It was a balmy March in 1970 when I first met her. There was a war on in Vietnam and I had recently received my letter to report for my induction physical. I still lived with my parents who belonged to a Christian pacifistic religion who wanted nothing to do with war, the military or any dealings, direct or indirect, with the government. They wouldn’t even vote. As for me, I was a bone-headed kid who did what he was told because that is all I had even done. There was no threat the government or Selective Service could throw against me that could match the terrors my parents and the body of my church’s elders.
On the day in question, one of the women from the congregation came to visit my family and she was obviously distressed. There was a new member of the church who had just moved into town and while the men-folk had done some good for her by moving her things to her house, they left her sitting in a mess of unassembled furniture and unpacked boxes of clothes, dishes, linens, and other such things with no help in sight. I felt badly for my Christian sister and ashamed of my brethren who left her so high and dry. I wanted to help.
It’s important you keep in mind that my desire to be of assistance to her had nothing to do with the fact that the new member of the congregation was single or female. Nothing. Really.
Later that day I appeared at her house and volunteered my services. She was glad to see me and glad of the help. She put me right to work assembling dining room tables, beds, and whatever other furniture needing the application of a screwdriver and a crescent wrench. I helped unpack boxes and stowed their contents where she specified. I did not have to work very long before even my thick-headed self finally began to notice what a fine looking lady she was who had the most dazzling smile I had ever seen. She was short, four-feet eleven, and weighed every ounce of 97 pounds. Her name was Alma, was 34 years old and was a recent grass widow who had been moved into my little town by her former husband to be watched over by her ex-in-laws.
While I worked Alma kept the lemonade coming and prepared a supper of lasagna that couldn’t be beat. She was uncommonly friendly to me. Because I worked on a ranch I was well-muscled and tanned. I was pleased to be helpful and, judging from her smile and the way she hovered over me, she was pleased as well. I was in the process of putting her sewing machine together when she announced I had done more than enough work for the day and that we should take a drive while the day was still warm. It sounded like a wonderful idea to me.
She drove a white Oldsmobile that was three or four years old. It had a Wonderbar radio. I had never seen a Wonderbar before. While I played with the radio, she drove and made small talk about where she grew up (Michigan: we had that in common, we both were from Michigan) and the different places she lived, most recently Kansas. The warm spring air flowed in through the open windows and dried away hours of sweat. As the day was ending at last she drove the Olds to a nearby state park where she found a place to park. We continued our conversation as the night darkened. Time had no meaning as our conversation melted the hours into minutes and became fully dark. It came as a surprise to neither of us when we leaned into each other and shared our first kiss, the first of many. It was a surprise to me as she began to respond to our kisses with passion and she held me with a sense of urgency that I found almost frightening. Where this interlude was going doesn’t really matter because we were interrupted by a park ranger with a flash light who told us the park was close ng and that we should take our “business” elsewhere.
I was 19 years old then and not a virgin. My first affair was with a 24-year-old English teacher who had returned to college to earn her master’s degree. I can’t say we lived together; it was far too short a time for that, but we stayed cloistered for nearly a month during one of the coldest and snowiest Januaries in Arkansas history. We fucked on almost a daily basis and sometimes, my being 18 years old, more than once, for those were my salad days when my engorged cock could discharge 400 million eager and happy sperm fighting for the head of the line while my cock stayed ready for a second go. Then a day came I wanted to leave and I did. The snow hadn’t even finished melting.
My second affair was with an old girlfriend I looked up and, now that I was wise regarding sex, kissed her hungry lips until I was able to get her pants off and left her with a spunk-covered belly.
But Alma was something else, more hungry, more intense, more take-control. As we drove back to her house through the dark I said something incredibly clever like, “You know, the church says we shouldn’t date unless marriage is our goal.” She responded as though I had answered the $64,000 question’ She squeezed my hand tightly, smiled, and said, “I know.”
Let it be understood that our dating was perfectly chaste. Or almost perfect. A typical evening with Alma involved her showing off her culinary skills followed by our watching a little TV, or trying to as we were wrapped in each other arms and kissing while sexual steam fairly blew from Alma’s ears. I don’t believe we ever got touchy-feely with each other. At least I don’t remember it. As our emotions got too high, I took my blue balls and went home. The nearest brush with sex I had with Alma in the few weeks that followed our meeting was on an evening she was busy in the kitchen. She wasn’t paying attention to me, being engrossed in her cooking. The dress she wore was one she had made herself. Each time she bent over her bodice flared open and I could get a brief glimpse down the top of her dress. At one point she bent over and stayed that way for a moment. I could see she was not wearing a bra. Her breasts were smallish but very firm. Her areolae were of perfect size and of a dark pink hue. Her nipples were in a permanent state of erection. I received a four year degree in the construction and appreciation of tits in the few seconds I had to see hers.
Our relationship was not exactly head line news. We knew the nature of our relationship would subject us to all sorts of unpleasant scrutiny and unkind if not scurrilous comments. I didn’t tell my parents where I went in the evening and we never made our association known to members of the church. But despite our attempts at secrecy the word got out. If my parents were agog the church elders fairly ricocheted off the church walls. In an attempt to squelch our foolishness they came to speak with us with concerned but smiling faces and spoke in even calm voices. They wanted to know if we were having sex. They wanted to know if she was serving me alcohol. They asked a lot of questions, made some requests, and made a few implied threats. Alma proved to be the tougher of the two of us. No matter what anybody said, whether it was my parents, the elders, or the local yokel on the street (for our relationship did acquire and hold a place it the town’s top ten gossip items), Alma was determined to hold on to me and I, for once, did not do what I was told and stayed with her. Most of the women in the church took her side and with arms wrapped across her shoulders encouraged her pursue her dreams, never mind what others said.
One evening in spring when Arkansas is a riot of flowers, Alma told me she had a gift for me. She presented me with a box about the size and shape as would hold a framed portrait and that is what I thought it was until I opened it. Inside were a sheer pick negligee and a key to a room at a motel in a small town about 15 miles away. For about the first ten milliseconds the significance of the girt escaped me. Then there was that long slow motion minute of realization, that actually takes a fraction of a second, while I decided if I was going to be a good Christian boy or give myself over to lust and depravity. Lust and depravity won by a huge landslide.
And so it came to pass, as they say in the Good Book, that in the early evening hours of that fine April evening I took her key and her negligee and her car and her and drove to the motel. She took her negligee into the bathroom to dress. I flopped back on the bed and examined my conscience. Conscience-wise everything was a go with two big thumbs up. Alma emerged from the bathroom. Even dressed in a sweatshirt and dirty jeans, she was a beauty. Now dressed in a sheer negligee that teasingly reveled her nipples on bush, she looked as though she could seduce the most confirmed woman hater or convert the most ardent gay. If I didn’t love her before I was now out of my head, dyed in the wool, around the bend, head over heels.
On the day in question, one of the women from the congregation came to visit my family and she was obviously distressed. There was a new member of the church who had just moved into town and while the men-folk had done some good for her by moving her things to her house, they left her sitting in a mess of unassembled furniture and unpacked boxes of clothes, dishes, linens, and other such things with no help in sight. I felt badly for my Christian sister and ashamed of my brethren who left her so high and dry. I wanted to help.
It’s important you keep in mind that my desire to be of assistance to her had nothing to do with the fact that the new member of the congregation was single or female. Nothing. Really.
Later that day I appeared at her house and volunteered my services. She was glad to see me and glad of the help. She put me right to work assembling dining room tables, beds, and whatever other furniture needing the application of a screwdriver and a crescent wrench. I helped unpack boxes and stowed their contents where she specified. I did not have to work very long before even my thick-headed self finally began to notice what a fine looking lady she was who had the most dazzling smile I had ever seen. She was short, four-feet eleven, and weighed every ounce of 97 pounds. Her name was Alma, was 34 years old and was a recent grass widow who had been moved into my little town by her former husband to be watched over by her ex-in-laws.
While I worked Alma kept the lemonade coming and prepared a supper of lasagna that couldn’t be beat. She was uncommonly friendly to me. Because I worked on a ranch I was well-muscled and tanned. I was pleased to be helpful and, judging from her smile and the way she hovered over me, she was pleased as well. I was in the process of putting her sewing machine together when she announced I had done more than enough work for the day and that we should take a drive while the day was still warm. It sounded like a wonderful idea to me.
She drove a white Oldsmobile that was three or four years old. It had a Wonderbar radio. I had never seen a Wonderbar before. While I played with the radio, she drove and made small talk about where she grew up (Michigan: we had that in common, we both were from Michigan) and the different places she lived, most recently Kansas. The warm spring air flowed in through the open windows and dried away hours of sweat. As the day was ending at last she drove the Olds to a nearby state park where she found a place to park. We continued our conversation as the night darkened. Time had no meaning as our conversation melted the hours into minutes and became fully dark. It came as a surprise to neither of us when we leaned into each other and shared our first kiss, the first of many. It was a surprise to me as she began to respond to our kisses with passion and she held me with a sense of urgency that I found almost frightening. Where this interlude was going doesn’t really matter because we were interrupted by a park ranger with a flash light who told us the park was close ng and that we should take our “business” elsewhere.
I was 19 years old then and not a virgin. My first affair was with a 24-year-old English teacher who had returned to college to earn her master’s degree. I can’t say we lived together; it was far too short a time for that, but we stayed cloistered for nearly a month during one of the coldest and snowiest Januaries in Arkansas history. We fucked on almost a daily basis and sometimes, my being 18 years old, more than once, for those were my salad days when my engorged cock could discharge 400 million eager and happy sperm fighting for the head of the line while my cock stayed ready for a second go. Then a day came I wanted to leave and I did. The snow hadn’t even finished melting.
My second affair was with an old girlfriend I looked up and, now that I was wise regarding sex, kissed her hungry lips until I was able to get her pants off and left her with a spunk-covered belly.
But Alma was something else, more hungry, more intense, more take-control. As we drove back to her house through the dark I said something incredibly clever like, “You know, the church says we shouldn’t date unless marriage is our goal.” She responded as though I had answered the $64,000 question’ She squeezed my hand tightly, smiled, and said, “I know.”
Let it be understood that our dating was perfectly chaste. Or almost perfect. A typical evening with Alma involved her showing off her culinary skills followed by our watching a little TV, or trying to as we were wrapped in each other arms and kissing while sexual steam fairly blew from Alma’s ears. I don’t believe we ever got touchy-feely with each other. At least I don’t remember it. As our emotions got too high, I took my blue balls and went home. The nearest brush with sex I had with Alma in the few weeks that followed our meeting was on an evening she was busy in the kitchen. She wasn’t paying attention to me, being engrossed in her cooking. The dress she wore was one she had made herself. Each time she bent over her bodice flared open and I could get a brief glimpse down the top of her dress. At one point she bent over and stayed that way for a moment. I could see she was not wearing a bra. Her breasts were smallish but very firm. Her areolae were of perfect size and of a dark pink hue. Her nipples were in a permanent state of erection. I received a four year degree in the construction and appreciation of tits in the few seconds I had to see hers.
Our relationship was not exactly head line news. We knew the nature of our relationship would subject us to all sorts of unpleasant scrutiny and unkind if not scurrilous comments. I didn’t tell my parents where I went in the evening and we never made our association known to members of the church. But despite our attempts at secrecy the word got out. If my parents were agog the church elders fairly ricocheted off the church walls. In an attempt to squelch our foolishness they came to speak with us with concerned but smiling faces and spoke in even calm voices. They wanted to know if we were having sex. They wanted to know if she was serving me alcohol. They asked a lot of questions, made some requests, and made a few implied threats. Alma proved to be the tougher of the two of us. No matter what anybody said, whether it was my parents, the elders, or the local yokel on the street (for our relationship did acquire and hold a place it the town’s top ten gossip items), Alma was determined to hold on to me and I, for once, did not do what I was told and stayed with her. Most of the women in the church took her side and with arms wrapped across her shoulders encouraged her pursue her dreams, never mind what others said.
One evening in spring when Arkansas is a riot of flowers, Alma told me she had a gift for me. She presented me with a box about the size and shape as would hold a framed portrait and that is what I thought it was until I opened it. Inside were a sheer pick negligee and a key to a room at a motel in a small town about 15 miles away. For about the first ten milliseconds the significance of the girt escaped me. Then there was that long slow motion minute of realization, that actually takes a fraction of a second, while I decided if I was going to be a good Christian boy or give myself over to lust and depravity. Lust and depravity won by a huge landslide.
And so it came to pass, as they say in the Good Book, that in the early evening hours of that fine April evening I took her key and her negligee and her car and her and drove to the motel. She took her negligee into the bathroom to dress. I flopped back on the bed and examined my conscience. Conscience-wise everything was a go with two big thumbs up. Alma emerged from the bathroom. Even dressed in a sweatshirt and dirty jeans, she was a beauty. Now dressed in a sheer negligee that teasingly reveled her nipples on bush, she looked as though she could seduce the most confirmed woman hater or convert the most ardent gay. If I didn’t love her before I was now out of my head, dyed in the wool, around the bend, head over heels.
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I don’t know why women bother to wear that lacy stuff to seduce a man. Sure it looks good but the merchandise it covers looks even better. And that lace is stiff and scratches. I slid the straps off her petite shoulders. The garment included sheer panties and I slipped them off. She offered no resistance when I pulled her gown over her head, revealing her naked goodness. Even at such a moment my mind went to the Bible, to The Song of Solomon in which Solomon describes his hot girlfriend. I can tell you that Solomon’s lady had nothing over Alma standing naked before me.
Those small, tight perfect breasts I had been longing for were now available to me with her blessing. We exchanged kisses and touched her without fear rejection. The heat and passion she displayed was now a good thing. As I kissed her lips, her eyes, her ears, her neck I could feeling her body yielding to me. I kissed and suckled her breasts, maneuvering her body on to the bed. My fingers sought and found the wetness within the soft springy growth between her legs. When I was ready, and when she was ready, I penetrated her. The way she reacted you would have thought we had invented a brand new experience. The way I felt, it felt like a brand new experience. She gasped; she cried out, she called my name. A life time of need, apparently was being released with every stroke of my cock into her wanton crevasse. We were both at the peak of sexual potency and we were hungry for each other with no end in sight of our sexual vitality. After many minutes of our being so wound up in each other, someone is the neighboring room banged on the wall, wanting us to quiet it down. But there was no quieting Alma in the throes of her lust. She got on her knees and raised her perfect round ass into the air, inviting me to take her doggy style. While I so serviced her, she buried her face in the pillow muffling her screams as her body yielded up one orgasm after another. The time finally came when I had to release my cum into her, and I did. Of all the women I have ever know she was the only one I knew who could feel the cum being ejected into her.
I knew I would be ready to fuck again soon and she knew it, too.
We kissed and coddled and stroked the way two new lovers do. It did not take long before our lovers’ play acquired a new urgency. The poor fellow in the next room either got a different room or found a pair of earplugs.
These things happened back in the days before they used the word “cougar” to describe an older woman with a preference for young men. I guess Alma was my cougar but I never thought the less of her for it.
Even after we married she had a voracious sexual appetite. She had a pair of bean bag frogs. When one of the frogs was back-side-down on the night stand and the other frog was on top in the Missionary position, it was Alma’s not-so-subtle way of announcing that tonight’s The Night. And most nights were The Night.
I know why I didn’t know much about sex. I was young and inexperienced but Alma, despite her 15 years seniority, seemed as nearly as naïve as me. There was much she didn’t know about sex, she said. She had never tried anal, she said. She had never sucked a cock or had her pussy eaten, she said. We experimented a lot. She never acquired a taste for cock but she delighted every time I sucked her clit or licked her mossy slit. Hers was the first pussy I had eaten, and going down on her became a regular part of our sex play. The first time we tried anal I had her raise her ass in the air and had her rest her head on her folded arms. “Relax,” I told her, remembering some pointers I had once read in Playboy. I squeezed a dollop of KY jelly on her rosebud and rubbed it around and around with my finger. I gently eased my finger in and it entered with care. I slowly finger fucked her ass until I felt the muscles in her sphincter ring relax. Applying a dose of KY to the end of my cock and positioned it at her opening and pushed. The tightness of her anus was exquisite but I could sense she was uncomfortable. I offered to withdraw, not really wanting to and not wanting to hurt her, but she told me to let her get used to it for a moment. Millimeter by millimeter I eased in, withdrawing a half of an inch before resuming my inward journey. Before long I was balls deep in her ass and began to stroke in earnest. It was obvious she did not enjoy anal as much as conventional sex but it was equally obvious that I did not dislike it and soon returned my thrusts driving her ass back against me to achieve a little more penetration. With one hand she reached back to diddle her clit. It was the first time I had seen her masturbate and the sight of it heightened the overall experience. When she came she screamed and I felt her sphincter grip my cock like a hand. I came soon after. My softening cock slid out like a new-born puppy.
Alma did not have a vibrator and I bought her one, a bullet shaped device of hard plastic. It took two D batteries and buzzed noisily when turned on. I wanted her to have a friendlier device, something soft and comfortable when inserted. One evening with her help she and I stroked my cock into an impressive specimen of length and rigidity. We then fitted an empty dish detergent bottle over my cock and poured it fill of plaster of Paris. Fortunately my cocked stayed hard longer than it took for the plaster to set. When I softened we carefully removed the bottle. The price I paid was the pain I suffered when removing the bottle. I pulled out a large number of pubes and had to cut away many to remove the mold. When the cast of my cock was perfectly hard, Alma and I melted a purple toy hippopotamus made of a sort of soft plastic and poured into the mold. After letting it cool overnight I took a hammer to the mold and freed a perfect duplicate of my cock, veins and all, except it was purple. After a good scrubbing we often used in our sex play. Sometimes I lubed it and eased it into her ass while I pumped her pussy and sometimes the purple monster was in her pussy while I drilled her ass. Regardless of the combination, she enjoyed it tremendously and had many a screaming climax.
I’m still not sure why it happened. I sometimes look back and try to pinpoint the time and the place or the event that caused our divorce. But it happened. During the years of our marriage I became friends with her sister and brother-in-law and now, over 45 years later, he’s still my best friend.
Some years ago, and many years, decades, after our divorce, Alma and I reconnected by telephone. Our conversations were frequent and friendly. One day she informed me she was going to Michigan to spend some time with her sister and brother-in-law (my best friend). I invited myself to be there at the same time. Her sister and husband were in the habit of spending Wednesday nights at his sister’s house watching television. No sooner had they left than Alma and I were together in her bedroom reliving old days of romance, the difference being Alma was now old and I was not far behind. She couldn’t get wet the way she used to and sometimes my erections need a chemical boost. She needed some help to make her wet. I had a bottle of liquid KY in my suitcase two floors below. Running all the way down stairs with my pecker in my hand and trying to get back in time to lube up the old gal while keeping my hard on was a sporting event worthy of a medal. Well, I did make it and I had to insert myself very slowly because it had been a long time since anyone had used that right of way.
She wasn’t as vocal as she used to be but I could tell she still enjoyed having a cock in her gray-haired pussy and she knew when I came, just like the good old days. When we had finished she shooed me back to my room so that we wouldn’t be found together.
Alma returned to her home in Kansas and I would go sometimes to visit her, with a bottle of KY in my luggage.
We spoke on the phone almost every day. I was preparing for another trip to see her, I was within a day of leaving, when I received the news she was seriously ill and had been taken to a hospital and then moved to a nursing home. It was unknown if her problem was a stroke or an aneurism or what but ever after she was confused and could not carry on a coherent conversation although she was always pleasant and happy on the telephone.
One day in January I received the call from my best friend, her sister’s husband, that Alma had died. She did not have a funeral. Her ashes are in the possession of one of her children but I don’t know which one.
Now I’m of an age such that there are no more cougars for me and there never will be again. Alma was my first cougar and throughout my life she always was my first cougar but there at the end of all things she was my last, and most treasured, cougar.
