Mister Tuesday Night: An Erotic Short Story by Dee Valentine Page A

I don't know for sure, since we've never discussed it.  Come to think
of it, we've never discussed much.  Our time together is limited, and we prefer
to leave real life outside the door, to better allow us to enjoy the fantasy
life we've created.
    I don't even know his name. 
    He opens the door wider.  I step
inside, close my umbrella and lean it against the wall, set the book and my
purse on the bed stand, and he locks the door behind me.
    We met at, of all places, the dog
park, on a blustery February afternoon when nobody else was crazy enough to be
out there.  While my Lila and his Hercules romped and chased each other around
the fenced-in enclosure, we sat huddled together on a wooden bench and exchanged
polite, impersonal conversation.  When the cold became intolerable, we whistled
for the dogs, loaded them into the rear compartment of his Subaru wagon, and climbed
into the back seat.  There, on a city street in broad daylight, I fucked him for
the first time, frigid fingers fumbling clumsily, stiff from the cold, his
fingertips like hard, brittle cubes against my bare bottom.
    Now, while his vivid blue eyes
study me, I stand before him, grateful that he sees a cougar where other men might
see an uptight, nervous, fortyish woman in a tidy little business suit, still
trim despite her years, every hair on her head tamed into terminal submission, her
inner butterfly screaming for release from the staid, antiseptic cocoon of her life. 
He reaches a hand behind me, pulls the pins from my hair, and tugs it loose. 
It tumbles down around my shoulders, and I toss my head to throw it back away
from my face.
    And he smiles at me.
    He doesn't ask questions.  He knows
I'm married; I wear a wedding ring.  Which is more than I know about him.  He
might be married or single; he could live with his mother, or he could have
five kids and a mortgage.  I don't know whether he digs ditches or teaches
philosophy.  Whether he lives on the "good" side of town or in a less
desirable neighborhood.  All I know is that he drives a Subaru Outback, he has
a Doberman named Hercules, and he takes my breath away.  It's all I need to
know.  I have a friend who works at the Motor Vehicle Registry who would be
more than happy to run his license plates for me.  Then I'd have all the
information I need to know about this man I've been having sex with for eight
months. 
    I prefer the mystery.
    I take a step forward and kiss his bare
shoulder.  Touch my tongue to his hot flesh.  That first taste of him, my mouth
on his body, leaves me wet and shaky and aching.  His smooth, broad chest is
like silk against my lips, my tongue.  He tastes of salt and warm, wonderful
man.  He cups the back of my head with extreme gentleness as I dip my mouth
lower, as I kneel on the carpet and unzip his jeans.  He's not wearing
underwear, and he's already fully erect, and my own excitement begins to soar.
    His cock is big and thick and
beautiful, swollen, its blood-heavy veins pulsing in my hands.  With my tongue,
I tease the velvety tip, the most exquisite spot on a man's body, and feel a
primal female exultation when he groans in pleasure.  I have him at my mercy,
and his excitement starts a dull throbbing between my legs.  I lick a tiny drop
of pre-cum from the head of his cock, run my tongue down that swollen shaft,
hear his breathing start to thicken, feel his hands tangle in my hair as my
tongue moves back up to the head, circles it, and I take him slowly, ever so
slowly, into my mouth.
    He groans aloud.  His grip on me
tightens as I take him deep, deep, so deep I fear I might choke.  We make
adjustments, find our fit, and then I begin moving my mouth slowly up and down
his cock, lips pressed against my teeth as a buffer.  I know what he likes,
know what it takes to excite him, and I tease him with my tongue, run it up and
down the silken hardness of his cock, circle the shaft, suck him gently, and
then not so gently, until he's thrusting his