"Christ – I'm coming!" Myra Ross moaned, her eyes closed now. She could feel Kevin's cock inside of her, spewing out sperm like drops of wet electricity. Her orgasm closed around it, like a tender bubble of sensation, and she caressed it and drained it until it grew pale and empty. Her cunt was an insatiable mouth as it drank down his pleasure between its quivering, gulping lips. She arched up against him, and moaned: "I'm coming… I'm coming!… I'm coming!"
Myra Ross had arrived at Mount Shangri-la Lodge earlier in the week, taking her first vacation by herself in her entire entire life. The vacation, however, had not been for pleasure or relaxation, but was a necessary way of getting a perspective on her life. A life that had taken a sudden, almost suicidal plunge, and was rapidly falling apart on every side of her. Married for almost twelve years, her life with Paul had disintegrated into an endless series of running battles and ego-crushing confrontations. They fought all the time, often for days on end, and the only periods of quiet that existed between them was when they weren't speaking to each other. Even then they glared with such icy bitterness that they might as well have been shouting.
This, naturally, began to take its toll, and Myra, confused and exhausted from the supreme effort it took to just maintain her defenses against attack, had gone away from Paul for a few days of peace and quiet before circumstances at home had driven her directly into a nervous breakdown. She needed time and distance to get her head together so that she could make some sort of decision about her life. Desperate almost, her emotions frayed to the bare bone, Myra had quite seriously considered divorce as a possible solution to her difficulties. There were always the children to consider, she knew, but more important was her own emotional health. She knew she no longer liked Paul; now she needed time to decide whether she still loved him.
Even her choice for a vacation spot had caused an argument to erupt between them. An argument, really, that went to the root of their difficulties, and one that stretched back to a time before they were even married. Myra had wanted to go Mount Shangri-la for their honeymoon, because she was practical, and because they didn't have a great deal of money to spend. Paul, on the other hand, had wanted to go to Florida for the very same reasons: because they didn't have much money. He wanted to have something to remember, he reasoned, something to look back on. Over her practical objections, Paul had won out, and they had gone to Florida on their honeymoon.
Myra's intuition had proven to be correct. A week after they had returned home from their honeymoon, Paul lost his job, and Myra came down with mononucleosis, causing her to lose her job also. Because of Florida, they had no money in the bank to fall back onto, and so their marriage began on an uncertain, shaky economical footing.
Eventually, Paul found another job, but not before Myra's illness, and their mounting, unattended debts had grown into a sizable liability. He struggled to pay the bills, working a second job for the extra income. Then Billie came, and whatever headway they had begun to make was suddenly wiped out. From that point, everything went downhill, causing Paul, ultimately, to alter his future plans of completing his college education once their life had settled.
There were many long, lean years after that. They had Joyce. Out of desperation for money, Paul left his white-collar, office job to go to work for the Post Office, where; he felt, he could make more money with the overtime. The position, too, because of its hours, would give him the opportunity of going back to school.
He did, finally, working nights in the Post Office, and going to school during the days. Three crushing years later, he had his degree, and a license to teach mathematics. He quit the Post Office, began teaching, and soon after had become disillusioned because, like everything in life, teaching wasn't what he thought it would be. They struggled onward, however, never quite regaining their equilibrium from that first bad start.
Eventually, things began to get better; they had more money, and they began to pay their debts. After almost nine years, they began to buy decent furniture for their apartment, something they had done without all the previous years, except for a few makeshift pieces, and some hand-me-downs from their relatives. Although he disliked his job, Paul did well in it, gaining tenure, salary raises, and ultimately advanced degrees. Branching out laterally, he had gone into administration, and became a department chairman. From that point on, it was all politics, something for which Paul had developed an unnatural aptitude through his many hard years of suffering and poverty. Not long after that he became a high school principal.
Oddly, it was when they were finally economically sound that their marriage began to fall apart. Through all the years of adversity, Paul and Myra had remained together, perhaps because they were sharing their suffering, and it formed a sympathetic bond between them. Once, however, that they could relax for the first time in their lives, and enjoy them selves, they became aware that something had grown between them. Once they didn't have to worry so desperately about literally starving, and they had a chance to take a long, dispassionate look at each other – both Myra and Paul had decided that they didn't like what they saw reflected back at them.
Paul found himself resenting his wife because she was not a professional, and, pragmatically, he considered that a decided disadvantage for his career.
Myra grew to resent and to even hate Paul because his career had left her standing still, in a role as mother and housewife, when all the while she knew she had the potential to do and be more, if only the opportunity would present itself to her. Of course it didn't, and she languished in her unwanted role, a sensitive and intelligent woman, wilting like an unattended flower, stifling in the desert of her own life.
So they fought: bitterly, with vicious, almost sadistic tactics and strategy, each blaming the. other for their failures, each terrified by the ugliness of their immediate past, each clawing desperately at the present to carve out a secure place so that they would never have to go back again to the way it used to be. Success had driven them apart just as their suffering before had brought them together.
After one particularly terrible battle, Myra knew she had to get away. She picked Shangri-la, not just to be antagonistic to Paul, although that was part of it, but because she sensed something magical almost in it, as if she had been given a second chance, a way of changing the past. It was the last resort for them, really, and she took that chance and came to Shangri-la. She came as a thirty-three year old married woman, the mother of two children, alone on the first vacation of her life, desperately searching or something, like all fragments of the past, that did not exist.
She found, instead, Kevin Elliott.
Myra met Kevin her first day at Shangri-la. She was sitting in the cocktail lounge, sipping from a whisky sour, trying to sort out the shattered fragments of her life. The lounge was fairly empty. Across from her was an old man sipping from a beer. He was a tall, reedy man with a rumpled gray suit that seemed very much out of place at the resort. He had on a white shirt and a thin, out-of-fashion black tie that was twisted around so that the lining showed. He was looking deeply into his drink, as if it were a crystal ball, and the answers to his life might be found at the bottom. There was a cigarette dangling from his lip, but he wasn't sucking on it. The smoke was bending up past his eyes in a thin blue fog.
At the far side of the lounge there were several tables, but they were all empty. Then, further back, there was a row of booths. There was a young couple sitting at the booth, probably on their honeymoon, and they were sitting on opposite sides of the table, leaning forward, holding hands, looking into each other's faces. There were several tables further back, but if they were occupied, Myra couldn't tell. The whole back end of the lounge was draped in gloomy daytime shadows.
From out of -the shadows at the far end of the lounge, a tall blond man slowly emerged, as if he were stepping through a thick fog. Myra, hadn't seen him before, so she assumed that he must have been in the rear booths. He walked slowly, lightly, as if his feet weren't touching the floor, and he were walking above it, on a cushion of air. He was wearing a somber gray suit and a pale gray shirt that matched the suit. His necktie was a pale lavender, and instead of clashing with the gray, it seemed to blend perfectly, complimenting it. The tie was open and loose at his neck, and she could see his tanned, dark flesh through his open collar. The man's hair was almost bleached white, striking against his sun-darkened flesh, and, even in the darkness of the lounge, he was wearing a pair of steel-framed sunglasses. He was extraordinarily handsome, and seemed to be aware of it. Perhaps that was why be walked so coolly and so casually: he wanted everyone else to be just as aware.
He walked slowly to the far end of the bar, where Myra was sitting, and she thought he might be looking at her, although she couldn't be sure through the dark glasses. There was a kind of faint, tight smile on his lips, and she wondered whether there was a mocking bend to them, or whether that was simply her own subjective reaction to his good looks.
When she realized that she was staring at him, Myra looked down into her drink, and quickly took another sip from it. Her glass was almost empty now.
"Another," the tall blond man softly said when the bartender had approached him. He had a glass in his hand, and he placed it on top of the bar. His voice was clear and cultured, and even though he spoke softly, there was an unmistakable tone of authority in his voice.
The bartender nodded.
Myra realized she was staring again, and she took another drink from her glass. The blond man was looking at her now, and she felt an unmistakable flutter in the pit of her stomach. Without understanding why, she pulled her thighs together, as if locking her cunt in a tight prison of flesh.
"And another for the lady," he said, now obviously staring at her.
Myra's hand tightened around her glass, and she looked suddenly up at him. My God, she thought, feeling the fluttering that had been in her stomach suddenly dance lower until it was tickling her between her thighs. He's tying to pick me up!
"That's all right," she said, expelling the words in a tight huff of breath. "You don't-have to -" She searched for the appropriate words.
He lifted his hand and waved away her objection. His tight lips parted and revealed a set of perfectly brilliant white teeth. "Don't worry, little lady," he said, in the same soft, confident voice. "No strings attached. I just don't want to drink alone."
Dread made her body tense. She didn't know how to handle her situation. She hadn't been picked up in almost fifteen years, and she didn't know what to do. She felt foolish and awkward, more for herself than for the circumstance. As a housewife and a mother, Myra rarely came in contact with that many men, and when she did, and they made a play for her, she could fend it off easily because it was either a neighbor or a local merchant who was propositioning her. But this was different. She didn't have her husband or her children to hide behind. She had to sort this out for herself. She didn't want to be hostile or offend him, and she certainly didn't want to give him the wrong idea. At least, she thought she didn't.
The bartender half turned, and be looked directly at Myra, waiting for her answer.
She smiled back at the blond man's smile, and said: 'Well, all right. I guess one won't hurt."
The blond man nodded, pleased with himself, pleased with her response. "Good," he said.
Not knowing what else to do, Myra drained her glass, and looked at her wristwatch. As she lifted her hand, she made sure that her wedding band flashed in the dim light.
"Are you waiting for someone?" he asked tentatively. He cocked his head toward the bar stool next to her, as if asking whether it would be all right for him to sit next to her.
The trembling, forbidden kind of excitement that gripped her body made her answer come out all distorted and magnified. Myra nodded her head vigorously. "No, I'm not. I'm not waiting for anyone," she answered, regretting instantly her naive honesty. "Why do you ask?"
He slid onto the stool next to her, and his knee touched hers. It was like electricity, and she felt the charge surge up her thigh from the point of contact, stabbing wetly into her cunt.
"Your watch," he said softly. "You keep looking at your watch. I thought perhaps you might be waiting for someone."
The bartender brought their drinks. The blond man's was a dark looking amber fluid, potent in appearance, with a single ice cube floating in it. Myra clutched at her drink, grateful once again to have something to do with her hands, and she rolled her sweaty palms against the cool glass.
"Are you here alone?" he asked, lifting his glass.
Myra didn't know how to answer him. She didn't know whether he was referring to her being alone in the lounge or whether he meant was she alone at Shangri-la. Besides, she wasn't sure whether she wanted him to know the answer to that question. An answer would mean she had made a certain commitment toward him, and that was something she didn't know how to handle.
"Yes, I am," she said finally, trying to be casual, afraid of looking directly at him. There was a wetness in the crotch piece of her panties, and she felt giddy and lightheaded, as she hadn't felt in more years than she cared to recall. "Are you?"
"Alone?" he smiled crookedly. "Oh, yes. Very much alone." He shifted on his seat, turning toward her. "Are you going to be here for the rest of the week?"
"I'm leaving Sunday," she explained, her confidence growing, the blood throbbing in her ears.
He smiled. "So am I." He picked up his drink: "Shall we drink to a long, friendly… relationship?"
Myra lifted her glass, afraid that her trembling hand would be- noticeable, and she tipped the glass toward his. They clinked dully.
"All right," she said. "To a long and friendly relationship."
Myra pressed the cool glass to her lips and she took a deep drink. Fire.rolled down her throat and splashed in her stomach. She was beginning to feel the first drink already, and her head felt as if it was throbbing. Her ears were hot with excitement, and she could feel her nipples tingling against the cups of her bra. It wasn't the drinks, however, which caused her breasts to respond. It was his knee: he was rubbing it softly up and down against the edge of her leg.
Close to him now, Myra could see how unbelievably handsome this stranger was. Perhaps beautiful was a better word. His features were finely chiseled, and his tan was a rich deep flawless brown. Almost bleached white, his hair was very soft, flowing into a long, mod style that had to have been professionally styled She could see his eyes now under the dark glasses, and they were alive and piercing, with an intelligence and a subtle knowledge that hinted of dark things that might be. He had long, long eyelashes, and they fluttered like delicate webbing. The clean erotic aroma of his cologne assailed her nostrils like a perfume, and she found herself inhaling its fragrance deeply, almost involuntarily.
"I know," he said finally, a smile on his lips, mischievous humor in his eyes. "I remind you of someone, don't I?"
Myra put her glass down on the bar top. "As a matter of fact, you do. Do I know you from somewhere?"
He chuckled warmly. "Perhaps you've seen me on television," he said. His leg was pressed tightly against her thigh. "I've done a series of commercials for -"
"Yes!" Myra interrupted. "That's where I know you from. You do those commercials on television about that plastic…"
He nodded and sipped his drink. "Well," he said, "it's a living."
"No, they're very good, those commercials," she said suddenly excited. It was a stupid thing to say, but she couldn't control her mouth. Then she said another foolish thing: "Do you know what I used to say to Paul about you? Paul's my husband."
He smiled broadly, and she could feel his calf against her calf, as if he were trying to mold his leg against hers. "No, what did you used to say?"
Myra remembered suddenly what it was: she used to think he looked like such a raving faggot in those commercials. Now, however, up close, in real life, right next to him, she was overwhelmed with his masculinity.
She blushed. "Nothing," she said after a few desperate moments. "Forget it."
He laughed, and the secret awareness she had observed in his eyes seemed to come alive, making them sparkle. It was as if he was telling her that he knew what she was thinking. Perhaps she wasn't the first woman who had reacted to him in that manner.
"Okay," he said softly, "I'll forget it on one condition."
"What's the condition?"
"Tell me your name."
"Myra," she said. "Myra Ross. What's your name?"
He sipped his drink, then put it down slowly. She was aware again of the rub of his thigh against her leg; aware again of the growing wetness in her panties.
"Kevin," he said. "Kevin Elliott."
Myra tipped her drink toward him. "How do you do, Kevin?"
He smiled "I do very well, Myra."
They spend the balance of that first day in the lounge, nursing their drinks, talking, exploring their pasts, enjoying each other's company immensely. Myra learned that Kevin was just getting over a divorce, and that somehow drew them even closer together. She saw the relationship through eyes filled with her own pain, characterizing them as two lonely, wounded human beings, gravitating toward each other, sharing their sad, sorry secret.
Myra spent the rest of the week with Kevin, hardly out of his sight for a moment. They ate together, took walks together, went horseback riding together, like two adolescents on their first experimental dates.
The only time they weren't together was;at night. Kevin, like a dutiful schoolboy, escorted her to the door of her room; spent a few moments talking lightly with her, shook hands and said good night. Then he fumed away and went to his room. He knew Myra was married, and that she was going through a particularly difficult period, and so, explaining his behavior, insisted that he didn't want to confuse her any further than she already was. The gesture seemed so gallant, so selfless that it made Myra's head whirl, just as it was intended to. She began to think of Kevin in romantic terns, more as a boyfriend than a lover. He further fortified this impression as frequently as possible, treating her gently, affectionately, complimenting her constantly on the way she looked, on the clothing she wore, noticing little pleasing things about her, sending her a single long-stemmed rose each morning, and generally romancing her. Myra, who had been starved for affection, literally ate up all the attention she was receiving.
She found herself fantasizing about Kevin. Her fantasies took usually the form of three separate dreams. In the first, she saw Kevin as the answer to her problems. She was going to run away with him, run away from Paul and her children, and leave forever behind her all of the hassles and difficulties of her life. She was going to start anew, fresh, with a man who appreciated her value as a woman and as a human being.
The second was a variation of the first, and rather than run away with him, which seemed to her even extreme, she saw herself divorcing Paul so that she could marry Kevin. In either case, they would live happily ever after.
The third fantasy excited her because it seemed the most probable. She intended to have an affair with him. In all twelve years of her marriage, Myra had never had an affair with any man, although, like all women, the idea had entered her thoughts. The only thing that had prevented her was the lack of opportunity, and the fear that she would be found out by Paul.
Kevin released her from those two fears. Paul would never find out about Kevin simply because he had no way of knowing he even existed. And the opportunity certainly was there. They were two consenting adults, alone, hundreds of miles away from home, with no one there to stop them. It still surprised her even now that they hadn't done so before this. During the past few days, the desire had grown stronger and more difficult to ignore. Besides, if she did have an affair with him, there was no way to know how it might turn out. It might go on for years. And there was certainly the possibility that either of her first two fantasies could become real possibilities. She didn't seriously consider that, but she fortified herself with the thought that one never knows how his life will turn out. The smallest incident, sometimes is the one which produces the most considerable effect. Was Kevin Elliott that incident in her life? Before she went home to Paul she had to know, one way or another.
The week wore on until it was Saturday night. Myra knew this had to be the night. Sunday morning at eleven o'clock they both would be checking out, Kevin to go back to his job, and she to go back to Paul, her problems unresolved. It was now… or never.
Together they went to the nightclub, listened to the two bands and the comic, drank an endless string of strong drinks, and danced every dance after the show was over. They laughed and teased each other, and had a marvelously good time. They danced until the nightclub closed down, and they they walked, like lovers, arm-in-arm to the diner where they had coffee and cake. As usual, Kevin escorted Myra to her room.
She slid the key into the lock, smiled at him, and took the plunge. "Would you like to come in for a moment?" she asked, her stomach fluttering uncertainly.
Kevin studied her face. "Are you sure you want me to, darling?"
She laughed nervously. "No, I'm not, but if you want to come in, you'd better come in now. I don't know how I'm going to feel about this later."
"Well, in that case, I think I'll come in." He flashed his spectacular smile at her. "For a little while, at least. Thank you."
Ten minutes later, they were sprawled across the top of her bed, locked in a passionate embrace.
Kevin kissed her wetly on the mouth, and Myra parted her lips to permit entrance of his tongue. He tasted hot and wet in her mouth, his tongue flitting from side to side, stinging her sensitive flesh with the licking lash of his slithering caresses.
He was on top of her, and her thighs parted until she twisted her legs through his, crushing upward with her cunt, grinding her body against his as they kissed. Kevin had his arms under her, and Myra had hers interlaced across his back. If there was a part of their bodies that was not touching, it could not be discerned with the naked eye. Her breasts were flattened sensually under his massive chest, and his cock stiffened excitedly in the prison-like confines of his pants. She felt it driving up against her, rubbing the edge of her cunt, sending ripples of intense anticipation down through the many layers of her clothing. Her panties were sopping wet between her thighs, clinging to her underside until the driving hunches of his body had jammed the material between her hairy lips. The hole of her cunt was opening and closing like a puckering mouth, licking at his hardness, aching wetly for his cock.
Kevin's hands worked with expert precision, loosening the clasps of her halter top so that it came down, revealing her braless breasts to his hands and eyes. Myra had always been self-conscious about her breasts because of their size, and even more so since the birth of her two children, and the beginning of her long middle years, which had caused their previous firmness to begin to sag. But she felt no such shame tonight. Her body was alive with passion, and she knew the passion she received in return was equally intense. All week long Kevin had wanted her body, had ached for the touch of her body, had lusted after her body, and she knew now, as she gave herself so freely to him, that the merest touch of his hand across her stiffened nipples was more exciting to him than any memory or fantasy with which his mind could use to draw comparisons. Her body excited him, made him ache with desire, and that, more than anything else, stripped her totally of inhibitions, and drove her against him with compelling abandonment.
"Oh, God – it feels so good!" Myra moaned, crushing Kevin's face toward her tits as he scooped them into his mouth. His tongue lashed her nipples, striking them until they were so stiff they were throbbing in his mouth. Saliva dribbled from his lips and poured hotly, wetly down her sensitive, quivering flesh. She humped her cunt hard against his plunging middle, rubbing his stiff cock between the lips of her cunt, until her panties were squishing with wetness, they were so soaked. "Fuck me, Kevin – fuck me! Fuck me, baby, fuck met I want you to fuck me, baby -"
His hands moved down to the base of her back, fumbling for an instant with the button and zipper of her pants outfit, then opened them. He slid his hand into the yawning wedge of material, sliding his fingers over the driving firmness of her pantie covered asscheeks. He gripped her flesh into his palms, rolling her over until she was on top of him, driving his cock up hard against her as he pushed down with his fingers. He could feel her heat and wetness even, through his pants.
"Take it out, baby!" she moaned, going completely wild. She humped herself hard. "Your cock! Take your cock out. I want to feel it! I want to suck it! I want to shove it all the way up my cunt until I'm coming! I want to feel you coming! Come all over met Inside of met God!"
Kevin slipped the balance of her parted clothing down over her grinding hips and legs, until all she wore was a pair of very brief, very wet bikini panties. He hooked his fingers inside them, and he rolled them down to the middle of her thighs. Her cunt was naked against his crotch, and he could feel her hair rubbing against his clothing.
Kevin rolled her back onto her ass. He leaned over her, whisking the blue panties the rest of the way down her legs. Sensually, Myra parted her thighs, revealing the wet tangle of her black-haired pussy. The lips were parted wetly, and the slit between them was deep red Cuntal discharge oozed from her quivering hole.
"I'm going to fuck you now, baby!" Kevin gasped, opening his zipper and releasing his throbbing ereotion. It slithered out, standing away from him a full, thick seven inches: His cockhead was engorged with blood, swollen like a cap, and a bubble of pre-come lubrication oozed from its stetted opening. "I'm going to fuck you hard!"
His cock went into the molten pit of her curt, and Myra gasped with pleasure. She crushed down with her pussy, bending the walls of her cuntal passageway around the drilling thickness that was opening her up. She tilted her hips back, pushing her black-haired cunt up against his grinding middle, swallowing the full-length of his shaft into her creaming cunt. She could feel the cold metallic teeth of his zipper catching in the hair of her cunt.
"Oh, God – it's so big" she cried, locking her feet around his ass, humping herself up and down around the plunging rod. "Bigger than Paul… I knew it would be! I knew it would be! Oh, fuck me with it, baby! Fuck me… fuck met Christ! I'm gonna come!"
Kevin grimaced with excitement as he drove his cock in and out of Myra's gripping belly. The intense rub of friction, and the pleasure it gave him to watch his cock parting her pussy nearly drove him insane with passion. His balls tightened, and there was a burning sensation around the tip of his prick. He thrust in deeply, stabbing the full-length of his shaft into the fleshy canal of Myra's dripping crotch.
He began to come.
The moment his sperm touched her, Myra began to come. She came from the idea more than she came from the reality. Kevin was the first man, the only man other than Paul, who had ever come inside of her body. The sheer sensuality of the thought drove her mad with passion.
"Christ I'm coming!" Myra Ross moaned, her eyes closed now. She could feel Kevin's cock inside of her, spewing out sperm like drops of wet electricity. Her orgasm closed around it, like a tender bubble of sensation, and she caressed it and drained it until it grew pale and empty. Her cunt was an insatiable mouth as it drank down his pleasure between its quivering, gulping lips. She arched up against him, and moaned: "I'm coming… I'm coming!… I'm coming."