Stacy’s Dream

Stacy’s Dream
by Wistful

m/F, inc, cons, rom, unsafe

Mom gets a second chance…

1.

“Stacy Martin!”, you again berate yourself in the deep recesses of your mind. How did you ever let it get this far? Until tonight, your only lover since your marriage was your husband John, attractive in his way, loving after a fashion, but perhaps gone a little bland. “But!” you again admonish yourself, “that’s no excuse for this!” as you drive to the club that he suggested for your rendezvous. God! You even dressed as he asked, right down to your black satin panties, matching satiny bra and black fishnet hose. “Damn! If I don’t look like a whore now, who does,” you continue remonstrating yourself, but the warm, silky feel of your undies, and knowing who will later remove them, titillates you as much as frightens as you as you drive on into the night, and to the next town some twenty miles away. He’d thought it better to meet in a place where neither of you were known. Reluctantly, quivering in anticipation, you agreed. “And damn it! You’re still quivering! Can’t you see this is wrong?! Don’t you know it goes against the church and the law and even your marriage?” You tell yourself you know all this, and you tightly grip the wheel, yet you drive on, no thought of turning back, until you see the roadside lights beckoning you to your meeting place, a quaint little bungalow motel, just off the road, with a quiet restaurant and bar and convenient parking in the rear. Wheeling around the motel office, you see the door to the adjoining club in front of you. Stopping, setting the brake in your rental, you feel yourself go flushed once again as you check your hair in the mirror “Damn!, but you still look good at 36.” Its your make or break moment. “Well…,” you say to yourself as you exit the car, “Its now or never,” and you stride forward on trembling legs, grasp the door handle, and enter the club.

You blush, your breath catches, and you look to bolt back out as your entry is greeted by howls, hungry wolf whistles, and several lewd and obscene offers from the first half dozen cowboys you pass on your way to the lone open elevated bar-table along the side wall. As you make your way to the table, settle yourself in with one slender, heeled leg bent at the knee, the other toe grazing the floor, you anxiously search the small sea of faces for his. Is he here? Did he stand you up? Is this a fucking joke? Just when you’re thinking just how bad an idea this really is, considering retuning home from all this foolishness, he rears his head from one of the further pool tables, hands off his cue, and slowly, purposefully strides towards you, the picture of a rangy outdoors man in flannel, jeans and boots. Your heart stops when you see the light in his eyes, his warm, wicked grin and his thatch of studiedly unkempt auburn hair. You mind a fog, your pulse roaring in your ears, your breath coming in gasps, your eyes are only for him. You don’t even hear the hoots of “Never Happen!” or “Not a fucking chance in Hell!” from the cowboys dismissing his approach to you. Nothing else matters. He’s here.

Boldly, obscenely, he strides right up between your legs, clasps your head in his big hands, and gazes deeply into your eyes. Your heart stalls, flutters; your breath catches again and your jaw drops as he catches your upper lip between his tongue and his own upper lip, worries it a little, then bends to give you the kiss you’d only dreamed of. To the hoots and cheers, and a few “What?!” of the local folk, he crushes you to his body, pressing his jeans-covered arousal on your already cunt-soaked panties, and continues the deep, soul-wrenching kiss. A small voice in the back of your mind tries to warn that you’re only dreaming, but the forefront of your mind and heart knows this is real. Its happening now. He’s here. He’s kissing you in a very public place, and you’re loving every trampy, breathy, saucy minute of it, shakes, trembles and all. When you both decide to come up for air, he again staring deeply into your eyes, the place is silent, all eyes on the two of you. In an unaccustomed sway of panache, he cups a hand on your butt, pulls you from the chair, and with a half-dancing turn, points you both at the door. You don’t even hear the local fools anymore. Your eyes only for him, his only for you; your arms over his shoulder, his hand still firmly cupping your butt, you slowly stride out of the place and head to the room he’s reserved for you.