A cold late morning in winter. I had ventured onto a side street in the old city and made my way to the apartment building. That morning I had felt, in Auden’s words, “an intolerable neural itch.”
And an itch needs to be scratched.
“Sara” is an athletic petite All-American blonde. Experience this mature seductress for a mutually rewarding experience.
I was buzzed into the building. She met me at the door to the loft with a sweet smile, and I was let in. She was wearing a lacy black top, a short black skirt, black thigh-high stockings, and heels. Very slutty. Sara’s in her forties now, but her body’s toned and tight. She led me to her bedroom. I placed the “donation” on the nightstand. She offered me a glass of water and said she had taken the train into the city. We exchanged a few generic pleasantries, but Sara isn’t much of a conversationalist. But I wasn’t there to talk. Besides, her mouth would soon be occupied with other activities.
We sat on a couch. I slid my hand beneath her skirt. My fingers reached into her thong panties; I brushed my hand against her trimmed patch of pubic hair. She responded by rubbing her hand over my crotch and fondling my erect cock through my pants. She climbed onto my lap, slowly grinding on me through my pants. I thrust my tongue deep into her mouth. We continued to make out for a while. Then I pulled her right breast out of her top and started to suck on her nipple. Her nipple got hard. She started moaning very faintly.
She stood up and led me to the bed. We methodically removed our clothing. Before I removed my glasses, I took time to admire her pert ass. I sat on the edge of the bed. She dropped to her knees, lowered her head, and started sucking my cock. The little noises she emitted as she sucked me off were very erotic. I placed my hand behind her head and guided her ministrations. Her oral technique is superb. After several minutes of bliss, I warned her that I was about to come.
With my cock still in her mouth, she replied, “Mmm hmm.”
My balls tightened, and as I gripped her head, I cried out my pleasure and came in her mouth.
She got up and went to the bathroom sink to spit it out. But we weren’t done. After she cleaned me up with a warm wet washcloth, I quickly became aroused again.
“Let’s fuck,” she said sweetly as she straddled my hips.
I asked, “Should we get out the condom?”
“That would be wise,” she said.
She slipped the condom on. I lay on my back. She mounted me. My hands clasped her waist, my fingers pressed deep into her flesh, as she rode me like a wild woman. I enjoyed watching her breasts bounce as her hair became disheveled. She then rolled over and positioned her legs over my shoulders. I drove myself deep into her, not mistaking our coupling for anything other than what it was. It was, in D.H. Lawrence’s words, “cold-hearted fucking.” No emotion besides lust. It was brutally mechanical and impersonal. There was nothing loving or redemptive about it. The will to pleasure.
“Yeah, give it to me again!” she cried out.
My body tensed as I approached climax. Then I let out an almost desperate groan.
After a brief rest, I started to get dressed. We didn’t speak as we prepared for my departure. We shared a tentative hug, then I exited the loft into the winter cold in preparation for a pastoral appointment.
Lutheran Guilt 