Michael and Erica: Vignettes from an Affair

Michael Rourke sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the sleeping girl. The filtered sunlight gently lit her hair, which sprayed across the pillow, and softly highlighted her features. He smiled and put a hand out to touch her, but stopped, to wake her. Her breathing was deep, contented and her single exposed breast rose and fell with a gentle erotic rhythm.

Moving slowly, not wanting to disturb her, he padded into the bathroom, closing the door carefully. He washed his face with cold water, staring at himself in the mirror as he did so, thinking once again that he did not deserve to be so lucky. He toweled his face roughly, and looked again at his reflection. The mirror showed him the truth of his age, the receding hair, grey at the temples; the slight pouchiness under his eyes; the failing elasticity of his skin; and the belly. Not a bloated gut, but definitely the paunch of later middle age. He squeezed a roll of fat on his hips between finger and thumb and shook his head, bemused.

A flash of color caught his eye and he looked down to see a lacy blue thong on the floor near he feet. He picked it up, stroking his thumb over it's silkiness. Smiling again, he placed the filmy garment on the counter near the sink.

He let the cold water run, and once again washed his face and neck like a man trying to awaken. As he toweled himself dry he heard something. He cocked his head to listen, amused at his querulous reflection in the mirror.

"Michael?" the soft voice was clearer once he opened the bathroom door, the towel still in his hand.

"I'm in the bathroom, Erica."

"I woke up and you were gone," she said lazily as he walked back into the bedroom. The girl was sleepily awake, propped on her elbows, the sheet fallen beneath her pert breasts. He breathed a little deeper at the sight of her, the wanton languor of her pose.

"I tried not to wake you."

Erica yawned an stretched, her breasts bobbling gently at him. "You didn't. I just woke up." She looked at him apraisingly, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. "You look delicious, Mr. Rourke."

He looked down at himself then grinned at her. "Now you're just trying to flatter an old man."

"And from the looks of it, it's working," she grinned back at him. "Come here , old man." She crooked a finger towards him. He came towards the bed and she leaned forward, her grin openly lascivious. She cradled his cock and balls, smiling up at him, her tongue tracing her lips. Butterflies danced in his belly. With a sudden lunge she darted forward, taking him into her mouth, her tongue and lips devouring him.

"Christ, your mouth is magic," he gasped, twining his hands in her thick dark hair, pulling her to him as his cock stiffened, responding to her urgency. His hips gently rocked in time to her bobbing head, his shaft slipping in and out of her eager lips.

Suddenly she pulled away from his cock, rising to her knees and wrapping her slender arms around his neck, kissing him, her tongue darting like an electric shock inside his mouth. His hands cupped the firmness of her ass, pulling her towards him, but again she pulled away, rolling onto her belly, sliding her legs off the bed, spreading them, opening herself to him. She glanced back over her shoulder, naked lust in her face.

"Take me like a whore," she moaned, raising her ass to him, showing him the dewy wetness of her sex. Michael rubbed his hand roughly against her, feeling how drenched she was and hearing her gasp again. He thrust himself into her, impaling her, all pretense of gentleness gone, just holding her hips and fucking her selfishly, greedily.

She was already coming after his second thrust. With the remnants of his conscious thought, Michael marveled again at how they had got to this point.