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Jackie getting fucked by a young college guy this afternoon!
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Comfort Sex

I read an article in the paper this week about doomsday sex and how it seems to be proliferating in the days since September 11th shook us all to the core. The writer of the article made the comparison to the behavior of people during World War II when men and women were known to marry after knowing each other for a matter of days, sometimes even hours, then rushing to pro-create before parting for months, years, and in some cases for life. Since suicide hijackers ended our national innocence, so to speak, the writer claims that people are showing signs of returning to this type of behavior, an overwhelming desire to couple, to comfort and be comforted. In short, the writer claimed, and I’m paraphrasing here, people are fucking with abandon to quell their fears of what the future may bring, some reporting sex several times a day, with different partners, often strangers.

While the theory certainly sounded plausible, I found that my own response couldn’t be more antithetical. Instead I felt depressed, grief-filled, helpless. It was tough to get through the day without remaining tuned in to the ongoing details as they emerged. For several days following September 11th we stayed up through the night to watch, as if carrying a vigil by the light of our television set would stave off another senseless attack. The images beamed into our living rooms had become like a constant memoriam to the lost. Relatives and friends of the missing walking the streets with pictures of loved ones pinned to thier shirts, searching, faith-filled and determined to remain hopeful.

Sex was becoming a distant but cherished memory for me. Call it survivor’s guilt, but I simply couldn’t picture myself enjoying an orgasm while so many of our brothers and sisters lay buried beneath tons of rubble. Even my vibrator lay untouched for weeks. In fact I plucked it from my night stand and put it away at the back of a cabinet out of reach. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought. The idea of indulging in physical pleasure seemed nearly sacrilege when there was always one more memorial service, one more moment of silence, one more chorus of America The Beautiful to sing.

So as I read that article a few days ago I couldn’t have disagreed more.
“What the hell is she talking about,” I began my morning rant to my husband, peering over the morning paper at him.
Sometimes it was a commentary that got us started, sometimes a review in the entertainment section or an article on foriegn policy, or archelogical digs or the lastest modern art exhibit downtown. Whatever the catalyst, it had become an integral part our lives to begin the day with coffee, the paper, and a good bitch session.
“Who are these people who are copulating with strangers, two, three times a day as a way of dealing with grief?” I continued, feeling the adrenaline of a good point welling up in me. “Who grieves to the bump and grind?”
“It’s like I’ve always said,” my husband retorted, never looking up from his section of paper. “Sex is medicinal. That’s why after an argument sex is always the best.”
“Only for the party who wins the argument,” I said. “The loser fucks through clenched teeth.”
“So that’s why you refuse to suck my dick after we’ve had a spat.”
“Death and destruction does not foreplay make,” I said, “and yes, that’s precisely why I won’t suck your dick after the fur flies.”
“Life goes on, Jackie, and getting out and finding a new lover to fuck you would do you wonders, by the way,” he said, trumping my death and destruction line all to hell.

Perhaps hubby was right. Perhaps it was time to attempt to put a bandage on this gaping emotional wound. As impossible as it sounded, perhaps it was time to try to get back to “normal,” and normal for me had come to be defined by inviting a lover to join us in bed. But how? In the weeks that had passed, I had ignored e-mails with promising offers of pure, pleasurable and unentangled sex from past lovers who obviously, come to think of it, were doing exactly what that article described, getting on with it by getting it on. I felt disconnected from them. Fucking someone I knew didn’t feel like it was the right prescription. No, this called for sex with someone new.

After I drained my coffee cup of the last remnants of French roast, I put those thoughts out of my head to start the day. I had some errands to run, my usual stops at the pet supply store for doggie treats, then the market for dinner supplies and a quick stop at the cleaners. As I passed by the library I remembered there was a Phillip Roth book I’d been interested in reading, so I pulled into the driveway, dug my library card out of my wallet and hurried inside, conscious that I had ice cream in the car so I had to make it quick.

I couldn’t find a copy of the book so in spite of the Rocky Road melt down in my trunk, I decided to browse just for a minute more to find something to take home, determined not to succumb to Brian Williams and MSNBC another night. Some good-n-cheezy sci-fi would do the trick, I thought. As I read a few book flaps my arm brushed up against someone else’s and I said, “Excuse me.” A flash of warm dark chocolate brown caught me eye. I looked up into the eyes of an impossibly young man with a Spiderman book in his hands. Big hands, at the end of long fat-free tautly muscled arms.
My mind began analyzing and processing the landscape in a matter of seconds like a heat seeking missile. Looks to be about 6’4”, baby face, could be high school. Warnings screamed out in my brain of “jailbait!”, “prison food!”, “no more trips to Saks!” I began inching away from him. And then he spoke. “Sorry, Miss.”

Miss? Did he say, “Miss?” I planted my feet firmly in the ground and took a second accounting. Indeed his face looked young, but he did have a nicely filled in goatee and mustache. He was tall and slender but not gangly in the way that boys are when they’re trying to grow into man-hood. There were no tale-tale signs of puberty, thank God. And yet, there was the Spiderman book. Not a great indicator.
“Aren’t they making a movie about him,” I asked, referring to the comic book character.
“Yes, I believe so. My nephew loves this stuff. Thought I’d pick it up for him while I was here studying.”
“Are you studying the habits of comic book heroes?” I asked, ever so cunningly.
He smiled, and he was looking at my tits. Nice smile, great teeth. I stole a glance at my chest while clearing my throat and saw that my nipples were hard and showing through my knit top. And he was having trouble focusing on anything else.
“Chemistry. Mid-term coming up,” he said, and so, apparently, was what appeared to be a largish rise in his pants.
“Chemistry,” I said, “I really had trouble pulling an ‘A’ out of that course.”
A woman walking by our aisle shooshed us. We smiled at each other guiltily.

“Are you in college, too?” he asked in a warm whisper.
Oh my God, I thought, I could blow him right here in the aisle for that comment.
“Not anymore,” turning red, “a few years back.”
“I’m pre-med, and with football practice and games it’s really tough to keep up. But you got an ‘A?’ Wow, do you ever tutor?”
Boy, could I tutor.
“Not since graduate school. But if I could help you out, I’d be glad to. You’d be doing me a favor, really, taking my mind off all this America Strikes Back business for a while.”
The librarian came around our aisle pushing a cart of books. “Shoooooosh. This is a place to study, not visit.”
I motioned for him to follow me over to an unoccupied desk. We sat down side by side, our faces so close together I could smell his breath. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to take his tongue in my mouth. I looked at his face trying to guess his young age when he offered... But yeah, I’m 19, almost 20. My name’s Michael, by the way, as in Jordan.”
Thank God he didn’t say Jackson. And by the way, I was planning to get under his belt myself.
“Basketball, too, huh?”
“That’s my sport, really. But I love all sports, anything physical that puts my body to the test.”
My palms were sweating.

“Well, when can I help you out with that mid-term, Michael. Oh, and I’m Jackie.”
He took my hand to shake it. As I took it away, my hand brushed over his knee and my pussy began to throb.
“I’ve got practice in a few minutes, but that mid-term’s tomorrow. Is there any chance we could meet up later today? Around six? I know it’s short notice.”
“Six is good,” I said, reaching for my purse for pen and paper to write down my address and phone number. I handed it to him. Our legs were laced together between our chairs. I was wearing an above the knee length skirt and my bare legs were covered with goose-bumps.
“You’re cold,” he said, noticing my legs. His large hands began rubbing my legs to warm them. Then he realized the forwardness of his actions. “Oh, man, I’m sorry about that.”
I took his hands and placed them back on my legs, and with my white hands over his large dark ones, I guided his hands up and down my thighs, drawing higher up my leg with each stroke. His eyes were captured by mine, I held them there,
while my hands continued to escort his toward my over-heating twat. I could feel his long fingers approaching the tops of my inner thighs as he rubbed. Our eyes still locked together, at last a finger slipped inside my thong. His jaw was dropping, revealing that delicious looking tongue again.

Wordlessly his finger worked its way inside my panty, stopping to rub my swollen clit. I spread my legs apart and straightened my back in the chair so that my pussy was completely accessible to him. He used one of his hands to pull the silky material aside, and the other was free to finger fuck me. First one then two of his long skillful fingers plunged deep inside my cunt. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”
His eyes darted around the room, and I think he was contemplating whipping his cock out right there. I took his hand from beneath my skirt, the one covered in the juices of my cunt. I raised them to my mouth and licked them clean. “Later,” I said. “My house. I’ll put your body to my own test.”
He leaned over and his mouth found my ear. “Fuck practice. I want you now.”
It was his turn to be the guide. He placed my right hand over the jock-rock-hard dick inside his pants. Make that boulder size. His cock felt like an oversized cucumber, the ones you can barely get your hand around.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing up and leading him out of the library and toward my car.
I didn’t check out a book and my ice cream was soup, no doubt. But I’d come to the library for a little diversion and I was leaving with a huge one, a young, hard, black stud. I unlocked the doors and we climbed into the front seats of my car. I leaned over the center console between us and pulled his mouth toward mine. Finally our tongues were entwined. His was thick and soft, and inspite of his youth he was one hell of a kisser. My pussy was so hot and wet, all that pent up lust seeping out of my cunt and calling out Michael’s name.
“I wanna fuck you so bad,” he said.
“You forgot your book,” I said, slipping my tongue inside his ear,then leaving a wet trail from his earlobe back across his face to his incredible mouth.
“Shooooosh,” he said, flashing a naughty smile, a finger over his mouth, which he then put in his mouth to wet before it shot back down beneath my skirt and inside my panties.
“You’re ready for me,” he said.
I started the car and backed out then put it in drive.