Knowing Mom Ch. 08

Lori fingered the room key as she slipped into the lounge. Hotels always made her nervous. She supposed it was the unfamiliar surroundings, the basic fear of the unknown. Who knew what adventure might reside in a hotel lounge? Or was that misadventure? She wasn't sure. She simply knew that as single women she was a bit vulnerable-even in a hotel lounge. As she settled at the bar and ordered a drink, she surveyed the room.

She found the usual number of sales people and vacationers. You could tell the difference. The sales people were road warriors, sipping cocktails or beers with loosened ties or faded makeup. They swapped jokes and stories and recognized each other like soldiers back from foreign duty. There was camaraderie among them not found in the tourists. The tourists sat in couples, in polo shirts and shorts, sampling those drink specials, the ones with fruit and umbrellas. What the heck, they were on vacation, so why not splurge. Sip a SUNDOWNER or BAHAMA FLAMA or some equally horrible drink and pretend it was ambrosia. Munch the free peanuts and tell each other this was the vacation of their lives. Lori recognized the types. She knew them well.

Her glance lingered over a man sitting alone at small table. Younger, handsome, he read a book and sipped some coke and booze concoction. Not a typical road warrior, not a tourist, he looked more like a writer, dressed casually with a few distinct details. Maybe it was a lucky pen in the pocket of his dress shirt or the penny loafers. She wasn't sure. She simply noted a man far more fit and interesting than the pot bellied bar flies eyeing her from the opposite side of the bar. She knew them so well that she could predict when the first free drink came her way. The bartender delivered it and pointed to a portly, balding, florid man at the end of the bar who raised his glass in acknowledgement. She smiled in thanks, knowing his company had just bought her a drink. She hoped he wouldn't take the smile as an overture, but she knew better. In a few minutes, he would mosey down the bar and engage her in chitchat. A few minutes of pleasantries before he became a bit bold, before she would destroy his illusions. No, she wasn't going to spend even five minutes with him. Thanks for the drink but that bought nothing more than a smile.

Although she dreaded the moment, Lori knew it was coming. She watched for it, mindful of the pain it would cause both of them. Why were men so alike? Predators prowling their habitats always on the lookout for easy sex. She supposed it was some kind of genetic thing. If the species were to propagate, then men had to plant their seed often and in various places. While she understood the need, she didn't see herself as contributing to the planting. Couldn't they see that about her? Couldn't they understand that not every pretty woman burned with a secret desire for sex with every man she saw? They were so pathetic at times, so needy and proud when they should be humble. Ah well, at least she understood the game.

She kept a wary eye on her benefactor, and when he launched from his stool, she launched from her own. Grabbing her drink and purse, she fled across the bar to the table of the writer-at least she dreamed he was a writer-and stood there until he looked up.

"You must save me," she said.

A bemused look came over him.

"There's a man at the bar who sent me a drink," she continued. "And for that, he expects to spend some time with me or perhaps lure me into bed, the last place I want to go with him. So, if you want to be a savior, let me sit down for a few minutes. He'll get the message, and I'll be rid of him."

"I've never had the opportunity to be a savior before," he answered. "Have a seat."

She smiled as she sat, thankful and yet amused. Perhaps this young man would possess some charm the others didn't.

"I see you wear no ring. Are you married?" she asked.

"I could tell that I simply haven't found the right woman yet," he answered. "But in fact, I consider myself too young for marriage."

"Too young by whose standards?"

"Mine."

She laughed. "Youth has its advantages."

"So does age."

"You're saying I'm old?"

"On the contrary, I'm saying you're very pretty. But I suspect you already know that."

"You must be older than you look. Most youngsters aren't so charming."

"It's not the years, it's the experiences."

"So, you're experienced?"

"I prefer to think of them as stepping stones across the river of life. If you wish to get someplace, you have to cross on the stones."

"And if you slip and fall into the water?"

"You get wet, and wetness is an experience, isn't it?"

His smirk belied the innocence of his comment. She felt a certain flirtatious heat inside, something not caused by the alcohol. For such a young man, he managed to hold his own. And the smirk didn't diminish his good looks. He was handsome and blessed with a trim body. She couldn't tell too much about him, but she guessed he possessed the virtues of youth.

"What are you reading?" she asked to change the topic.

"A book of poetry."

"Good?"

"No, awful, but then, most modern poetry is terrible. People think that if they honestly drip a series of words on a page, then it's good poetry. It's trash, of course. Good poetry requires discipline, and today's poets treat discipline as a curse. Hence, they create self-satisfying blobs of words that wander aimlessly and produce nothing."

"A kind of poetry self-indulgence?"

"Let's call it what it is," he said. "It's mental masturbation. It gives them great pleasure and does nothing for anyone else."

"I take it then, you're not a fan of it?"

"Masturbation?"

She smiled. "Modern poetry."

"I'd rather talk about masturbation."

She laughed. "How did we get on that topic?"

"We're self-indulgent?"

"Well, I can't speak for you," Lori said, "but I enjoy some self-indulgence on occasion."

"Don't we all."

"And tell me," she continued. "Just how big is the indulgence?"

It was his turn to laugh. "Well, that varies according to the length of time devoted to indulgence."

"Comes and goes?"

"And comes again."

"Ooooh, that sounds poetic."

"Modern poetry, I'm afraid. "Pure self-indulgence."

"That's something I'd like to see."

His brown eyes widened with surprise. "Would you now. You like watching?"

"Well, I like to think I can find poetry in everything. After all, it's in the rhythm, isn't it"

She sipped her free drink and studied him. Brown hair, brown eyes, a knowing look about him even at his age. She couldn't help but wonder how he might kiss, how he might be at other things. Women were always looking for ways to rate men without experiencing them. Feet, hands, the distance between shoulder and elbow, every woman seemed to have her own measuring device, and yet, she had never come upon a scheme that worked every time. Good looks certainly didn't count for much. How did she gauge without gauging? Yet, she found the repartee stimulating. The play on words seemed much more provocative and romantic than the coarse lines generally used by the road warriors. She liked the seductive quality, the gentle insertion of notions into her mind. It was the play that kept her in her seat. Men had become such bores lately. They couldn't play at all.

"A good poet should be able to get the rhythm right," he said.

"Are you a good poet?" Lori asked.

"I like to think I can hold my own."

"And a good poet keeps his audience in mind, doesn't he?"

"Good poets cater to the audience's needs."

"And if the audience needs more than one reading?"

"The poet always prepares an encore."

She laughed again, masking the desire bubbling up inside. Something about this man intrigued her in ways she couldn't quite explain. But the banter was real and stimulating and shoved her toward experimentation. What might it be like with a poet, with this poet? Would he recite verse while they engaged each other? She wondered.

"I suppose the poet takes requests?" Lori asked.

"Poets are versatile if nothing else."

"Imagine, finding such a poet in a hotel lounge. Where did you come from?"

"From across the river. I used the stones."

"Well, I think you should use one more." She pushed her extra room key across the table. "Seven fourteen." He looked at the key. "Give me ten minutes."

"Just enough time for a sonnet."

She smiled as she stood, letting him look at her. "A love sonnet?"

"Is there another kind?"

"I hope not."

She spun and walked out, knowing the poet watched, knowing the road warriors did too. She also knew the road warriors would note when the poet left his table, but that was all right. She wasn't known there. She didn't worry. As she ascended in the elevator, she wondered if she had done the right thing. Her swelling nipples told her she had, but her mind wasn't quite so sure. Poets were unpredictable too, weren't they? Was he really as nice as she presumed? Yet, she couldn't deny her desire. She would be careful, but not too careful.

After stripping naked, she pulled down the sheets and opened the curtains. The full moon bathed the room in light, and she wondered if the soft light would inspire her poet. She lay there in the light, aware of her nakedness, aware of the shadows cast by her curves, aware of her shaved skin, so soft and smooth. She loved being naked, loved the moonlight. Even as she waited, she rolled her nipples and felt her dampness. She liked to touch, especially while she waited.

And she didn't wait long.

The door opened, and in walked the poet. He stopped close to the bed, and although his face was hidden, she knew he was looking at her, at her naked body. Did it excite him? She wondered.

"Tell me a poem," she said.

"There was a man, they called him mad. The more he gave, the more he had."

She laughed. "Oh, I like that one."

He began to strip. Although she couldn't see clearly, she could see enough to know he was in shape, strong. He wasn't the plump road warrior, he was the thin romantic. As he stripped off his boxers, she could see just how her body worked on him. She liked what she saw. It excited her, a dark, long shape in the moonlight.

He moved to the bed, kneeling on the edge a moment. She reached out and stroked him. He was bigger than she first thought and already hard. She squeezed and felt his balls.

"This is quite a poem," she said.

"The long version," he replied.

She laughed. "The best version."

She pulled him toward her, not releasing him as he bent over to kiss her. His lips were soft and warm, and his tongue just playful enough. She felt her nipples harden under his touch. He tweaked them just he way she liked. His erection throbbed in her hand, which made her feel even hotter. Handling a man had always excited her. For some reason, she always considered an erection as her property, something she should have access to for as long as she wanted. With languid ease, she pulled him to her mouth. The only thing she liked better than handling a man was sucking him.

He filled her mouth, and she thought that she had never sucked a poem before. She had never licked or probed or stroked or squeezed a poem. She had never nibbled a stanza or swallowed a sonnet or kissed a sestina. She had never pumped a refrain or pinched a quatrain. She had never tasted iambic pentameter. Yet, in the moonlight streaming through the hotel window, she was doing all that and more. She was doing what she had always loved, using her mouth on a man's cock, loving it in a way many women couldn't fathom. For Lori, it was a wondrous thing, a live thing with blood and heat and life, something that simply felt right in her mouth. She didn't think she would ever tire of it. She didn't think the day would arrive when she didn't find it stimulating, when it didn't turn her into a puddle of heat. And if the man copied the poet-bending down to lick her-she could stay like this for hours. As his fingers spread her, and his tongue touched her, she wondered if he might recite a poem on her. Did that tongue write a couplet on her swollen clit? Is that why she moaned so? What love poem did he use on her? What romantic words made her gush? Was it all meter and tongue? God, she loved doing this. Sucking him deep and long and feeling his tongue frolicking in her pussy. No matter how many times she did this, she knew she would always love it, always want it. She pushed her pussy into his face and took his erection deeper into her mouth. Oh yes, it was excellent but it wasn't enough.

She turned him again, and this time she guided him between her legs. As his shaft penetrated, she felt a surge of energy. He felt wonderful. Thick, hard filling, he slid in without a problem, fitting her better than she thought possible. As he stroked, she pushed back, her hands kneading her back. What did it feel like to fuck a poem? Wonderful. She loved how he did this. Strong, deep, powerful, yes, she loved it.

"Am I doing OK?" he asked.

"Keep your poem hard and strong," she answered.

"Yes, mom," Ricky said.

"That's right, Ricky. Fuck you mommy, fuck her hard."

Lori felt him plunge into her, stoking the heat inside. Oh yes, her little poet would cum and go and cum again. He was the best poet ever.

They spent the night in the hotel. Lori drove them home in the morning, and as she drove, she recounted the night in the hotel room, the sexiest night she had ever known, the night she had been picked up by her son and fucked till she came with a rush. She wondered how many other scenarios they might play out. Many, many, she had lots of ideas. She was late to the office, but she didn't mind. The hotel room was worth it.

Lori was alone in the office gym. It wasn't much of a gym. A couple of treadmills, stair steppers, rowing machine, exercise bikes, some free weights, a few mats, just enough equipment to justify the showers and lockers. Her company funded the gym in order to lower their medical insurance rates and to keep their employees happy and on site. Cutting the commute time to the gym was saving more time for work, or so the theory went. For Lori, the gym provided the exercise and release she needed after a hard day. She often found herself alone and sweaty and working out the frustrations of her day. Most of her co-workers had other commitments, and so she would turn out the lights.

She observed a regular cycle. Some aerobics to warm up, a stint on the weights, and then another aerobic exercise to test her heart. A bit of sauna, a shower, and she was on her way home. It didn't take long, and the exercise kept her muscles strong and her mind clear. It was strange how different problems looked when she was ten minutes into a twenty-minute stint on the treadmill. Some of her most productive ideas came to life while she exercised. Not that Lori was a fanatic about it. Two or three times per week proved more than enough. And she didn't mind the sweat. Perhaps that was the trait that set her apart from the other women in the office. Lori didn't mind breathing hard and soaking her shirt with perspiration, although she was thankful at times that she was alone in the gym. She imagined her pinned up hair and gamy scent weren't turn-ons. So, she was surprised when he spoke.

"You didn't answer your phone," Ricky said.

She looked over from her jog on the treadmill. "What are you doing here?"

"When you didn't answer your cell phone either, I decided to come over."

"I'm a little later than usual, but not that late."

"It gave me a reason to leave the house."

She laughed. "Well, I've got another five minutes. You can go, or you can stay and watch."

"What, I can't lift a weight or two?"

"Knock yourself out."

She dabbed her forehead with a towel as Ricky stripped off his shirt, baring his chest and abdomen. He grabbed a couple dumbbells and started with simple curls. His muscles rippled as he used them, and Lori found herself staring at them. What was it about a man's muscles that drew her attention? Not that Ricky was overly built. He was muscular but not overwhelming, and his bare skin stretched nicely over his bulk. No sags for flaps or loose skin. Taut and strong, she could see the outlines of his abdominal muscles, his 6-pack. Ricky looked good without a shirt, too good. He drew her attention as if he were a model.

Lori turned away for a moment, not sure she should ogle her son's body. Despite their intimacy, he deserved some privacy, right? Yet, she couldn't help but look. The mere sight of his teenage physique brought a smile to her lips, a lightness to her step. That young, hard body promised much, much more than some of the men she had had. Besides, she knew what hung below that 6-pack, and that was enough to make her salivate. She knew that all too well.

He finished the dumbbells and moved to the universal machine. After adjusting the weights, he lay back on the bench and began to press the weight. His chest muscles bulged with the effort, and she stared so hard she almost ran off the treadmill. She barely had time to correct herself before she took a nasty fall. The belt wouldn't stop if she fell, and that might lead to an injury. If she couldn't keep her eyes ahead, she was in for a problem. So, with still a minute to go, she stopped the machine. Better to cut a workout short than to risk injury. As she grabbed her towel and stepped off, she glanced at Ricky again.

He looked so good doing those bench presses, so sexy. Lori could hardly contain herself as she walked over and stood next to him.

"Done?" Ricky asked.

"Not quite," she answered. "You know, you're going to get your jeans sweaty. Let me help."

She reached down, and he let the weights rest.

"Don't stop," she said.

He started the reps again as she unbuckled and unzipped and worked his jeans to his ankles. Then, she did the same with his boxers, exposing that beautiful penis, that rod that so excited her. As his chest worked with the effort, she reached down and began to fondle him. She loved touching Ricky, loved playing with her son. And he must have loved it too, for despite his efforts, his erection began to grow.

"Feel good?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," he answered.

Lori stroked him, prodded him, managing to get his shaft straight and hard, rising above his 6-pack like a lighthouse. The size always surprised her, and the hardness pleased her, and when she knelt to suck it, she felt a gush of desire. He stopped for a moment, his chest heaving with effort, his 6-pack flexing, his wonderful erection filling her mouth. She licked and sucked and played, and he moaned while hanging onto the bar. Naked on the bench, given a blow job by his mother. If anyone came in now? When she considered the peril, she became hotter yet. This was so naughty, so wicked, and yet, it was incredibly exciting. She stood and stripped in front of him, his cock waving, his eyes feasting on her hard nipples and her shaved, wet pussy. With a long step, she straddled him, letting his shaft rub along her slit. Grabbing him, she stroked it up and down her pussy, wetting it with her juice. She watched his eyes as he followed the rod, as she ran it over her lips again and again. It throbbed in her hand, and she squeezed it hard. Oh yes, she loved this.

She inserted that wonderful son shaft inside and began to lower herself on it. Why was it that every time she did this, it was like the first time all over again? What about doing this with Ricky always thrilled her? What was it about sprinting past the line of propriety always whetted her appetite for more? She wasn't sure she ever wanted to figure it out. She wanted the thrill, the joy, the feeling of her son's hard cock stroking her wet pussy. She wanted the sensation, the emotion that raced through her veins. More than mere sex, good sex, it was Ricky and Ricky's tool she was using. That added something to the mix, that added a sneer at convention. She lowered herself until she had all of him, and then she began going up and down, up and down, using his wondrous erection to stimulate herself.