The holidays and my annual trip to the East Coast and Don’s to Japan for skiing meant for a bit of a break before our next meeting. But as soon as we were both home, he was eager to get back together – as was I.
It was early February 2020.
When I arrived, he again greeted me outside by the fountain with a hug and peck on the cheek. As he escorted me in, he was full of updates about his travels.
I walked in the front door and followed him to the right past the formal living room, formal dining room and a epically large painting hanging on the wall. It looked like 1.0 of the expansive tree outline on his label. I inquired. One of his daughter’s painted it and he loved it so much it became a symbol for his starting over.
We passed through into the kitchen and he already made some dinner preparations. Light charcuterie and cheeses were laid out. Raw salmon fillets, fennel, cherry tomatoes, and baby potatoes were staged on cutting boards on the counter. The Christmas Cactus that I had gifted him was there as well right by the kitchen sink. It brought a smile to my face that he kept it. The fire was roaring. The dusk and warmth in the air was comforting.
He moved passed the island and continued to tend to his cocktail set up. Juicer. Bombay Sapphire. Campari. Fresh oranges from the abundant tree in full bloom right outside the kitchen window.
I stood on the other side of him leaned against the counter, watching his work on the Negronis and listening to his tales. Don has a clever delivery to his stories. Many of his tales are as tall as Everest delivered deadpan. Recall the watering of the trees. It leaves someone like myself, 25 years his junior, wondering what the correct facial and audible response should be if I didn’t quite understand a story about life growing up in the ’60’s and ’70’s. His stories are always self-approving with the biggest smile at the end as if he was saying “Ta-Da!” The content of his tales that evening have sailed out of my brain, but his warm, yet silly expressions will be happily burned into the back of my eyes forever.
The Negronis were finished and we then turned to contemplate dinner prep. He suggested his man meal version. I inserted a woman’s touch.
Crispy skin salmon. Parboiled then fork smashed potatoes drizzled in olive oil made from the olive grove on his hillside property and roasted until crispy. Sautéed fennel and cherry tomatoes with thyme from his garden.
He had set a neat table, which was just on the other side of the kitchen island. Woven placemats. Water and wine glasses. Plates warming in the plate warming drawer.
The potatoes were taking some time to parboil. I turned off the sautéing vegetables and the salmon was dressed and ready for the oven.
I then perched myself, as I like to do in the kitchen during cooking down times, with my ass on the countertop. We discussed the cook times and when I explained we were in a holding pattern until the potatoes were done, he leaned up for a kiss. I immediately ran my left hand through his long, white curly locks. They were voluptuous, full, soft. I pulled my hand down – running it across his beard – manicured, soft but coarse over his chin bone to his throat. I have learned that children of this era love natural hair growth and his beard almost grew right into his chest hair.
He positioned himself between my thighs as we kissed. He reached up to grab my ass and pulled me forward to the edge of the countertop. I leaned in and down, with both hands around his face, his hands on my lower back.
A pause in the lip locking allowed me to jump down from the counter. He took my hand and led me to the kitchen table. Even though only two places were set at the large circular table for eight, he pushed aside the placemats and silverware in dramatic fashion. I was de-robing on the ten steps toward the table.
I hoisted myself onto the table, slid my bare ass back and laid down flat with my legs dangling. He picked them up, folded them in and came right into me with his long hard cock. The entrance made me sit up at half attention. I laid back on the table and Don grasped on to my hips to keep my pussy at the edge of the table.
My fond memory is of his wide grin, pleased laugh and that grasp as his hard cock slammed me away and then back closer to him.
I spread my arms on the table and just let him have me. Pulling, pumping until he jerked back, stiffened and exploded in me. He fell forward, head on my stomach and I ran my hands through his hair.
He sat up, smiled and said, “Oh baby!” I burst out giggling, sat up and we held each other for a moment. I ran my hands over his weather worn back, pulling him close. He put his head in the nape of my neck and gave it a gentle kiss.
After a moment, we got up and tended to dinner. Potatoes drained, smashed, drizzled, roasted. Rewarmed the fennel and tomatoes. Added the salmon to the oven next to the potatoes.
We had no reason to redress. Clothes still strewn about the kitchen floor and on the way to the table. He poured the wine, plated dinner on the warmed plates and we dined in the buff with just a linen napkin draped over a thigh. No one paid any mind. We carried on with polite, clever conversation enjoying the meal, the wine, the music, and the connection.