to speak for ourselves. It's like being fluent in a language you don't think anyone wants to hear you speak. Usually by the time we hit our mid-twenties, though, we stop asking permission, and that's when everything changes. After that: look out." She was chuckling a little.

I laughed, too: she was right about that.

We both had a few minutes before our next classes, and we ended up walking over to her office. Tara gave me a sly look and locked her office door.

"Sit down," she ordered with a smile.

I sat in her guest chair, and she knelt in front of me and unzipped my pants and then pulled them down to my knees along with my underwear. Next thing I knew her lips had surrounded the head of my cock, hot velvet wetness. She started bobbing her head up and down and I knew, watching her hair bounce around, that I was not going to last long.

But then she suddenly backed off and sat back; her whole body was shivering. "Orgasm," she blurted, and she sat there quivering like that for a good half-minute, wide-eyed.

My brain short-circuited. "What?"

It had ended, and she'd started giggling. "I came," she grinned.

"I--how? You weren't even--"

"Yeah, hands-free. It happens if I get turned on enough. Like just now. Anyway--where was I? Oh, yeah."

And then her head was bobbing again, and she was taking more and more of my length into her mouth and probably into her throat, even. All I know is, her lips were tight, her mouth was warm and soft, and all of a sudden, I was blowing my load, grunting and panting. I forced my eyes open. Once I'd finished my ejaculation, Tara looked me directly in the eye with an impish smile and then swallowed.

"I still can't believe you came," I said, still recovering.

"I did. It happens. I come pretty easily--you may have noticed."

It occurred to me right then that Tara would always end up outdoing me sexually. It had already been obvious, but this was something I continued to notice. She wasn't trying to outdo me, not out to show me up or something. It was just in her nature. Her orgasmic ability was like her singing ability. I wasn't that great a singer, but I could kick in on harmony lines and back her up on guitar; we could make music together. Our sex life was very much like that. I helped facilitate and she soared.

---

Well, I came down with Covid. One day I started feeling weak and tired, then I developed a cough and my stomach got kinda sketchy. I picked up a test from the pharmacy, just on a whim, and sure enough, it came back positive. Fuck.

Tara acted as though it was somehow her fault.

"My body's supposed to protect you!" she insisted. She was referring, of course, to the fact that I fed from her breasts every day, sometimes more than once. I was getting a fair number of my daily calories from her body by that point, a fact that I loved and that Tara was very proud of. Since her milk was chock full of her antibodies, I hadn't caught a cold or come down with the flu since we began. It had seemed like kind of a miracle, because in the past I would always end up catching a bad cold at some point every spring--but that hadn't happened, and I knew why: I was ingesting her superior antibodies.

Still, though, her immune system wasn't perfect, just very good. "Tara," I started. I was trying to convalesce on my couch--and really feeling like shit. "You couldn't possibly protect me from everything. A lot of things, most things, maybe. You do seem superhuman but you're still human." My voice was scratchy and I hated how my throat felt.

She looked like she wanted to cry. "I don't have to like it," she said, her voice soft and tender.

"It's just Covid. I'll get better. Probably soon." I didn't really feel like I was going to get better soon, but I had to play the optimist. I wanted to comfort her, relieve her guilt. She really had the sense that she'd let me down, which was kind of ridiculous and completely unrealistic, and also very touching.

"Here," she said, and she made me move a little so she could sit at one end of the couch. I knew what was up; I grabbed a throw pillow for my head and put it on her lap, then got into position, my head level with her breasts. "You have to start feeding a lot more while you're sick. I'll come over during the day and feed you. You'll get better faster that way. Like four or five times a day. That much."

Tara held out her breast, and she leaned in to put her nipple at my lips. I latched on, and her milk let down pretty quickly. Warm, sweet sprays slowly started to fill my mouth, and I felt the knot of tension in my chest ease a little. It was like my body recognized it as medicine before my mind did.

God, I'd needed that. I was craving her. It wasn't just the milk and the warmth of her soft breast skin--I wanted the weight of her hand on my head, to feel the steady rhythm of her breathing.

"Even if I couldn't keep you from getting it, at least I can help you fight it," she was saying.

"Mm-hmm." Then, breaking my latch for a second: "And hey, I haven't lost my sense of taste. You're still delicious." I went right back to suckling.

"Aww," she purred, running her fingers around my head, stroking me.

I started feeling better in less than a week, which Tara thought was at least partially due to the frequent feedings, lending me her immune system. According to WebDoctor, it should have taken closer to two weeks for a man to recover.

Tara, though? Not a sniffle, no scratchy throat--nothing. She never came down with it. I wasn't even surprised anymore.

---

The suggestion came out of nowhere on a bike ride one day.

"Babe!" she half-shouted, slowing down a little so I could catch up and ride next to her. "Hey, I was thinking, maybe tonight's a good night to try it in my butt."

It took me half a second to register what she'd said. It had come completely out of the blue, which made it kind of hilarious. "You mean--"

"Yeah. I'm ready to try it." She was giving me a knowing smile.

Back at the car, she had a mishap, though. As Tara was dismounting, she caught her foot on part of the bike and toppled gracelessly to the ground. I was with her in seconds, trying to come to her rescue.

She was already laughing: "I'm all right, I'm all right."

Her knee was bleeding; she'd scraped it up. I had a first aid kit in my trunk, and some wound-cleaning fluid. I treated the injury, trying to be very ginger, and then dug through the kit to find a gauze pad, and a bandage to wrap around that part of her leg.

"I need to disinfect it, though," she said.

"Well, I don't have any antibiotic stuff here, but we'll put some on at home."

"Hang on," she said. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against my car, and she started unzipping her jersey. I just watched, unsure what she was doing. Her fingers worked one side of her sports nursing bra, and she bared a breast. She massaged it with both hands for a minute until a thin spray emitted from her nipple.

"Disinfectant," she smiled.

She sprayed her milk directly onto the wound, not even grimacing, though I assumed it was raw enough to be painful. After coating it with breastmilk, she asked for the gauze pad and the bandage, and wrapped up her knee. Then she stood, wobbling only a little.

"OK, we can go," she said. "Let's load the bikes."

I couldn't help but notice how quickly she'd shaken off the fall; her pain tolerance was as unshakable as everything else about her. She'd shrugged off her injury like it was just a change in the weather.

When we got home, I was already assuming that our sex experiment was on hold for the time being.

She had other ideas, though. "I know it's not sexy," she said, looking at the bandage, "but as long as you don't mind, I think I'm ready."

We removed the bandage, showered off together (again, no complaints about the wound stinging from the hot water), and then re-bandaged it. This time, I used triple antibiotic cream instead of breastmilk.

I'd expected the injury would probably throw off her mood. But Tara, like with everything else, shook it off with a laugh and a grin that made my heart ache (in the best way). She was already talking about what being penetrated anally was going to be like, as if nothing in the world could unsettle her. It was almost like a few storm clouds had gathered and she'd just patiently waited till they passed.

We didn't bother getting dressed, of course.

"I bought this special lube," she was telling me, climbing into bed, opening my nightstand drawer. She pulled out a tube. "Really thick. I think it's meant for this kind of thing."

I started to explain that we were going to have to get her ready to receive me. "Fingers will work OK. I kinda wish you had a toy we could use, too, though."

"Oh, I have a toy. It's in my purse. Hang on." She jumped out of bed and got it. "I don't use this anymore, not since you've been in the picture, but I thought it would come in handy tonight."

Then she was back in bed, and we were kissing. My hands slid up and down her body, stroking her gingerly, and then I let a hand settle on a breast.

"Mmm, someone's hungry," she purred. "Here, give me a magic kiss."

She scooted up and put the breast in my face. I latched on and started, and put my finger near her clit and started playing with it. I fed for a couple minutes, while she came in shivers.

"OK," she breathed when it was finished. "OK, I'm ready now."

I was sliding down to put my face between her legs; I hadn't consumed enough of her to get very milk-drunk, thankfully. "Let's get you even more warmed up," I said, and then I pulled her outer labia apart and ran my tongue up her trough.

While I ate, I got a finger wet and tried poking it into her asshole. This wasn't new; I usually pumped a pair of fingers in and out of her while I went down on her, one in her vagina, the other in her ass. This time, just her asshole, though. Within a few seconds, I had the length of my finger all the way in; it was very warm and snug.

"God, that actually feels good," she said. "Really good."

I pumped it and sucked on her clit.

Two more orgasms. "OK, OK," she said in a half-pant. "I really wanna try now. I'm ready, I know I'm ready. I'm so fucking horny."

I reached around for the tube and her dildo toy, and started lubing it up.

"It's not as big as you," she said.

"That's good, though. You want to build up, especially 'cause it's the first time."

"Because you're so huge," she grinned at me. "You big stud. So--something tells me this isn't your first time."

I shook my head. "It's not. Now's probably not the best time to get into it, but yeah, I've done this a bunch."

"You had a girlfriend who loved anal sex," she guessed, sounding matter-of-fact.

I nodded.

"OK, so how do you want me?" she asked when I'd finished lubing the toy. "Can we do it like this? I don't think I want to get on all fours. My knee."

"You can just be on your back like this, sure."

She shifted her ass to give me better access, and I pressed her butt cheeks apart. I put the head of the fake dick at her hairy little asshole and wiggled. She giggled. Then I started coating the toy with gobs of lube.

I liked anal sex--but what really turned me on was the idea of a girl coming from it. Especially someone like Tara, whose body responded so easily, so completely.

I was pretty sure Tara was probably going to have her first anal-only orgasm. Multiple orgasms, probably. I wanted it to be while my cock was deep inside her ass, not from the toy, so I knew I had to be careful not to let the toy make her feel too good. The toy was for preparation, just something to get her loosened up a little, not the main event. My long, thick cock would be the star of her orgasm show.

"I'm gonna push it in a little bit, just a little."

"OK. I'm ready."

I pushed the head of the (disturbingly realistic) fake cock just inside the little pucker of her asshole.

Immediately: "Oh, that feels cold." She was giggling nervously. "And kinda good."

I sank the cock in a little further, and got the full head inside. I slid it in even more.

"Hmm, that's kind of a weird feeling," she mused.

"Does it hurt? You let me know if anything hurts."

"No, no, it doesn't hurt at all. Feels good. Maybe really good. I just--I'm not used to it." She laughed. "Kinda feels like I'm taking a shit in reverse."

I started pumping it in and out. Tara started panting.

"God, it's actually starting to feel really good. Really good."

Alarm bells were going off in my head: Tara was enjoying the sensation, and it was from a dildo. Every time she gasped, I had to fight the urge to rush things. I wanted her to need me in that final, aching way--not the toy. It was a hard line to walk with her writhing beneath me. So I pulled the dildo out, probably a little too suddenly.

"Ooo!" she squealed. She looked back at me again. "How come?"

"I think you're ready for the real thing," I said, positioning myself over her.

She pulled her knees up to her chest to spread her ass cheeks further apart. "Will it help if I do this?"

"Yup. I like it this way," I was telling her, getting into position. "I want to see your face and look into your eyes."

"I like that," she said softly. "Very much."

I coated my cock with the thick lube, probably overdoing it a little. I just wanted it to go in easily with no chance of dry friction, which would have killed the mood and would probably have caused her some pain.

When it was ready, I poked her asshole with the thick, bulbous head of my penis. "OK?"

She nodded.

I pushed a bit. My chunky cock head slipped in so easily it surprised me. I paused, wanting to give Tara a chance to get used to the sensation. My cock was a lot bigger than her dildo.

"Oh, wow," she said, almost gasping. "Yeah, you're a big boy. Wow. OK. Keep going."

I pushed about four inches more. I'd intended to only go in a couple, but temptation got the best of me. The inside of her ass felt incredible and I had every urge to push in the whole way, all nine inches.

She was effusive. "Oh, god, that's--it really feels good. I mean, you feel huge, but good-huge. God, it's intense, though."

"You ready for more?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Just keep going. I think I can try taking the whole thing. Try."

Moments later, my entire nine-inch cock was in Tara's ass, and I was pushing myself up against her round butt cheeks.

"Ohmygod," she said, her voice choking. "Wow, that's intense. Oh my god. OK, just stay there for a second. I gotta get used to it."

All I could sense was the tight, silken pressure of her soft anal passage wrapped around me, and every inch felt like a delicious struggle between resistance and surrender. After a minute, I slowly pulled out, and started thrusting, gently, just a couple inches at a time. "How's that?"

Tara looked up at me and smiled again. "It feels good. I have no idea why I feel ashamed to admit that. But it feels really good."

I pumped a little faster, propped myself up with my arms so I could look down at her. I was giving her more length. "It's not anything to be ashamed of."

"I know. I just--you know, I have these inner voices that wonder if I'm not supposed to like how this feels."

"What the fuck is wrong with liking sex? You're only supposed to like certain kinds?"

She was still looking at me. "I know it's bullshit. I guess part of what I have to get used to isn't just how it feels--which, it's starting to feel really, really good, by the way--I think I just have to get completely used to the idea."

I was reminded of Wendy, the girlfriend I'd had who loved anal sex. She'd gotten to the point where she preferred her anal orgasms over all other kinds, and could come more easily that way than any other, but when we first started trying it, she worried about what kind of girl would like having a cock in her ass. She got over that pretty quickly, though, especially after she discovered the orgasms.

There was a sudden tight squeeze at the base of my cock: Tara had clenched around me for a second. She giggled.

"Hey!" I said, mock-angry. "That felt kind of good, though."

She did it again a couple times, and giggled more.

"You ready for, you know, for real thrusting?" I asked.

"I think so," she said, nodding. "Don't go too fast yet, but I think I'm ready."

I started up again.

After a few moments, she said, "God, I really like how this feels. I guess I'm an anal girl--who knew?"

Well, I'd suspected it, since she loved when I double-penetrated her with my fingers, but that wasn't exactly the same thing.

I started pumping slightly faster. A few more thrusts and I was working at a pretty good clip.

Tara's fingers found her clit and she started playing. "Oh god," she said. "Oh god, this feels amazing. Like, I can't believe how much I like it." She stopped fingering her clit. "I think it's gonna make me come."

I was not surprised at all.

A minute later, I was pumping so fast that I was pounding into her; our bodies slapped together with a smacking sound. I leaned down occasionally to give her deep kisses. The expression on her face was a strained grimace, though, and it made me a little concerned.

"Don't worry," she said, "it feels good. It's just intense. But it feels good. Really fucking good." She laughed then. "Literally fucking good."

It felt really good for me, too, of course--probably too much so. Her ass was tight and hot and soft inside, and even the very sight of her asshole swallowing my huge cock was a gigantic turn-on for me. I had to shut my eyes once in a while to cool off a little.

Tara played with her clit on and off, but after a while she stopped touching it altogether. I was squeezing one of her breasts while we fucked, and kissing her.

"Oh, fuck, oh fuck," she panted, her words rapid. "Oh, fuck, I think I'm gonna come. I think I'm gonna come. I think--oh god, I'm coming!"

Her face went red and her eyes went wide; her body trembled and jerked.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming, oh god this feels good, oh my god." Her face twisted in a series of beautiful, involuntary expressions--shock, tension, then something like a tender pout as pleasure rolled through her. Finally, it washed out.

I couldn't help but be blown away again. She made it seem effortless.

"Wow," she breathed, looking right at me. Her face was still splotchy red, coated in perspiration. "That was really different."

"Good different?"

"I love it," she said, grinning. "How is it for you? How do I feel up in there?"

"Almost too good. I mean, I like the other place even more, but yeah, you feel really good."

Tara just smiled at me.

"Ready to keep going?"

"Yeah, still feels good," she said. "Keep going. I want more."

I started thrusting fairly quickly, and kept building speed. It felt so good I had to grit my teeth to stave off my orgasm. The sight of my dick pushing her asshole open, stretching it and moving all the little hairs around, kept threatening to make me lose control. Looking at her round ass cheeks, spread apart for me, only made the temptation worse.

"God," I grunted.

"Feeling good?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Let me come again one more time." She let out a long breath. "Then you can come in my ass. I want you to come inside my ass. I want to feel it up in there."

I started thrusting hard, pushing most of my length deep inside, pumping powerfully. My hand reached forward to hold one of her tits, and I squeezed as we fucked. My fingers played with her hard nipple.

"Oh, god," I heard her breathe. "This feels so good. Yeah, I'm gonna come again soon. Keep going, just like that. Keep going."

It took maybe a minute more of pumping, and then she looked right at me. "I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come again."

And then she was indeed coming again. I slowed my thrusting, and I could really feel her ass throbbing and clenching around my cock as her orgasm went on and on. It felt like a very tight massage.

"Oh, god, come inside me, come inside me," she panted. "I want it inside."

I released my floodgates, and I swear it only took a few seconds before my orgasm hit. It felt especially intense to shoot my load in her ass. Part of it was the tension of her asshole and her bowels, which were snug to begin with, but even more so because she started coming yet again right as I started ejaculating. I heard myself groan as my orgasm washed out.

Meanwhile, Tara was still coming, and she stayed in a state of orgasm for a number of seconds while I just watched.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck," she croaked as it ended. I let my body drop onto hers, and my cock slid out of her asshole, now growing limp and looking spent.

"Yeah, that was pretty amazing," she was saying. "Wow. I get what all the noise is about now."

"Intense?" I asked.

"Yeah, hella intense. Different, though. That was why it was such a big deal. It felt different. Almost like it was shaking me from the inside. I mean, it was a clitoral orgasm; all female orgasm is really about the clitoris, even when it's my nipples. But the thing about the clit is, if you stimulate it from different angles, different parts of it, you get really different orgasms. It's amazing. Sometimes I really wish you could feel what I feel."

"So it's really not, like, the sensitive part of your butt, inside your butt?" I said.

She shook her head. "That part feels good, yeah, but the friction and the pressure on my inner clit, that's what gave me the orgasms. And you get in there really deep with that thing--I'm sure that helps me along, too."

I plopped down next to her. "So you're down for more of that?"

"Right now? I mean, maybe, but I don't need more. The orgasms were huge."

I was laughing. "Not right now, I didn't mean that. There's no way. I just meant in general."

"I really had no idea it would feel like that," she said, sounding thoughtful. "You always read about it, and you think you know yourself. And then your body just sorta surprises you. So--yeah. I'd be down to do this again, for sure." She looked up at me again. "I really liked how you feel up in there. Different. Good."

I envied that, the way her body surprised her, made her feel things I never could. My body didn't surprise me very often, if at all. Sex always felt good, but it also felt pretty much the same, too. Even stroking in and out of Tara's ass--while a slightly different sensation--was still stroking, still the same overall feeling.

She stopped to stretch her arms. "But I think we just added something new to our sex life. That's what I think."

She curled into me, laughing about our new favorite thing. I knew: in or out of bed, Tara was always going to outpace me. I didn't mind. I was very used to the idea now. As we cuddled, I realized it wasn't just her body that outpaced mine. It was her willingness to know herself, to chase those surprises I'd long since stopped looking for. I loved her for that.

Tara sat up. "Let's go get you disinfected now."

---

Stupid thing that happened: I woke up at 2AM, sure that my house was burning down.

I wasn't the smoke that woke me up--for one thing, there wasn't any. I sometimes randomly woke up in the middle of the night, for no good reason.

But I smelled something. It wasn't woodsmoke, but it wasn't nothing. There was something in the air: sharp, acrid, maybe a little bitter. I couldn't place it, but it was seemed like the scent of something burning.

Panic. My pulse jumped. I bolted upright.

Tara stirred immediately beside me, her voice soft, not even groggy. "Hey--what's wrong?"

I was already feeling around in the dark. "I smell something. Burning."

A pause. Then, completely steady: "Your phone fell. It's on the floor."

I fumbled around, found it. "I think--I should call the fire department."

Another beat. Then, gently: "I think you just left the toaster on, Adam."

My fingers stilled on the phone. "What?"

"I smell toast," she said calmly. "Really burnt toast. Is that what's got you up?"

I hesitated, took a deeper breath. The scent was still there--sharp, smoky, weirdly metallic--and now, with her suggestion in my head, it might have been toast. Or something. I still wasn't sure.

"You're positive it's not something else?"

A soft little laugh. "Yeah. Toast. Nothing else smells like that. Promise."

Tara sat up then, the curve of her bare shoulders catching what little light crept in from the window. She was in girly pajama bottoms and nothing else, and even in the middle of a minor crisis, some part of me couldn't help noticing how good she looked like that--hair a wonderful mess, skin smooth and warm, utterly at ease. The silhouette of her bare breasts shifted gently as she moved, a natural, easy sway as she climbed out of bed. There was something quietly sublime about her. Not sexual in that moment, just beautiful. She was soft, feminine, vibrant.

It struck me that Tara simply belonged to a higher order of grace than I did. It wasn't in a way that ever seemed smug or showy--it was just how she was built. She made me believe that calm was a muscle she'd been quietly exercising her whole life, while I was still trying to figure out how to stand upright.

I stood there in my sweat shorts, feeling like a fool.

Tara slid out of bed, moving with measured ease. "Come on. Let's go check."

I followed her downstairs. She didn't move cautiously or with any trepidation, didn't do the horror-movie tiptoe. She just padded barefoot into the kitchen, flicked on a light.

It was the toaster. There was one stubborn slice of sourdough, blackened beyond recognition, wedged in the slot.

"See?" she said with a little smile, unplugging it. "Crisis averted."

She cracked a window and waved a hand through the air. The smell immediately began to lift.

I was still standing there, bare-chested, heart rate slowly dropping.

Tara crossed the kitchen, brushing a hand lightly over my stomach in passing. "You're not bad in a crisis," she said, her voice gently teasing. "Just maybe not the person I'd hire for scent identification."

I managed a crooked grin. "Yeah, apparently not."

She smiled again, a few strands of her hair slipping forward into her face as she pulled two mugs from the cupboard.

"Since we're up," she murmured, "peppermint tea?"

I nodded, feeling a little ridiculous but grateful.

"Good," Tara said. "And hey--next time, trust the woman with the better nose."

I chuckled. "I always do."

And somehow, I actually slept better for the rest of the night.

---

I wasn't sure why Adrianna had called me in. It wasn't annual review season, and I hadn't missed any committee meetings or gotten any student complaints, at least none I'd heard about. Still, when the dean's office sends a message asking you to drop by, you show up.

I knocked lightly on her half-open door.

"Come in!" Adrianna called.

She was at her desk, a pair of reading glasses perched low on her nose, tapping away on her laptop. Her office smelled like lavender hand cream and one of those soy candles she wasn't technically supposed to burn in a campus office but did anyway.

"Hey, Adam," she greeted, brightening as she looked up. "Thanks for coming by."

"No problem," I said. I eased into one of the chairs across from her desk. "Everything good?"

"Oh yeah, yeah," she waved a hand. "Nothing scary. Just a couple things to run by you."

I let myself relax a little. We made small talk first--how my classes were going, if enrollment numbers were holding steady, a quick communal gripe about the new campus wifi mesh system that kept going down.

Then she sat back and steepled her fingers, eyes twinkling in a way that told me this next part wasn't strictly about work.

"So," she said, her voice adopting that casual, overly innocent tone administrators use when they're about to say something loaded. "It's come to my attention that you've struck up quite the, uh, friendship with Professor Ross."

I blinked. My heart gave a little jump. For a half-second I thought: shit, who told her?

I managed to keep my voice steady. "Is, uh--is that a problem?"

Adrianna grinned. "Adam. Relax. No, it's not a problem."

I exhaled, but I wasn't entirely convinced. "You, um--you seem to know it's more than just a friendship."

She chuckled, setting her glasses down on the desk. "Honey, I'd have to be blind not to notice. You two aren't exactly subtle, walking around campus together like you're the world's most wholesome indie movie couple. It's adorable, really."

I rubbed the back of my neck, probably blushing like a teenager. "I--we weren't trying to hide it, exactly, just, you know, didn't want to be unprofessional."

Adrianna waved that off like it was nothing. "Listen, unless it starts interfering with work or turns into a bad breakup that derails your departments, it's nobody's business. Not the school's, and certainly not mine."

She leaned in a little. "But as your friend, Adam, I gotta say, I'm thrilled. I am beyond thrilled for both of you. Tara is--well, she's a gem."

I grinned at that, the tension bleeding out of me. "Yeah, she really is."

"She's been popping up with you onstage sometimes, I hear?"

"Yeah, just a couple times so far," I said. "She's got a great voice. And stage presence you wouldn't believe."

Adrianna shook a mock-stern finger at me. "Don't you dare start wooing her over to the music department. She's one of the best bio instructors we've got. Maybe the best. I need her right where she is."

I laughed. "No way, wouldn't do that. Anyway, I don't think she'd leave biosciences for anything."

Adrianna smiled again, then glanced at a paper on her desk. "By the way, we're finalizing plans for the faculty fete next month. Semi-formal again. You two coming?"

"Uh--hadn't thought about it," I admitted. "I mean, if Tara wants to go--"

"You should come as a couple," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "No reason not to."

I hesitated. "You're sure that won't cause, you know, like, gossip?"

Adrianna waved a hand again. "Oh please. Faculty relationships happen all the time. As long as nobody's grading the other's papers or making personnel decisions, it's fine. Besides, you two are disgustingly cute. The rest of us could use something nice to look at."

I laughed again, feeling lighter than I had in days. "OK. I'll talk to her about it."

As I left Adrianna's office, I found myself thinking about something I hadn't really let myself dwell on before. Katie's blessing, and Tara's mom's, too. Charlotte's approval. Now Adrianna. I didn't need anyone's permission, but having it--and from people I respected, people who mattered--was starting to feel like a sign. It seemed like a soft, steady series of green lights.

And for the first time, I let myself wonder what might come next--after all the green lights and easy afternoons and soft, perfect evenings.

---

It was one of those idyllic spring days, the kind that made the whole campus look like a stock photo. The grass was deep green with patches of clover. Sunlight slanted through the high branches of the sycamores lining the walkways. Students drifted past holding iced coffees and phones, others stretched out on blankets on the lawn. A couple of girls were tossing a frisbee. The air was perfumed by the fresh-cut grass.

Tara and I were cutting across the quad toward the faculty offices. She was in a loose, sleeveless top and cutoff shorts, the kind of outfit she wore effortlessly and made look better than any catalog model. Her face was sun-warmed and bright.

"Oh," she said suddenly, turning to look at me. "They moved the fete to an actual ballroom--good. They were talking about having it in the gym, ugh. That'd make it feel like a high school dance or something."

I blinked. "Wait--what? Where'd you hear that?"

She gave me a little smile. "It's on a sign back there. We just walked by it."

I turned, looking around behind us. Sure enough, a bulletin board was tacked up with flyers and announcements near one of the breezeways.

"But--you didn't look. Or did you? You didn't turn your head. How did you even see that?"

She shrugged, still walking. "Peripheral vision."

I stopped dead, which made her pause too, a few steps ahead. "Hang on, wait. You're telling me you read a sign out of the corner of your eye?"

"Yeah," she said easily. "I do it all the time."

I gave a baffled laugh. "But I can't do that. No way." The tone of my voice suggested I wasn't sure if I believed she could do it, either, or if I thought she was just messing with me.

She smirked, tilting her head, and the sun caught the sheen in her hair. "Well, it's kind of a girl thing," she said, "another one of those kind of things. Our peripheral vision's wider. We pick up more in the margins. I'm not reading novels with my head turned sideways or anything, but a sign with big letters? Not very hard."

I made my way back toward the bulletin board; curiosity was getting the best of me. Tara followed, hands casually in her pockets. The sign was printed on thick white cardstock in bold black letters.

"La fête à l'Hôtel Lumière--dans le hall principal," it read. French. Big enough type, but still.

"You just read this?" I asked, pointing at it.

She was smiling, standing beside me. Her face was turned away so she was almost in profile, her head turned more than 90 degrees from the bulletin board. She read aloud with perfect clarity and ease. "La fête à l'Hôtel Lumière--dans le hall principal. Le samedi dix-sept mai, à dix-neuf heures, Hôtel Lumière, 1420 Rue Bellecour."

Facing the same direction as her, all I could make out were blurry, blobby lines.

But it wasn't just that she could read from that odd angle; it was the way she sounded. She had a soft, effortless, precise French lilt, like she'd stepped off a plane from Lyon ten minutes ago.

I stared. "OK, that's insane. And you read French?"

She gave an embarrassed little laugh, fiddling with the edge of her pocket. "Took it for few years in college. Just for fun. I can read it pretty well. And yeah, like I said, a girl can read with her peripheral vision if she tries. The type just has to be big enough."

I shook my head and tried it again, squinting sideways at the sign. Still nothing but blurry blobs and wishful thinking. "Yeah, no. I can't even begin to make anything out."

She grinned, slipping her hand into mine as we turned back toward the main path. "You're cute when you try, though."

We walked a while in easy silence, sunlight warm on our arms. A pair of students passed by carrying boxes of cupcakes, and a guy on a longboard cruised past with airpods in his ears.

After a minute, I cleared my throat. "So--Adrianna talked to me yesterday."

"Oh yeah?"

I hesitated, feeling the warmth of her hand in mine. "She knows about us."

Tara snorted. "Well, yeah, of course she does. We're not exactly discreet."

"Yeah, well. She said it's fine. No problem, as long as it doesn't interfere with work. And she asked if we're going to the fete together."

Tara shot me a look, arching an eyebrow. "Well--I mean, aren't we?"

I laughed. "Yeah. If you want to."

"I want to," she said, grinning. "I just wasn't gonna pressure you if you were worried about it. But if the dean's cool with it, then yeah, let's go together."

"It's a date, then," I said.

Tara gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "It already was."

We kept walking, the sun sank lower, and the campus was soft and golden all around us.

---

The night of the faculty fete, the city felt brushed in gold, with a scent of magic in the air. The Hôtel Lumière sat on the hill above campus like some old-world holdover, lit by strings of warm bulbs above the courtyard fountain.

Tara and I were at my place before we drove over together. The sight of her standing in my doorway made the whole world seem to shift for a second. The dress was a pale, shimmering blush, with embroidered flowers catching the light, moving like water when she stepped forward. It was sheer at the top in places, skin visible under lace, and the high slit in the skirt left no mystery about the shape of her legs. I noticed her perfume, subtle and sultry-spiced, and a small pendant at her throat. No bra, no real need. Her breasts stood up on their own, pert and firm. She always looked so charming in her tortoise-shell glasses.

The drive was short, but charged. She reached for my hand halfway there, and neither of us let go. We worked the stick shift together.

Inside the ballroom, a small string combo played near the bar, lilting jazz standards and an occasional French waltz. Clusters of nicely dressed faculty moved between linen-draped cocktail tables, glasses glinting, conversations a mix of forced civility and real warmth.

We hadn't made it five steps into the room before I noticed a flicker from one of the wives, a glance held a half-second too long in our direction. Not jealousy--curiosity. I spotted a younger instructor's eyes widen in recognition, not scandalized, just confirming a hunch she'd clearly had. A few of my male colleagues shook my hand a little too eagerly, the kind of handshake that says, "Nice work, old man." Others avoided eye contact entirely.

It wasn't until later that Tara told me about the other half of it--the things I never would have caught. The women had already known. This wasn't because anyone gossiped, she said, but because women track patterns. She told me later, lying in my bed, how women notice when a man starts waiting outside a colleague's door instead of texting, when conversations stretch longer than they should, when schedules start aligning without official cause. They see the micro-symmetries, the linger of a hand, the way bodies tilt toward each other. Women read rooms for survival, she told me, not entertainment. It's fluency. They feel the undercurrent in a handshake, in a name dropped too casually, in the spaces between what's said and unsaid.

I saw the big moments. She saw everything in between.

We stopped to chat with Adrianna, who grinned and squeezed Tara's hand. "You two clean up well," she teased. Tara just smiled.

Charlotte and her husband Jake eased into the conversation--Charlotte insisted she hadn't breathed a word to anyone about us, as if anyone had needed her to.

At the bar, I attempted to order a Kir Royale, pronouncing it as "kerr royal." The bartender nodded politely, but Tara leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. "Keer roy-al," she murmured. The accent was flawless, effortlessly Parisian. I gave her a look.

"You sound native," I whispered.

She shrugged, amused. "A few years of French. I told you."

We crossed the room, greeting a pair of literature faculty, both in their early fifties, one of them telling us about a trip to Lyon she'd taken with her partner last fall. Tara asked a question about a wine region, and for a few minutes it was easy. Light conversation, laughter. But even then, I caught the subtle glances toward her dress, toward us.

At one point, a pale, slightly awkward adjunct from the art department approached to say hello, and I saw his eyes flickering nervously between us. Tara gave him a kind, easy smile that left him visibly steadier.

"I think you just saved that poor guy from cardiac arrest," I murmured when he'd gone.

We drifted toward a quieter hallway near the back. She tugged me through a half-open door into a dimly lit sitting room. It was paneled in old dark wood, empty except for a small velvet couch and a sideboard with unopened bottles. Her eyes gleamed.

"Come here," she breathed.

We kissed, her body soft and warm against mine, the room pressing in with its hush. She slid one of the slender straps of her dress down her arm, baring one perfect breast, the full swell of it catching in the low light.

Without a word, I bent and took her into my mouth. The nipple was already hard and elongated; her skin tasted like perfume and salt and some unnamed sweetness. She sighed, her fingers threading through my hair.

"That's so good," she whispered. "You have no idea how it makes me feel--like I'm made of light or something."

She gasped softly as I suckled, the pressure of her hand urging me closer.

"Good thing we're leaving soon," she murmured, breath catching. "Because when we get home, professor, I am going to have my way with you."

I fed. Her words had sent a pulse through me, and when at last she drew me up for another kiss, her lips were smiling against mine. I knew she could taste herself on my tongue.

We slipped out of the side room a few minutes later. The music swelled again; the night seemed rich and endless. And for the first time, we moved through the crowd like we'd always belonged together.

---

It's funny how the biggest events in lives can start out as plain, ordinary moments.

Tara and I were in my front room, laying together on the couch; we were doing nothing, really, just chilling and chatting a little. I was behind her, stroking her arm (she was topless, as she usually was at home, but we weren't ramping up for sex or anything like that). We had a Bill Evans album playing in the background; it was a nice, lazy Saturday afternoon, nice weather, nice music, nice girl.

"You know," she was saying, "I really like your house. It just always feels so cozy to me."

I snuggled her. She'd said things like this before, but the way she said it that day seemed to resonate with me more than usual. I had been thinking how much more I felt at home in my own house when she was around.

"Thanks, Misu." (This was the nickname I'd started using for her, short for "Taramisu." Mee-soo.)

Tara turned her head to look up at me. "You think there's any chance I could live here someday? With you?"

No hesitation on my part: "How about today? You could move in today."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're practically moved in now anyway--at least, you've got stuff here. We could move the rest of it today and tomorrow. And that would just be it. You've already got keys. We can work out the legal stuff."

"You sure? You'd want me here?" She was looking at me with wide doe eyes.

I smiled at her. "I am absolutely sure. I was just thinking about how to ask you, just now, just a second ago."

Her kiss was the softest thing I'd ever felt.

You don't always recognize the start of everything right at the moment when it happens. Looking back, though: that was it.