Back | Contents | Next

Two Grand Orgasm

by Alexis Siefert
Copyright © 2003, 2004

This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me first about it. If you are not allowed to read works with sexual content, either due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the geographical location in which you reside, please do not continue.

Enjoy, and if you're so inclined, please let me know what you think. —Alexis

There's the well-known cliché about the vacuum cleaner salesman and the lonely lady customer. There's the well-known cliché about the single woman and her best friend's son, and there's the well-known cliché about the sexually-frustrated older gal and the handsome young teen. Now Elizabeth finds out happens when all three scenes meet in one young woman and one younger man.

“Damn it, Michael. It's Elizabeth. If you call me 'ma'am' one more time, I swear I'll throw you out of here faster than you can say 'lifetime warranty.'” I was irritated, and more than I let on. Irritated that I let Margaret talk me into this, irritated that I was spending my Saturday morning listening to a faltering, hesitant, lousy sales pitch, and irritated that this unbelievably gorgeous young man was looking at me as if I was one of his mother's friends.

Which, unfortunately, I was.

Friday night's “Girls' Night Out.” Margaret and I were about to close down the bar, and we were making a last-ditch psychic effort to get the guy sitting under the television to buy our next round. No dice, but that's the way it is some nights.

Typically, the men can't figure us out. Are we there as friends unwinding—don't buy them drinks, they're not interested and you'll just have to listen to them bitch. Or are we there as 'friends' enjoying a night out—they're lesbians, and you don't stand a chance, but offer to buy them a round anyway. We might be Mother-Daughter—but definitely buy them a round. A mother-daughter threesome?

Of course, they figure there might be a chance that we're there as two women who happen to be sitting next to each other at a bar so they're talking, but they're really looking for a man—no shit, buy 'em both a drink.

So, half way through my fourth (or fifth, or sixth maybe—it had been a relatively good night for getting free rounds) Cosmopolitan of the night, Margaret moves the discussion from my last failed relationship to her newly eighteen-year-old son, Michael. It was an easier transition than one might think. Of course, alcohol tends to smooth out those rough corners.

“So, Margaret. When does Michael leave?” I knew exactly when Michael was leaving. To the day, the hour, and the minute of his flight. But asking her was guaranteed to get the subject off of why I didn't have a decent orgasm during the entire 27-day relationship I'd just abandoned. At the moment, the only thing Margaret liked better than picking apart my string of failed dates and twelve-night-stands, was moaning about how awful it was to be the mother of a high school graduate

“”It could be much worse,“ I smartassed. ”You could be the mother of a High School Dropout.“

“Ha fucking ha.”

“At least he'd be here, where I could keep an eye on him. But no. My little boy graduates from high school and what does he do? He enlists! He signs away his life to the Army. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! The fucking Army?”

Margaret considers herself something of an activist. Peace symbol earrings and platform sandals. Protests at laboratories, letter-writing campaigns to members of Congress, chanting on picket lines outside grocery stores to protest unfair hiring practices. And, for all those years, her 'little boy' was in tow, complete with tie-dye T-shirts, hippie-sandals, and shaggy hair.

Not that I ever, even gently, pointed out that perhaps that's what drove Michael to the Army in the first place. Eighteen years of tofu and protest songs? I'd have looked to a life in uniform myself.

“Mikey leaves in 63 days, Lizzy.”

I knew. I didn't want to continue, but I knew the only discussion that would get her off of bemoaning her upcoming empty nest was my sex life and I couldn't face any more of that.

Three weeks previously, my then-current bedmate packed up his boxers and gone home, for good. Jeremy and I met in a bar, not unlike this one, on a chick-night not unlike this one. (You'd think I'd learn eventually. Do not get hooked up with men in bars, no matter how much bar tab they want to pay). He had great hair, and a cute butt and dark, deep-set eyes and good teeth. He was relatively good in bed, but he had no manners. In or out of bed.

A small dick I could deal with, poor technique I could deal with. But he was rude. In bed, he was a one-trick pony. One round per night, and if I was able to get what I needed then fine. But if not, he wasn't overly concerned.

I tried to extend things. I figured if I gave him a quick orgasm, we could play a bit to get back in the mood, then he'd last a nice, long, second-round time. So we'd sit, necking on the sofa, and I'd lay my head in his lap, and nibble at his zipper. He'd groan and let me pull his slacks down over his hips so I could mouth him through the cloth of his boxers.

Oh, he was appreciative enough—too appreciative. I would no sooner have wrapped my lips around the tip of his cock, blowing warm puffs over the tight, smooth skin, than he'd have his hand buried in my hair, pulling my mouth harder over what there was of his cock. He fucked my mouth, seemingly unaware that he was fucking a person, not just a pair of the wet lips.

He shuddered when he came. His finger shook as his hips bucked against my mouth. His breath came in gasps and he held my face in his lap until his cock started to soften. “Oh,” gasp, shudder, “Ohhh, Baby, yes.” Tremble, gasp, “You've got such a hot mouth.” That was his idea of sweet-talk.

Out of bed, it was the same thing. Discussions centered on his job and his interests and his choices of movies or restaurants. I'm not positive he even knew what I did for a living. He knew where my apartment is, he knew how to dig through my refrigerator, and he knew how to toss his boxers in with my laundry. But that was about the extent of his interest in me as a person.

So, the inevitable question is, 'Why did it last 27 days?' Good question. Short answer—cute butt, dark eyes, great hair, and a willingness to buy dinner and drinks in exchange for a chance to be seen with a well-dressed woman on his arm.

Our last night together was memorably disastrous. We spent the first part of the evening at a business dinner, some client of his was in from out of town, and we were there to show him the nightlife. Dinner and dancing with the client and his wife. We took them out for steaks at a small, intimate steakhouse. Candles on the table, linen tablecloth, Spode china plates. Long linen tablecloth. Long enough to hide our laps from the waitress and the other diners.

The client was a stuffed shirt, graying at the temples, balding on the top, thick around the middle. His shirt was designer, his tie silk, his suit off-the-rack, and his manners strictly new-money pretentious. Moments after the waitress left drinks at our table his hand was on my knee, working the hem of my skirt up to my thighs.

He was smooth, very smooth. He smiled at his wife, laughed with Jeremy, and stroked the lace of my panties. I was flustered and made a poor job of making conversation. Jeremy gave me a warning glance before lifting his martini for a toast. I took the opportunity to put my own hand in my lap and grabbed his fingers in my own. And squeezed. Hard, until he winced and jerked his hand back.

The night went downhill from there. Between steaks and dessert, we danced, changing partners with the change of songs. It was a small dance floor, and intimate contact was inevitable. The client's hand drifted from my lower back to my ass with what seemed to be casual abandon. It took the better part of three songs, but when he finally realized that I wasn't there as added entertainment for the night, his lecherous attentions cooled and the talk turned strictly to business.

According to Jeremy, this was not a good thing. Hosts' dates are there to help entertain. To flatter the client. He not so patiently explained that it wouldn't have hurt to play along, would it? Why couldn't I have laughed and nuzzled my tight little body up against his on the dance floor? After all, it's not like he was asking me to actually fuck the client. Just make him think that I wanted to fuck him. Apparently, to my chagrin, that's the way the game is played.

He figured that the account was on its way out of the office after that night, and he blamed me. We fought, I might have said something insulting about the size of his cock compared to the size of his ego, and wham, bam, and he's outta there.

So, the way things were going, there wasn't enough of my sex life to keep me occupied, never mind enough to warrant a discussion over drinks with Margaret. I checked the guy at the end of the bar. Still no apparent interest. I pressed on. “What's Mikey doing until he leaves?”

Which is how I ended up sitting on my sofa, awake way too early on a Saturday morning, listening to a vacuum cleaner sales pitch

“…giving you a massage.”

That got my attention. “Excuse me, Michael. What did you say?”

“The attachments include one that does massages. See—it's part of the 'Turbo Accessory System' that includes a turbo buffer, a turbo sander, a turbo scouring-unit, and an orbital massager. I was just saying that this baby here will do anything you need around the house, including giving you a massage. Now, what do you say we do part of your carpet so I can show you how great the machine is.”

“First of all, Michael, don't call a machine a 'baby' when you're trying to sell it to a woman. Save that description for the used sports car. Second, look at my living room. Do you see carpet?” One of the reasons I rented this place was for the house-wide hardwood floors.

I could have been gentler, I suppose. I had obviously flustered him, and this was supposed to be a practice sales pitch. “Friends and family only for the first weekend.” Margaret had assured me, “Not really a sales demonstration, it's just a way to help him feel more confident before he starts cold calls.” I suppose that when you're selling a carpet sweeper with a two-grand price tag, you need all the confidence you can get.

I went on. “Look. I'm sorry. It's early.” I waved my fingers absently at the window. There were clouds over the sun, and only a smattering of light pushed through the curtains. He looked downcast, and I could see his frustration as he clenched and unclenched his fists a couple of time. Why hadn't I ever noticed his hands before? Good hands, nice looking fingers. I remembered Margaret whining about the cost of trumpet lessons, and I had a very brief mental image of those fingers flying over the valves. I wonder what those fingers could do on my button…

I felt a fluttering between my legs. I shifted positions on the couch, tucking my feet under and pressing my thighs together. I was starting to feel the moisture around my pussy, and I reminded myself that he was my friend's son. Old enough to be legal, granted, but still my friend's son. My much older friend, and her only-five-years-younger-than-me son, but still.

I tried again. “You're obviously not going to be able to convince someone in a rented, hard-wood-floored house to shell out that kind of cash just to get their floors clean. You're cute, Michael. Use that to your advantage. There has to be some other way to demonstrate this thing.”

I heard the suggestion in my voice. Stop it, Liz. He's young enough to be—what? Actually, he wasn't young enough to be anything but damn available. Okay, he wasn't old enough to buy me a drink, but he was old enough to be in uniform. Mmmm, uniforms… Damn. This is why I don't get up on Saturday mornings. When I'm not in a relationship and when there's no one in my bed, there's not much reason for waking up early on the weekend. My body had grown too accustomed to weekend-morning sex. I figured out over time that it's best just to sleep through those libidinous urges.

He took a breath and started over. “Good point, I suppose. Thanks ma'…” I glowered, “Thanks, Elizabeth. How about this? What do you think the dirtiest part of your house is?”

I debated telling him that it's not a good idea to insult his potential customer by calling her house 'dirty' but I let it pass. “I don't know, Michael. The entryway?”

“Nope. Not even close. The dirtiest part of the house is your mattress.”

I wondered exactly what Margaret had been telling her son. “And just what's that supposed to mean?”

“Um, it doesn't mean anything. It's just dust mites. They live in your mattress and every 20 minutes or so they, well, they…” he faltered, and I could see he was embarrassed. I could also see where he was going, and figured I didn't want to hear any more. I liked what goes on in that bed. At least when there is something going on in it.

“Never mind. Just show me something the machine can do. You said something about a massage?”

“Well, yeah. But I don't think I'm supposed to…”

The fluttering had turned to a full-fledge itch. Damn those shoulders. Since when did they make eighteen-year-olds with shoulders like that? Besides, eighteen isn't really that young. I let my voice soften. “Look, Michael. You're going to have to learn to convince your customer. Show me how this thing works.”

“Well, since you're a friend, I guess it couldn't hurt.” Magical words.

He pulled a red, fuzzy padded rectangle from his sales case and fixed it over what looked like a little belt-sander. “Then you hook the hose up to here, and the sucking action makes the pad vibrate. Here, feel.” He grabbed my wrist, a little too forcefully for a salesman-customer relationship, but this really wasn't a customer thing anymore.

“Nope, Michael. That's not good enough. Here, show me on my back.” I stretched out on the sofa, pulling my T-shirt tight under my body, making it smooth for him.

He considered for a moment, I could hear him breathing beside me. I didn't move—I was a bit nervous that I'd succumb to the absurdity of the situation and let him off the hook.

Then he took the bait and pressed the pad between my shoulder blades. My voice vibrated. “That's not a massage, Michael. Lower.” To my surprise, he obliged. Skillfully. I was starting to suspect that he had done more than study the books in his high school career.

I opened my mouth to say something to that effect, but I realized that my voice, combined with the vibrations of the massager, would most likely have a less-than-erotic effect. I bit my lip instead and closed my eyes. Damn. This alone was almost worth the price.

He pressed against me, and I relaxed more. When he started to stroke the small of my back, I was done for. I sighed, Saturday morning grumpiness faded, and I felt myself hitting that absolute relax stage that comes about half way through a really great rub down. That point where you realize you're as calm and as soft as you're going to get, and you know that you're going to have to open your eyes soon, but you don't yet care.

And then he kept going. The vibrations through my spine sent shivers through my belly. My legs parted as he tentatively rested his hand where my thighs curved to my ass, and with his other hand, he pressed the massager on the top of my ass cheeks. His fingers tickled my skin, stroking along the crease of my thigh. I moaned and his fingers jerked back.

“Do. Not. Stop. I said firmly. I reached back and grasped his wrist, pulling his hand back against my ass. His fingers explored further, up past the hem of my shorts, up under the loose fabric. I was having trouble choosing which to concentrate on—his searching, trembling fingers at the crease between my ass and my thigh, or the steady vibrations of the massager—which he seemed to have forgotten he was still pressing on my back.

His fingers twiddled with the opening of my panties, and when he hesitated, I knew I was going to have to give some “older woman” guidance. “Turn off the machine, Michael.”

I think my voice startled him. He jerked his fingers from my shorts as if he had been burned. He fumbled with the vacuum, muttering apologies and turning crimson.

Sigh “Michael. It's okay. Just turn it off and come back over here.” Surprisingly enough, he did. Without argument.

“Now, go right ahead. You were doing just fine.” I closed my eyes, put my head on my crossed arms, and stretched my legs out on the sofa. Don't blow this, Michael, I thought desperately. It could be the best practice demonstration of your life.

And, again surprisingly, he didn't.

“Remember where your hands were? Put them right back and keep going.” I could actually feel his fingertips tremble as he snaked his way up against my thigh to find my panties. I arched a bit to give him better access, pushing my leg against his hand.

He was pressing me against the sofa, a bit too firmly with his other, but it wasn't a point I wanted to correct just now. Youthful exuberance beats refinement any day. I was concentrating instead on the moisture between my legs. I could feel the heat between the silk and my pussy, and I knew that I needed something else, something bigger, in there. I squirmed, hoping he'd get the hint and reach inside. My panties needed to be off. Now.

He spread his fingers, lifting the elastic lace from my skin, stroking between my thighs. His fingertips were rough, callused. Trumpet playing, I told myself, must toughen the finger pads. I'll have to remember that. Then I forgot as he scraped roughly over my pussy. No finesse this one, no tentative probing, no feeling between my lips, spreading the wetness across my clit with his thumb. I vaguely realized that his wrist must be at a very painful angle.

Forget subtle I told myself and reached under my belly to unbutton my shorts. I lifted my hips and wiggled my ass. “Help me with these, Michael. We're not going to get anywhere until they're off.”

He didn't need any further encouragement. He grabbed the hems with his wet fingers and yanked them down over my thighs and over my feet, dropping them on the floor beside the sofa. Ditto the panties, except he didn't wait for my encouragement. When I was naked from the waist down, I flipped over onto my back, giving him full access to my spread thighs and bare belly.

He stared for a moment, and then touched, stroked, grabbed between my legs. My stomach fluttered and my legs trembled. He had discovered a new toy, and I knew better than to come between a man and his toy.

So he played. I arched to meet his fingers as he probed, digging deep into my pussy, opening me, stretching my opening as he explored.

My fingers went exploring as well. I found the button of his jeans and fumbled them open, snaking my hand inside the waistband of his boxers. I heard him gasp as my fingertips grazed the tip of his cock. It was moist, and as I stroked with my fingertips, he twitched, growing harder, longer, as only over-eager eighteen-year-old boys can. I knew that once I let him inside me, he'd last only seconds. I didn't want him to come too quickly, so I satisfied myself with teasing his balls, keeping his breath ragged and his pulse throbbing. He pushed his jeans to his knees, obviously not wanting to stop long enough to take them all the way off.

I used my free hand to pull my T-shirt up over my breasts. Bare breasts, Saturday mornings don't usually require a bra, and my nipples hardened with the sudden coolness of the room air and my obvious need.

His fingers hardly paused—he thrust them deeper into my wet pussy, playing my insides as he played the trumpet, fluttering hard, staccato beats on the soft walls of my cunt. Either purposely or inadvertently tapping my G-spot as I clawed the sofa and moaned louder.

His other hand found my breast, and he squeezed, roughly. I took his hand in mine and guided his fingers to my nipple. He twisted, not hard and not painfully, but insistently. Tugging my breast away from my body, moving as my back arched, and my hips bucked harder, fucking his hand.

He bent over me and took my nipple between his lips, suckling gently. A moan, Oh God, it's been too long. His fingers continued searching, pushing hard into me. Too hard—I'd be bruised tomorrow, but the way the heel of his hand pressed against my clit, the way the friction was heating between the skin of his palm and my pussy drove me to move.

I twisted under him, pulling away from his hand long enough to roll over and slither my knees to the floor, between him and the sofa. Inexperienced he might have been, but not virginal. He pushed my thighs a bit further apart with his own and knelt between them. I leaned forward, cheek against the sofa cushion. The upholstery would have left rough patterns on my breasts by the time we were through.

Reaching between my legs, I grasped his cock and guided him to my throbbing pussy. My fingers danced over my swollen clit, desperate to come. Close, so very, very close… He pounded. Once, twice, slamming me against the padded cushions. I cried out and felt the heat rush through my insides. My belly tingled and my chest burned with pleasure. Waves pounded in my ears as I felt him stiffen behind me. He grunted and collapsed against me, our breaths hard and fast. I could feel the pounding of his heart against my back as we struggled to slow our breathing.

I pushed against the sofa, straightening up to my knees and pushing him off of my back. I suddenly didn't know what to say. I couldn't remember ever being at a loss for words after sex.

He stood, flushed with either embarrassment or exertion. “I…um…I think… I mean…” he faltered. I had to let him off the hook. The absurdity of the situation had to be as awkward for him as it was for me. I was, after all, his mother's friend.

I picked my shorts and panties up off the floor. “So, Michael. You said something about dust mites in the mattress? Maybe there's a demonstration you could practice in the bedroom?”


edited by Nat

From: (optional*)
  To: Alexis in Alaska
Subj: Comments about Two Grand Orgasm

* If you want a response, provide your e-mail address

Back | Contents | Next