The Last Time

"Guide me in," I prompted her.

She reached between our flesh, familiar fingers adroitly guided the tumescent tool in, parting her nether lips. Her vagina sleeve did not seem to fit as before, the heat of her loins and the cupious lubrication of feminine fluids were a shadow of the past. "I get wet easily," used to be her boast. Not tonight though.

Determined to conclude what we failed to accomplish during the previous engagement, nearly two years ago, I pulled her waist lower down the reclined leather seat, maximising the contact surfaces of our pubic regions. Throwing caution to the wind, I raised her spread legs, the whole right limb would be clearly visible to anyone in line of sight of the window screnn of the bucking automobile. There were only three vehicles at the large carpark, and none seem occupied. Maybe they were just more discreet.

I could feel the clasp of her labia folds hugging the invading shaft, but only a thin ring of flesh seems to be gripping the blood engorged meat. It used to be a tight pleasure glove of throbbing internals, hot and slick with her female mystery secretions. Does aging start down there?

Her face was the one feature visibly ravaged by the passing years. It was nearly reason enough to cancel this interlude. The large leafy tree provided enough shade from the bright lamposts, so I could transpose the youthful face of earlier encounters. The first time. When she took my limp virgin phallus into her mouth, suckled it to rigid penile erection, and lapped up every pearly drop of the orgasmic discharge.

She wanted to be my first, even though she wasn't my bride.