I
Sarah:
Love in the Ruins
1.
Cold hands burrowing between her warm thighs at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning
wasn’t high on Sarah’s wish list, if she had a wish list. Not that it would matter to
Henry, of course, who was being insistent. But Saturdays were for sleeping in, weren’t
they? She wondered if it would do any good to just keep pretending that she was dead to
the world. What was the chance that he’d get bored, or miffed or whatever, and leave her
the hell alone? It was a rhetorical question, as she knew all too well.
The chances were exactly zero.
Henry was always hot for it in the morning, and she most definitely was not. She might
have felt differently if he’d been hot for her, rather than just plain old horny, but he
wasn’t, and she knew that, too. Unfortunately, lying on one side with her back to him and
her long legs drawn up gave Henry a clear shot at her girl parts, which made the actual
source of his arousal a moot point. Even as she thought that, he slipped one hand around
her rump to scratch gently in her pubic hair. It tickled unpleasantly and she wished he’d
stop, for fuck’s sake.
They’d already made love, after all, complete with candlelight and the better part of a
gallon of Bahama Mamas, an island specialty combining several kinds of fruit juice and
exotic rums, which was violently pink in color, fool-you sweet in taste, and very nearly
lethal in any quantity at all. That meant that Sarah was not only tired, but spectacularly
hung over, as well. What she really needed was two more hours of undisturbed sleep, maybe
three.
The only way she was going to be responsive was for Henry to grab a fistful of pussy and
yank her around to take what he wanted, rough housing her sleepy ass into arousal. Yeah,
like that was going to happen.
What his touch did instead was remind her that she needed to pee in the very worst way.
Or maybe the very best way, come to think of it. She’d slept all night without a trip to
the bathroom, an event worthy of some note in her book. However, eight hours or so in the
sack left her with an aching bladder, and that was one of the paybacks of age, damn it.
She was thirty-seven years old, but sometimes felt older—a lot older. It was like she’d
gotten there almost without noticing. How in the hell had that happened? Life just seemed
to be passing her by.
“Am I making you wet, or is it the smell of fresh coffee?” Henry said in the soft,
faintly amused voice that always left her wanting to explain herself.
“Tinkle time,” she said, automatically using the little girl words that Henry approved
of. He didn’t like for her to be unladylike, which took a fair amount of effort on Sarah’s
part, as she was no lady.
She yawned and stretched and reached for her glasses on the nightstand by the bed, then
staggered off to the toilet, leaving his questing hands behind. Soft golden light poured
through the single frosted window, and she stopped to peer at her reflection in the
mirrored door of the medicine cabinet.
“Sigourney Weaver my ass,” she sighed with caustic dismay.
Everyone said she looked like the actress, but if that was true then Sarah felt very
sorry for poor Sigourney, especially in the morning. Still grumbling, she prodded at her
jowls, or where her jowls would be if she had any. She didn’t, but that didn’t keep her
from worrying about them.
Sarah did, in fact, have the high cheekbones and big eyes, and the angular six foot body
that made the famous actress so beautiful on screen, but that was all. In her mind, at
least, the Weaver woman was truly gorgeous and Sarah just wasn’t, and that was that.
Unfortunately, the reflection in the mirror did little to dispel her assessment.
Her weight had cycled up and down a few times over the years and blurred the crisp,
toned figure that she’d once been so proud of. Of course, the legs were still nice, a
little plump at the top maybe, but shapely. Her skin was still okay, too, more or less,
with its cinnamon sprinkling of freckles like a cape over her shoulders and onto the upper
slopes of her breasts. She had managed to get herself thin again at Henry’s insistence
but, discouragingly, it just didn’t look as good as she had planned.
Then there was the boob issue. Sigourney Weaver had gotten rather handsomely augmented
in her forties, but Sarah didn’t need any help that way—quite the opposite, in fact. Big
tits were in her genes. In fact, 36Ds only made her a mid-packer at family reunions, where
bounteous women meant stacked, by God.
Even so, she was currently as small as she’d been in a decade, although small wasn’t the
right word. Dropping thirty-odd pounds and a cup size had been achieved through a
miserably hard regimen of diet and exercise, which she had hated every minute of. Worse
yet, the weight loss had deflated her breasts somewhat, leaving them more pendant than
ever and, in her view, ugly as sin.
Sarah had, in fact, been a double D cup for most of her adult life, which sounded like a
lot until you got next to her cousin Celia, for instance, who was six inches shorter and
carrying the same weight. She wore a G cup, for God’s sake. Soccer balls would fit handily
into Celia’s bra, and there had been a time when Sarah was insanely jealous, feeling as if
she’d been cheated, somehow.
Of course, that was in her youth, when more was better. That was then, however, and this
was now, and she was finding herself actually considering a breast reduction, something
she would never have dreamed of in her bosomy past. She peered into the mirror and said,
“Ugh!” at the idea of having breasts the size of sports equipment, which wasn’t fair at
all.
Celia, with her three ex-husbands and five children and two grandchildren was only a
year older than Sarah. Her oldest daughter had beaten Sarah in the knocked up teenager
department by a full year, scandalizing the family and making Celia’s life all that much
harder. Even so, she had always retained that same serene beauty, and was still just as
happy as a lark about having a giant chest. And maybe it was that very tranquility making
Sarah cranky.
She wished she could be as placid and good-natured as her cousin, especially about
things she couldn’t do anything about. If the truth were told, Celia was the sexiest woman
Sarah had ever known, and she was jealous about that, too, if only in a distant, sisterly
way. Maybe it meant that Sarah was growing up at last, because she had come to understand
that what she really wished was to be that sensuous, and that unguarded. It would have
made her life a lot simpler.
She peered blearily into the mirror where blue eyes were awash in the raccoon’s mask
that last night’s heavy make-up had left on her face. Her dishwater blonde hair was
tangled from the pillow and dull with inattention, and standing up every which way as if
determined to show every gray root in her head. Sadly, there were more than a few. She had
been meaning to get to the beauty parlor, but keeping up with the persistent evidence of
encroaching middle age just didn’t seem to be worth the trouble anymore. That she simply
couldn’t afford it made a convenient excuse to do nothing.
Turning disconsolately away from the puffy eyelids and softening jaw line, Sarah hiked
her cotton nightgown up to sit on the toilet, wincing at the sight of her spreading thighs
on the seat. Elbows on bare knees, she buried her face in both hands, not wanting to think
about slack muscles so early in the morning—or any other time, come to that. Urine spurted
noisily into the water beneath her and she sat quickly upright again, aiming the stream
against the porcelain so Henry wouldn’t hear. He wasn’t fond of bathroom noises, of
trilling pee or grunts or farts, not fond of them at all.
When she got back to the bed, he grinned and pulled the sheet down to show his erection.
Sarah was resigned to it by then and lay down, nearly managing a smile to prove how much
she appreciated his pretty hard-on. And it was pretty, no doubt about it. Henry had the
most perfect dick she’d ever seen, except maybe for her ex-husband, who had also been
nicely proportioned, although significantly larger, although she wasn’t about to tell
Henry that. No way. Anyway, there wasn’t time. He reached for her immediately.
Sarah wondered for about the millionth time if there was something wrong with her.
Couldn’t she just be happy with a morning quickie and get on with her life, for Christ’s
sake? Henry knew the drill. He kissed her neck, her breasts and belly, and then twisted
around to go down on her. It was the only way to make her wet in a reasonable length of
time, and for Henry, time was of the essence. He was a very orderly man.
She restrained another sigh, scraping her fingernails very lightly over his bare,
upthrust hip, exactly the way he liked it. His morning bristles were sandpapery against
her inner thighs, and she wished he would grind his chin in there, just to give her
something to think about. He didn’t, of course, so she turned her head to take his cock in
her mouth. Henry groaned appreciatively, probing her cunt with his tongue, wetting her
labia, touching the nubbin of her clit.
It was sweet, as always, but lacked urgency, also as always. She worked up a moan,
hoping it sounded believable. What she really wanted was for him to suck her tenderest
meat into his mouth and bite the shit out of her. She wanted to feel his fingers digging
mercilessly into her ass, insistent and powerful. She wanted him to take her hair in
strong fists and bend her head back to face-fuck her like that worn out whore she’d seen
in the bathroom mirror.
She’d have been shocked if he had actually done any of that, as it would have been
totally out of character. Sarah wasn’t a whore, and Henry just wasn’t that kind of guy. He
loved to touch her, but it was like being caressed by butterflies. And maybe that wasn’t
so bad, if he’d just hold her down and keep doing it until she screamed; like Chinese
water torture, only with orgasms. But, he never did that, never did much of anything, if
the truth were told.
Things were really so much simpler for Henry Finnegan. In his mind, or at least the part
of his mind that Sarah understood, Henry believed that his job was to get her wet enough
to fuck and then climb aboard. End of story.
Fuck. That was her word, not his. She’d always heard that it was an acronym for some
kind of old legal term, but couldn’t remember what; For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge, maybe?
It fit, anyway. Not that it made any difference what it meant, of course. She loved the
word as much for its inappropriateness as anything else.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! So there, Henry, you stiff necked prig. Fuck you, you fucking fucker.
Fuck you, and the fucking horse you fucking rode in on. She had to strangle a giggle,
turning it into a moan so that he wouldn’t know that she was being silly again. Henry
misinterpreted her snorting little grunt as desire, and shifted his body around, climbing
on top of her.
He would definitely disapprove of her wandering mind, especially while he was making
love to her. Henry had never used the grand old multi-purpose Anglo Saxon declaration, or
at least never where she could hear him. She suspected, in fact, that he never even
thought it. More than likely she said fuck enough for both of them, although she had to
keep it to herself when he was within earshot.
Sarah spread her legs, but not too wide, of course. That would have shocked poor Henry
almost as much as the fleeting fantasies in her head. When he got into position, she
reached down for his questing cock, rubbing the blunt rubbery head against her cunt, which
was wetter from his saliva, she suspected, than her own juices. When he surged forward at
last she gripped the shaft, holding him straight so that he could hit the ten ring on his
first try. Anything else would trouble him.
Henry liked a good, deep elliptical hip swing. It was nice, mostly, to be fucked that
way, only she wished he was bigger, or did it harder or something. But, that wasn’t his
way. Henry did what Henry did because he believed it was best. As far as she could tell,
it never occurred to him that his choice might not be the same as hers.
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