Fly Fishing and Other Amusements

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Alexa Pearl

My line sighed through the warm, still air over the stream. Back and forth… me, the amateur, trying for the first few times to lay down a fly where there might be a trout. At least I hadn’t hooked myself in the butt yet!

I let it settle on the mirror-like surface. It lit too soon, therefore too close to the bank. Damn!

From a few feet away, my host, Craig, said smugly “Not at all bad, dude! Not quite as good with a fly rod as a pistol, are you? But not bad! Couple of years’ practice will help. Maybe by the time you retire, you’ll catch a trout!”

We one-upped each other absolutely every time it was possible. He had nearly a dozen legals already this morning – me, I was skunked. The pistol comment referred to our first trip together to the local indoor range: we had been friends for a couple of years, and finally discovered we both like to shoot. At the range, he handed me his brand-new, never-been-fired Glock loaded with 17 rounds of 10mm.

It fit me beautifully, pointed like a second index-finger. I ran the target out to 25 yards, proceeded to put 16 rounds into one ragged hole the size of the end of my thumb, with one flier at 9 O’clock about an inch out.

Craig cussed at me, pulled in the target, signed and dated it for me, then almost pouted as his groups didn’t match up at all well. Great fun… I used to shoot competition in the Marines, with a 45 auto, and of course he hadn’t known.

Craig grunted in surprise as ripples appeared near my fly, but it was late midmorning now, fish not really interested, just curious. No takers.

Craig muttered “Shit. Time to go up on the bank and warm up. Go home for lunch – maybe Roxy will make something good, who knows? Maybe we’ll make it ourselves. Gotta go past the store enroute, so your job is to think about lunch, whatever you want we can get it.”

We’d been up since pre-dawn, had little breakfast. The water was cold, the chest-waders un-insulated. And me unused to the whole business – my feet hurt from the rocks on the bottom, and my legs ached from fighting for balance. I was happy we were done. But ashore, in the still brightness, lying there in our underwear, it was warm enough. I was leaning back on the grass, soaking up rays, being lazy.

Over at the truck, Craig popped a beer, then another – early by my standards, probably de-rigueur for fishing. He brought me one, sat on a stump, then laughed.

I opened an eye, he said “Jeezus, you must be one horny bastard. Carrying that around in the water all morning, were you? Hope it’s a bloody hardon, ’cause if it’s still a softie, the rest of the world is in trouble!”

He referred to the lump I was sporting in my long woolen drawers – a result of the warmth and drowsiness more than anything. Like the trout, I didn’t rise to the bait, just chugged a third of the beer, waited. There would be more from him – we knew one another pretty thoroughly.

Craig is an oddity – college-educated redneck liberal truck mechanic, former longtime logger, incredibly sensitive and nice, foully profane in either friendly or vitriolic mode whenever he chooses. And as dependable and solid as a long summer day. Rednecked guntoting liberal – for real. Quite an interesting guy, about 65, four years older than me. Married over 30 years now to Roxy – a big (my height), solid woman, maybe fifty-eight, I don’t know exactly. A study in carefully-cultivated plainness, Roxy was actually quite nice looking, no makeup (NEVER), short-cropped hair. Busty, solid, anything but sexual on the outside – the veneer was, in fact, almost neuter, except for the bottom and bust.

They were a good couple, stolidly unromantic but seemingly the closest of friends and devoted to one another and to their single college-age kid. Craig was balding, thickening fast through the waist now, and his often-damaged knees and back precluded any strenuous efforts at keeping in good shape. Roxy, at least, worked out a lot. Roxy was a match for him – tough when she needed to be, and if absolutely required, equally blunt.

I had arrived as scheduled yesterday afternoon, for a few days’ visit – a long flight first, then a three-hour drive. When I pulled up to the house, I was stiff as a board. After the initial greetings and half a good beer, I was shown to my big, well-appointed guest room, huge bed, private bath. When they’d moved here from the city, they knew they’d be having company, so bought accordingly.

Back in the living room, I groaned, complained about the stiffness, Jim made his usual comments about stiffnesses, male variety especially.

Roxy rolled her eyes as always, then said to me “I started yoga a year ago – if you’d like to stretch, we have a room downstairs all set up for it.”

Craig sputtered, and said in a friendly way “Darn it, Roxy, let the man relax before you drag him into your exercise den!”

The idea of a long session of stretching appealed, and I was intrigued as well – I had given up long distance running about two years earlier, and taken up intensive yoga. I said so, and Roxy brightened: “Let’s go! We can bahis firmaları do a short practice together. Craig, of course, thinks it’s all hogwash, but at least he admits he can’t do some of the things I can do now! Can you, Boy?”

He shook his head. His knees and back and hips were in poor shape, too much logging in his youth and middle-age. “Go ahead. I’ll bring my beer and a spare just in case one of you gets thirsty. I can be your chaperone, can’t have the two of you going unsupervised if you’re gonna be in your underwear, getting all hot and sweaty together!”

I changed into my yoga exercise shorts and singlet, met them in the basement. Nice room, cool-warm, good floor, plenty of headroom. “What style do you do?” she asked.

“Straight Iyengar… the basics, none of your fancy hot-yoga or other stuff…” I replied.

She nodded – the fact that she understood was a good omen – solid basic yoga was what she had to have learned. We warmed up gently: Craig sat on a stool in the corner and watched, occasionally trying something simple, then shaking his head and giving up noisily. But in good fun.

Eventually, Roxy asked me if I did headstand: I demonstrated in the middle of the room – no problem. She asked me to spot her near the wall – she wasn’t used to doing it outside of class, and had never tried it free-standing so far. I encouraged her to try going up in mid-room, and she agreed, if I would spot her. She positioned herself well, kicked up two or three times to test me and herself, then came all the way up. She grunted with pleased surprise, got her balance easily.

Craig applauded, popped another beer. I stepped slightly away to let her experience the fact that she could do this entirely by herself. And just then, her loose sweatshirt pulled free of her waistband and collapsed around her face and armpits, exposing her bra-clad boobs.

Craig guffawed, said “Hey! Now’s your chance, my man! If I were you, I’d just reach down and unsnap that goddamned brassier-thing before she can get untangled. Always did wonder, now that I think about it, what boobs like Roxy’s would look like upside down! Interesting thought.”

From under the cloth, Roxy sputtered “Goddamn it Craig, don’t mess with me!”

I looked at Craig, shook my head, and said “Nice idea, but not part of good yoga practice.” Then down to her, “Hold on, stay in the pose and I’ll just tuck the thing back in…”

Which I proceeded to do, while Craig was busy saying “Jeez, boy, you gotta carpe the damn diem… I would at LEAST be tucking the damn shirt-tail deeper into her shorts if I were you!”

He face cleared of fabric, Roxy looked up at me and said “He would, too – but you’re a gentleman. Thank you!”

Dinner was a hoot, they are a VERY funny couple when they get wound up, and by the early evening, when dinner was over and dishes done, Roxy and I were flirting shamelessly… but utterly innocently. Craig was giving us both some pretty good shots.

Then, over a third or fourth glass of a very good local wine, Craig quieted down, watched me and Roxy through a couple more exchanges, and then suddenly stood up. Roxy and I looked at him. He grinned at us, first me, then her, took a deep, sighing breath as if he had just decided something earth-shaking, and said to us both “You two seem to be really hitting it off. Why don’t I just take off for the rest of the evening and leave you alone? I had Frank for personal company all day. Turn about would be fair, I suppose. If you two really DO get along, well, hell, maybe you could spend the night together and fuck one another silly… that way, at least SOMEONE in the house would be getting some benefit from the fact we have three highly-sexed late-middle-aged folks in here – someone getting tail is a lot better than nobody!”

He looked at me: I was dumbfounded and it obviously showed.

He said quietly “I mean it. You know perfectly well, Frank, that Roxy and I haven’t done much sexually together for a long time – doesn’t mean we aren’t interested in sex in general, doesn’t mean we don’t like one another, either. Ask her about our history. If you two want to be that friendly, go ahead and get together. I’m gone! See you in the morning!”

He turned and left the room before I could say a word.

Roxy sat there pensive, staring at the top of her wineglass, her finger running slowly around the rim. I tried to recall from the body-language literature just what that was supposed to mean – memory failed, but I was sure it was something sexual, probably come-hither rather than go-away.

I was embarrassed, and more than a little rattled – this was NOT what I was expecting on this visit! It showed, I’m sure. Roxy was studying me now, instead of the rim. I didn’t know what to say or do, and she just waited, being no help at all.

Finally I grinned at her and said “Well, Craig has probably had more to drink than he needs, and I’m sure he wasn’t serious. We joke a lot about things sexual, you know. Pretty crudely sometimes, too.”

She broke into a tiny grin of her own, shook kaçak iddaa her head. “Frank, you are dead wrong there, about him knowing what he’s doing. He does. I know that man. There’s lots about Craig and me that you don’t know… unless, of course, you two are closer buddies than I think and he’s dumped our entire history on you. Has he?”

She gave me a short, sharp look.

I shook my head – “Only a little, not much about the two of you as a couple. Some occasional boy-talk about your early adventures, but he never revealed very much detail. You know how we guys are about such stuff. He HAS told me about your abilities in the deep-throat department… I think he’s pretty proud of you there!”

She blushed.

“… and he is forever telling me once again about how you used to give him hand-jobs while sitting behind him on the motorcycle – at 90 MPH…”

She grinned, muttered “I know – that’s one of his favorite stories. The real skill, Frank, is knowing how to hold off making the driver come until the road ahead is clear, so that both of you can survive his orgasm! Takes good timing and a good eye for speed and distance, it does!”

She paused, eyed me, returned to fingering the lip of her glass. “Well, Sir Frank, Craig-Boy there and I, we were quite the team sexually, at least for our first few years. As he said, we sort of fucked ourselves silly all the time, we did. Early on, we were seriously in love and lust both, a very nice combo. Of course I still love him, and he me, but it’s a different breed of thing nowadays. Nothing very sexual or even sensual in it, not for the longest time.”

She sighed, pondered her wine, and forged ahead. “But of course, there’s that seven-year itch problem. When it rose, and it did, we discussed it. That’s one thing we CAN do, by golly – talk about our problems and our relationship. The long and short is we spent several years, a decade, doing some pretty serious and frequent swapping. Made it into a bit of a game – once in a while, each of us got to choose a partner for the other, and you HAD to go along with it. That little fillip led to some interesting encounters! Then, after some years of that, things cooled down to about where we are today… no sex for years.”

She eyed me again, seriously: “But all this isn’t to impress you or to titillate you, just to let you know that when he said what he just said, he knew EXACTLY what he was doing, and he was dead serious.”

We studied one another silently for many long seconds. Finally, I said “Sorry to hear about the no sex thing. Must be a drag. I don’t suppose either of you have…” I stopped, the question was impertinent, rude, and I didn’t finish as intended with “…have had a batch of lovers”.

She understood, and shook her head. “Nope… there’ve been no outside partners of recent vintage. At least, not much and not often, for either of us. I suspect we’d tell one another if there were. I would. Hard to actually keep a secret like that, and not necessary either. The not-telling would be a betrayal, where the extramural fucking wouldn’t be.”

Silence hung thick, velvety.

The question was painfully obvious.

She broke first, grinned broadly at me, and said “Maybe there’s life in the old girl yet. There’s something going on in my belly that I haven’t felt for years.” She looked solidly at me: my move. I thought carefully – horny yes, ready to fuck anything that moved, perhaps – but ready to launch on this particular path? I raised an eyebrow, decided to counter. Her nipples were big, thick, and suddenly standing up to be noticed, poking boldly through bra and blouse alike.

“You flatter me…” I said, nodding to the nipples as I reached out to slide a fingertip around, then over, the left one. Her eyes closed, she sighed. I gave its mate the same treatment. Another, deeper sigh.

“That’s quite an invitation your boobs are putting out. Does the brain match the body?” Her eyes opened, she locked her gaze on mine, and slid a hand down into my crotch, cupping my full-scale hardon. That flipped me into HIGH.

She held me lightly, waggled her palm, and whispered “Nice response to an invitation, and you BET the brain and body are in synch. So – are we really gonna do this? If we do, it’ll have to be in your room, not the master. Shall we?”

This was going surprisingly fast, easily, openly. Very adult, I suppose. Just short of matter-of-fact. Didn’t keep my heart-rate down, though. My armpits were murky, my perineum a-pucker, and I could feel the pulse at the base of my hardon – that happens only with a truly serious erection. It felt good.

I nodded my assent.

She released my crotch, sipped her wine, and said “Two things… first, I’m not much of a kisser, never have been. That doesn’t mean I’m not oral, you know, just that kissing isn’t my specialty. And…” she grinned brightly, showing off truly nice teeth that I’d never taken note of before… “I may not have had much going on sexually for a while, but I have one HELL of an imagination… and you, sir, were a featured performer for several kaçak bahis months of fantasies, not too many years ago. And you look better now than back then! So there!”

I was blown away: never had an inkling she was interested -not even in her imagination – none whatever. I said so, she just grinned and took me by the hand, stood us up together and led me down the hall. Down in the basement, Craig’s TV was going.

I asked, pro forma, “You are absolutely certain…?”

She nodded confidently, pushed me gently into the guest bedroom, and shut the door behind us.

She flashed me a smile and whispered “Hey! Damn it, we’re adults, we’ve done this before, even if not with one another. Let’s not be namby-pambys about it – right now, all of a sudden and out of the blue, I am just hornier than hell. And it feels WONDERFUL! It has been a VERY long dry spell. So – shall we start getting naked… before my panties wind up stuck to me permanently? It may have been years, hon-chile, but it’s SO much easier to remember how than even riding a bike!”

We faced one another, and began to strip. Quickly, she was down to her bra and thong – another surprise, the thong. Still-firm belly and legs – no sign of having ever been overweight. Boobs bigger, higher, solider than I’d expected. A very attractive package being delectably unwrapped. I was down to my jockeys when suddenly she said “Care to help me balance away from the wall in headstand, first? You in a special rush right now?” – all while eying the bulge in my shorts.

I cracked up, agreed. Yoga in the almost-nude, why not? She put her head down near the wall, flexed carefully up into the pose – and kept a foot against the wall. She really didn’t need to be spotted. I stood there for a moment just in case, then squatted down before her face and reached around behind for her bra-snap. She giggled – this was obviously what she’d been after, shades of earlier events. Great to play a bit instead of being in such a teenager-urgency as we might have been.

The bra came away easily, and her boobs hung there upside down, little spider-lines of stretchmarks glistening. Big nipples, big areolas, breasts not much affected by gravity in their normal-mode, but in stable-two like this they certainly looked a bit strange. She waggled herself gently, careful of her precarious balance, and her boobs patted her on the face most friendly-like.

She almost fell over, but caught it. Then she said “Hell, Sir Frank, if you’re going to just squat there while I do all the work, the least you could do is improve the view by taking off your undies!”

I stood and did so, then returned to my squat, erection waggling inches from her nose. Her eyes widened, and she sputtered “Jeezus, you’re SHAVED! MiGawd, Frank, that was part of my idiot horny-teenager fantasy about you! What… How come…?”

I told her I hadn’t a clue why she’d invented that detail in her mind, but I’d been crotch-shaving since age 24… maybe she’d heard me or a friend say something about it, had forgotten the comment but it surfaced in the fantasy? I stood up: the fantasy shaving didn’t extend to her own personal body – the thong couldn’t begin to contain her pubic thatch.

I asked “So, if I spot you, can you stay up for another minute or so and can you do upavishta konasana in headstand? That’s the wide-spread-leg pose, usually done sitting on the floor, occasionally done in headstand and shoulderstand.

She understood instantly and said “I can stay up for another minute or two. But YES, you better spot me! I’ve never tried this…”

Neither had I. As she took the pose, I settled my hands on her outer hips to steady her, then leaned forward, used my teeth to pull the thong’s panel sideways, and buried my face in her sopping-wet crotch. She had the most incredible, long, dark red inner lips – and sensitive, good GOD yes!

She gasped loudly, muttered “I thought I was the oral person around here…” and shivered violently as I found her clit and began to investigate. Our planned minute or two stretched all the way to about forty seconds, when she abruptly came, her crotch plastering hard against my face, sputtered “Help!” and fell towards me in slow motion. I guess I helped… at least, nobody broke anything in the universal collapse.

We spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes down on the cold wood floor, fucking and sucking furiously, with very little in the way of preliminaries, just letting the raw sex be its own foreplay – talk about some pent-up needs being unleashed! Most incredibly and thoroughly satisfying. To both parties.

Lying together after our first bout, me sucking gently on her nipples and fingering the deep inside of her pussy, Roxy asked “You a BJ-lover like most men?” No pause – no chance to answer. “I know Craig’s told you – he seems to tell every one of his male acquaintances this – that deep-throating is a specialty with me. Hell, I’ve even come that way myself more than a few times, it feels so good it’s almost like there was another clit way back in my throat somewhere. That’s where it really should be located, you know, according to Marilyn Chambers in the old movie “Deep Throat”. But what we women got is just another example that helps to disprove the “intelligent designer” crappola.”

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