I hated what Jon had done to me.

I loved what Jon had done to me.

A usual Sunday night up here in Marin County?

Well, not really, but when I thought of Jon I couldn't get my sweats down and my hand in my panties fast enough. In only two weeks knowing the lanky guy with the mess of chocolate colored curls and deep right cheek dimple, I had been reduced from the usually solid and sane thirty-five-year-old woman I am to a puddling little girl. In his care and by his urging, I was consistently fantasizing myself back to age sixteen and those first scary stirrings of my sexual awareness, where my pussy truly did betray me nightly as I scooted my firm little ass (an ass I wished I still had) to the edge of the four-poster in the attic-cum-bedroom of my parent's house, diddling myself like a maniac until I came. That I was regressing with Jon-when I had been in his presence, every single time we talked, here alone masturbating-unnerved me as much as it excited me. And it excited me even more that he exploited yet coddled me about it.

I had questioned myself plenty in the furiousness of this 'relationship'-how I had met/discussed/then succumbed to this man so quickly and how Jon had found that one button to push that would open the flood gates (literally and figuratively) to what I seemed to be aching for but didn't realize I wanted until I sucked my thumb, put my long raven hair in pony-tails and blubbered "No, Sir, please, I'll be good". I had never been this open with a lover before (even my ex) and certainly never whimpered or actually cried as I admitted my little girl-ness and came buckets.

Jon had a spell on me I was both titillated and scared of. He was a puppet master, a warlock, a fiend and just what I had so desperately needed in my life.

Home just two days I was masturbating wildly to memories of him and our middle-of-the-week tryst. The snippets of memory made my clit constantly ache...

Jon knocking on my hotel room door ... the first time we'd meet in person ... walking by me to check the view (as I would come to later learn he meant more than just the city skyline you could see from my seventh floor room window), while I literally plastered myself to the wall hoping I wasn't dreaming the vision before me - the long curly hair down the strong broad back, his low voice, his little buns I could spy even under the winter jacket. Jon catching me at the door, smiling down and without a word pulling me into him for a liplock that nearly made me swoon. (Okay, I did swoon). The visit to Rockefeller Center and Times Square all a blur as he held my hand, took liberties in cabs and store alcoves I couldn't believe I allowed. His knowledge of the sites, whispers in my ear about what I was seeing matched with what he was really thinking. Back to my hotel and the mayhem that ensued.

Most of what I masturbate about occurred that late afternoon when we finally got back from the city...