Thursday Came Fast

Thursday came fast. Too fast and not fast enough.

I'd spent two days thinking about the sound Delia made when she came — that raw, guttural thing that came from somewhere deep in her chest. Two days replaying the way her fingers interlaced with mine after, squeezing like she was holding onto a ledge. Two days wondering what would happen when she walked through my door again.

At 9:47 AM, the intercom buzzed.

"It's me," she said. Like we'd been doing this for years.

"Come on up."

I buzzed her in and stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed. When the elevator opened, she stepped out carrying a canvas tote bag and wearing a sundress I hadn't seen before — pale blue, knee-length, with buttons down the front. Her silver hair was down instead of in its usual bun. She'd done something with her face, too. Not much. Just enough to let me know she'd thought about this.

"You look nice," I said.

"I threw this on." She hadn't. The dress was ironed. The buttons were aligned perfectly. "My husband left for the club at eight."

"Plenty of time."

She stopped a few feet from me and looked up. Those sharp eyes — still sharp, still intelligent, but there was something else in them now. Something I'd unlocked three days ago.

"I've been thinking about this," she said.

"Me too."

"I almost didn't come."

"But you did."

"I did." She set the tote bag on the floor. "I told myself I wasn't going to. I told myself it was a lapse. A one-time thing. That I'm seventy-eight years old and married and this is not what reasonable people do."

"What changed your mind?"

"You said Thursday. And then it was Thursday. And here I am."

I stepped forward and took her face in both hands. She closed her eyes. I kissed her forehead first — slow, deliberate — then her nose, then her mouth. She opened for me immediately, her tongue finding mine with a confidence that hadn't been there the first time. She'd been practicing in her head. I could feel it.

"Come with me," I said.

I took her hand and led her down the hall to the bedroom. The bed was made — I'd made it for the first time in weeks. The blinds were cracked just enough to let in a stripe of morning light across the white duvet.

She stood at the foot of the bed and looked at it. Then she looked at me.

"Last time you did all the work," she said.

"Last time was about you."

"And this time?"

"This time is about what happens when you stop thinking."

Her chin lifted. "I'm not sure I know how to do that."

"That's the point." I stepped closer. "You're going to let me drive. You're going to stop deciding what happens next and let me decide. And you're going to find out that not being in control is the most liberating thing you've ever felt."

Something flickered across her face — fear, maybe, or the edge of it. But underneath that, hunger. The same hunger I'd seen in her eyes outside the community center three days ago when she told me I was inappropriate.

"I've been in control my entire life," she said quietly. "Fifty-three years of managing a household, a marriage, a schedule, a reputation."

"Then give it to me. Just for now."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and fell backward with a bounce, arms out, hair fanning across the duvet. She looked up at the ceiling and said, "Fine. Do what you want."

I didn't hesitate. I reached for her waistband and pulled her pants down in one motion — she'd worn the sundress, and underneath it, simple cotton underwear. White. Practical. I hooked my fingers into the waistband and dragged those down too. She lifted her hips to help me, just like last time, and that small cooperation sent a pulse through me.

She kicked the pants off her ankles and then reached up and unbuttoned the top of her dress, pulling it over her head. A white bra. Plain. I reached behind her and unclasped it with one hand — a skill I'd maintained across six decades — and her breasts fell free. Smaller than I'd imagined under her clothes, soft, with pale nipples that were already hard.

She was naked. Completely naked on my bed on a Thursday morning, and her husband was two miles away lining up a putt.

I pulled my shirt off. Then my pants. I stood in my boxer briefs and watched her watch me. Her eyes dropped to the outline of my cock, which was already hard and pressing against the fabric. She'd felt it last time — my hardness against her leg, my belt buckle digging into her hip — but she hadn't seen it. Her eyes stayed there for several seconds.

"You're staring," I said.

"I'm observing." A flash of that dry wit. "There's a difference."

I stepped out of the underwear and stood in front of her. My cock stood straight out — six inches, thick enough to fill a grip, circumcised, the head flushed dark. Nothing extraordinary. But her eyes were wide.

"Your husband," I said.

"Shorter. Much shorter." She swallowed. "And thinner."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"Lawrence, that is not going to be a problem."

I climbed onto the bed and started where I'd started last time — between her legs. I kissed the inside of her left thigh, then her right, working slowly upward. She was already wet. I could see it — the sheen on her inner lips, the way they'd parted slightly on their own. I breathed against her and felt her twitch.

But this time I didn't stay there.

I kissed my way back down her thigh, across her hip, and then I gripped her hips and flipped her over. She gasped — a sharp, surprised sound — and suddenly she was face-down on the duvet, her ass up, her cheek pressed into the pillow.

"Lawrence —"

"Shh."

I positioned myself behind her and bent down. I kissed the small of her back first, then lower, trailing my mouth across the curve of her ass. She shuddered. I spread her gently with both hands and ran my tongue from her clit up through the wet center of her and over the tight ring of her ass. She made a sound like she'd been slapped — a sharp, involuntary yelp — and her hips jerked forward.

"No one has ever —"

"I know."

"But that's — that's —"

"That's part of you that's been ignored for seventy-eight years." I did it again. Slower. She groaned into the pillow.

I worked her with my mouth for another minute, maybe two, building the wetness, feeling her hips start to rock back toward me in that instinctive rhythm she'd discovered last time. Then I pulled back.

I lay down on top of her.

The full weight of me — a hundred and eighty pounds — settled along her back. My chest pressed against her shoulder blades. My stomach against the small of her back. And my cock, hard and hot, lay in the cleft of her ass, pressing against her. She could feel every inch of it against her skin — the length, the thickness, the way it twitched when I shifted my weight.

She went rigid.

"Feel that?" I said, my mouth against her ear.

"Yes."

"That's what's going to be inside you in about thirty seconds. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Her breath caught. I felt her body process the words — a ripple of tension that moved from her shoulders down through her spine and into her hips. Not fear. Something else. Something she didn't have a name for yet.

I reached up and grabbed both her wrists. I pulled them above her head and pinned them to the mattress with one hand, my fingers wrapping around both her wrists easily. She was small-boned. Fragile in a way that belied the steel in her personality.

She was immobilized. Face-down, ass-up, arms stretched above her head, my weight holding her in place. She couldn't move. She couldn't squirm. She couldn't do anything except feel.

"Lawrence, I —"

"Stop thinking."

I shifted my hips and positioned myself. The head of my cock pressed against her entrance — hot, slick, ready. I pushed forward an inch. Just the head. She inhaled sharply and her fingers splayed open above my grip.

"More," she said.

"I decide when you get more."

A sound came out of her — half groan, half whimper — and her hips pressed back toward me, trying to take more. I pulled back slightly. A punishment. A reminder.

"Stay still."

She forced herself still. I could feel the effort it took — the trembling in her thighs, the way her stomach clenched against the mattress. She was fighting her own body's instinct to move, to take, to grind. And she was doing it because I told her to.

I pushed in another inch. Then another. Slowly — agonizingly slowly — I filled her. She was tight. Not virgin-tight, but tight in a way that told me it had been years, maybe a decade, since anything of substance had been inside her. Her walls clamped around me and I groaned against the back of her neck.

"Oh God," she said. Her voice was muffled by the pillow. "You're — you're deeper than —"

"I know."

"He never — I never felt —"

"I know."

I was fully inside her. My hips pressed against her ass, my cock buried to the root, and I held there. Didn't move. Just let her feel the fullness — the stretch, the depth, the weight of a man inside her who actually filled her.

Her wrists twisted in my grip. Not trying to escape. Just needing to move something, anything, because the sensation was too much to process while being completely still.

I leaned down and put my mouth against her ear. I licked the outer edge slowly, from the lobe to the top, and then breathed warm air against the wet skin. She shivered so hard the whole bed shook.

"You like that," I said.

"You know I do."

I took her earlobe between my teeth and bit gently. At the same time, I pulled out halfway and pushed back in. A slow, deep thrust that bottomed out inside her.

"Fuck," she said.

The word shocked her. I could feel it — a little jolt through her body, like she'd surprised herself. Delia, seventy-eight years old, married fifty-three years, pillar of the community, had just said fuck. And she'd said it because my cock was inside her and my teeth were on her ear and her arms were pinned above her head and she couldn't do a damn thing about any of it.

"Do it again," I said.

"Fuck." Quieter this time. Almost a whisper.

"Again."

"Fuck. Fuck. Lawrence, please —"

"Please what?"

"Please move. Please fuck me. Please —"

I started. Slow, deep strokes — pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in to the hilt. Each thrust pressed her into the mattress, my weight driving her down, my hips against her ass. She couldn't match my rhythm because she was pinned. She could only take it. And the taking was turning her inside out.

The sounds she made were extraordinary. Not the raw scream from last time — something different. A continuous, low, keening moan that rose and fell with each thrust, punctuated by gasps when I hit a particular angle. Her fingers opened and closed above my grip, grasping at air, grasping at nothing.

"Harder," she said.

"No."

"Please —"

"You don't decide. I decide."

The moan that came out of her was almost angry. Frustrated. Desperate. And underneath all of that, so turned on it was practically radiating out of her skin.

I maintained the pace. Slow, deliberate, relentless. Each thrust the same depth, the same speed, the same pressure. I could feel her building toward something — the tightening of her walls around me, the way her breathing was getting shorter, the trembling in her thighs that was becoming a constant vibration.

I leaned down to her ear again. "You're going to come with me inside you."

"I — I don't know if I can —"

"You can. And you will. And when you do, I'm going to come inside you."

"Oh God."

"Say yes."

"Yes."

"Say 'please come inside me, Lawrence.'"

Her whole body clenched. The words hit her somewhere deeper than the physical. "Please come inside me, Lawrence."

I increased the pace. Not faster — harder. Each thrust drove into her with more force, my hips slamming against her ass, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. She was crying again — I could see the wetness on the pillowcase — but these weren't overwhelmed tears. These were release. Forty years of something finally breaking open.

"I'm — Lawrence, I'm —"

"Now."

I drove into her and held. My cock buried to the root, my weight fully on her, my hand pressing her wrists into the mattress, my mouth on her ear. And I came. Hard. Pulse after pulse deep inside her, and she felt it — I know she felt it because she made a sound I'd never heard from her before. A high, broken keen that went on and on as her own orgasm crashed through her, her walls clamping around my cock in rhythmic contractions that milked every last drop out of me.

We shook together. Two old bodies on a white duvet in a condo on a Thursday morning, coming apart at the seams.

When it passed, I released her wrists. I stayed inside her for a long moment, softening, feeling the warmth and the wetness of both of us. Then I carefully pulled out and rolled to the side.

She didn't move. Face-down, arms still stretched above her head, breathing in ragged gulps. Her silver hair was stuck to her wet cheeks. Her ass was still slightly raised, her back still arched, like her body hadn't gotten the message that it was over.

After a full minute, she turned her head to look at me. One eye visible through the tangle of hair. The expression in it was wrecked. Utterly wrecked. And incandescently happy.

"I felt you," she said. "Inside. When you — I felt it."

"I know you did."

"My husband never — he always pulled out. Always. Even before — I never felt a man —"

"I know."

She rolled onto her side, facing me. Her face was a mess — tears, mascara she'd carefully applied now smeared under her eyes, hair wild. She looked like someone who'd been through something. She looked beautiful.

"Lawrence."

"Delia."

"I think we need to establish a regular schedule."

I laughed. "Your husband plays golf Thursday mornings?"

"Every Thursday. Rain or shine. He's very dedicated."

"Then I'm very grateful for golf."

She smiled — slow, wicked, that smile that transformed her whole face. "He's also started going to the hardware store on Saturday afternoons. Takes him about two hours."

"Saturday afternoons work."

"And my book club meets Wednesday evenings."

"You want me to believe you're going to book club?"

"I want you to believe I'm going to book club."

I pulled her against me. She tucked her head under my chin, her hair tickling my chest, her body fitting against mine like it had been designed for this specific configuration. I could feel my own release leaking out of her and down her thigh, and she didn't move to clean it up. She just lay there, holding it, holding the evidence of what we'd done.

"Delia?"

"Mmm."

"Next Thursday, I think we should try something different."

She lifted her head and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "What exactly does 'different' mean?"

"It means you trust me."

"I trusted you today. That's why I have your semen on my thigh and mascara on your pillowcase."

"More trust than that."

She studied my face. "You're a dangerous man, Lawrence."

"I'm a seventy-year-old man with a six-inch penis and a flexible schedule. I'm about as dangerous as a golden retriever."

"You are nothing like a golden retriever." She kissed my chest. "But fine. Next Thursday. More trust." She paused. "If my husband knew what I was doing right now, he'd have a heart attack."

"If your husband knew what you were doing right now, he'd learn something."

She laughed against my skin — that wet, shaky laugh from the first time, but steadier now. More grounded. Like she was getting used to the idea that this was her life now.

"Same time next Thursday?" she asked.

"Same time next Thursday."

She closed her eyes and pressed closer. Outside, a lawn mower started up somewhere in the neighborhood. A kid rode a bike down the sidewalk, the playing-card clothespins clicking against the spokes. Thursday morning in the suburbs, same as any other.

Except in this bedroom, a seventy-eight-year-old woman had just been fucked properly for the first time in her life, and she was already planning next week.

"I should go," she said eventually. "He'll be back by noon."

I looked at the clock. 10:43. Plenty of time.

"No," I said. "Not yet."

And she didn't argue.