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It’s looking like the beginning of the end for Stephen and Beth–so Beth shares hers.
Category: This chapter (#8) does not fit neatly into any of Literotica’s categories. “Anal” seemed the least-bad fit, as the chapter’s one extended, graphic sex scene is indeed anal. For those wanting to cut to the chase: the scene begins about 2/5 of the way through the chapter.
This chapter–like the previous seven–is not really a self-contained short story. Rather, it is another slice of a long story. For best results, read the chapters in sequence.
If you’re starting at Chapter 8 (or just want your memory refreshed), the first six paragraphs will give you the background information you need. The narrator is Stephen Lancome, age 39. He is a college professor, Ann’s husband, and Beth’s lover. Dev is mentioned later in the chapter: she is Beth’s sweet but uninhibited housemate.
When I first met Beth, on the rail trail back in July, I thought our relationship had potential–as biking companions. At least until her back healed and she started racing around again on a lightweight sports bike–then she’d probably leave me in the dust. In my fantasies, our shared interest in bicycling might even develop into a nice friendship.
Much to the surprise of both of us, two hours later we were lovers.
The irony is, we hadn’t gone biking together since. Each of us had commuted to the other’s house by bicycle. But then we always wanted to switch to a form of exercise that didn’t require shoes and a helmet. Or pants.
At this moment, in late October, the weather was perfect. But winter rains would come soon and then snow. I called Beth and proposed a ride for Saturday. She happily accepted.
My wife Ann was happy too–to have me out from underfoot so she could do the weekend tasks she likes without tripping over me. At this point she still was not thrilled about Beth’s and my affair, but the matter no longer seemed like an urgent crisis demanding a speedy resolution. Besides, she and Beth liked each other and also worked together at the office. Twice they had even had sex with each other. And the second time they were sober! To say nothing of Ann’s one-night stand with old college pal Justin, in Pittsburgh, six weeks ago.
So the situation remained a big muddle. At least it was a friendly and loving muddle. I’ve been in muddles that were considerably less pleasant than this one.
Beth and I came up with a nice route for Saturday’s bike trip. We would meet in Andover at the little historical museum right by the covered bridge. We’d ride the rail trail westwards to Bolton, then take the streets south to a little state park halfway between Beth’s house and mine. I’d bring a light lunch for us. I wasn’t sure of the mileage: somewhere around 50 for each of us, door to door.
Saturday morning I arrived at our starting point about ten minutes ahead of Beth. As usual, the museum was closed, the gravel parking lot empty. I leaned my bike against the building’s white shingles. It was peaceful here, well above the roads and a little below the rail trail. Not much action on the trail this morning. The day was looking to be unusually warm for late October. No complaints there.
I watched Beth bike up the steep gravel driveway. She was standing on the pedals of her borrowed Nishiki, moving with strength and grace. She dismounted, wheeled the bike to me, and kissed me.
“It looks like your back is doing much better,” I said. “You looked strong and lovely coming up the driveway.”
“Thanks. Yes, I’m feeling close to normal. I do have to pee, though. Would you mind?”
Of course she meant, would you mind holding my bike? I smiled and grasped the handlebar stem.
She quickly saw the best spot: just beyond a corner of the lot, by a large bush that would block the view from the trail. My view was unobstructed. She went there, stood facing me, smiled, and eased her bike shorts down to her knees. Once again I admired that lovely pubic mound and the sweet brown curls on top. Then she squatted and opened her legs as best she could. First a trickle then a good flow of urine left her lovely body, arced underneath her bunched shorts, and landed on the crabgrass.
At last she stood, legs spread, still facing me. She retrieved a Kleenex from a pocket in back of her jersey and wiped.
“Need a touch-up?” I offered.
“No! If your face gets within five inches of there, we both know what will happen. And there goes our nice long bike ride!”
We both smiled. She was probably right. She pulled up her shorts. No trash can was in sight, so she tossed the tissue into her handlebar bag. We wheeled our bikes up the path to the rail trail. We’d start by crossing the covered bridge, heading westwards. A beautiful start to what I hoped would be a beautiful day. Beth led.
A couple hundred yards later Beth stopped. We were on the side of the ridge overlooking Route kurtköy escort 6. Overlooking the auto garage and, beyond that, the patch of woods and the clearing where we had become lovers. I pulled up next to her.
“What do you think?” she inquired.
I pondered for a few seconds. “I’m thinking, let’s not go. The place is so special to me… my memories are so beautiful… I kind of want to gaze on it from a distance and not risk doing anything that might modify those memories in any way…. How are you feeling?”
Beth reached out and put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine with that,” she said. After a pause: “We can move on when you’re ready.”
I spent about 15 seconds debating whether or not to tell her I love her. A couple weeks back we had sort of, more or less, kind of said this to each other–but not quite. I decided this wasn’t the best time and place. We mounted and headed out.
Sometimes we rode side by side. More often we had to ride single file because of ruts in the trail or patches of silt or other people on the trail.
We were now on an incline that would last five or six miles–until the Bolton Notch area. Beth was biking a little stronger and faster than me; I had to push myself to match her pace. Beth sensed this and tried to throttle herself back a little–but bicycling a little slower than your muscles want to go is actually uncomfortable.
Normally I would have told her to go ahead and wait for me at Steele’s Crossing Road in Bolton–our exit. But a blanket of fallen leaves was completely obscuring this part of the trail. I knew the trail pretty well here, but this was Beth’s first visit. I had to stay in front of her and pick out the way. Riding off the edge of the trail could cause nasty injuries.
We left the trail at Steele’s Crossing and started on that mile-long uphill stretch of asphalt. We’d stop for a break at the gazebo on the town green, a mile and a half ahead. I invited Beth to go ahead. Just turn right at the big white church, and I’ll meet you on the green. She smiled, blew me a kiss, and pulled ahead. I followed, admiring her lovely, taut bottom until it was too far away to see clearly.
This summer Beth and I would have been good biking buddies: comparably skilled and pretty well matched in strength. Now, with her back nearly healed, she was ahead of me. And as the weeks rolled on she would only get stronger and faster. After 39 years I knew my body pretty well: I would never be an athlete. Beth was one. We both realized that this, our first long bike ride together, would probably be our last.
Beth had given me many things more precious than good bicycling companionship. Still, I was saddened. I wanted it all.
Beth and her Nishiki were waiting inside the gazebo. My Trek and I joined them. We had the whole green to ourselves today. We sat on one of the wooden benches lining the gazebo’s perimeter inside and enjoyed our peanut butter sandwiches and fresh grapes.
Beth had some bad and good news on the bicycle front. The carbon fiber specialist had determined that her Bianchi’s frame was beyond repair. More bad news: the supply of Bianchi bikes and frames–never especially good–had gotten much worse during the pandemic.
The good news was that her dealer had access to a “very slightly used” Bianchi Sprint frameset in Beth’s size. Same color, too: Bianchi’s beautiful “celeste” light blue. Several but not all of the components removed from Beth’s own Bianchi could be reinstalled on the new frame. This project would cost a fistful of dollars but still much less than a new bike would–if you could find one in the first place. Beth told the shop to build her a Bianchi.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “When will it be ready?”
“Three weeks to three months, depending on parts. These days, you never know when some part will suddenly be unavailable–derailleur cables, chains, spoke nipples, who knows? I’m not giving back the Nishiki yet.”
For some reason Beth looked troubled. Then, unexpectedly:
“Stephen, I do love you. I do. I’m sure you know that. But let’s make it official: I love you. And you love me, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“Please make it official.”
“I love you, Beth.”
At long last we had said it. I glanced about the green, absorbing details. I wanted a vivid memory of this moment. Beth hugged me and kissed my lips. And then continued:
“But love isn’t enough to solve all the problems in a relationship, is it?”
Beth continued. “So. When I look at all the possible forms our three-way relationship could grow into–you, me, and Ann–nothing seems to work especially well. In every scenario I can imagine, I end up with no legal rights, no security, no support system… no foundation I can rely on to build a future. Not even a blueprint of whatever structure we need to build.
“All the while, you and Ann maintain a legally binding and legally protected marriage, with all those guaranteed rights aydıntepe escort and responsibilities. Unless you’d like to divorce so we could have a totally unprotected threesome of equals. I don’t think Ann is crazy enough to go for that. Or you either.
I could feel the glum look that must be on my face. I knew she was right about everything. She continued:
“Look, if I were 25, I might give some radical alternative lifestyle a go, and if it all came crashing down a few years later I’d still be young. And fertile. But now I’m 35…. I don’t know if I even have enough energy now to be a pioneer… to try to build something entirely new from scratch… and to keep working at it, day after day, until we finally get everything working right. And I doubt Ann has enough energy to spare either. Or you.
“Shall I go through all the possible threesome scenarios, one at a time, and show you how every one of them leaves me essentially with no firm structure–regardless of the love we do have for each other?”
I put my arm around her and hugged. “No, Beth. I’ve thought it all through, myself. Over and over. Nothing that’s practical works well for you, long-term. I see that. We’re kind of star-crossed lovers, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she said. “Star-crossed. But, as of now, still lovers. Carpe diem.”
“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” I replied.
The two quotations meant about the same thing.
Then she surprised me again. “My rosebud–as you men call it–is the only part of me you haven’t enjoyed yet, Stephen. I want you to have everything… while we’re still together. That’s if you want, too. Please tell me you do.”
That was not much of a choice. Fortunately, I did want. I nodded yes.
“At our next stop,” she said. “I know a place there.”
“Beth, you’ll have to bike about eight miles afterwards.”
“Only for you, Stephen. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…. There’s that little store on Route 85, somewhere around School Street. Who knows, they may have Astroglide. If not, they probably have K-Y Jelly or Vaseline. If not, they have butter. We can play Last Tango in Paris…. Let’s get rolling.”
The park was only five or six miles south of the town green, down Route 85, and the store was about halfway there. Route 85 was still pretty much a country road–a pleasant ride. The little store–I never was quite sure of its name–was about half grocery store and half convenience store. It was pretty much off by itself in the middle of nowhere. Beth stayed with the bikes outside while I did the shopping.
Astroglide was too much to hope for, but I did snag a tube of K-Y Jelly and a three-pack of latex condoms. The teenaged girl at the register didn’t bat an eye at my purchases or even my bike shorts. Just another pervert, she must have figured.
I didn’t know how Beth would feel about having a latex bag pushed into her rectum, but Ann would appreciate the gesture. We were already stretching our luck a bit with months of unprotected oral and genital contact among the three of us. Fortunately, all six microbiomes seemed to get along fine with one another. These were all nice, well-behaved germs, but perhaps a rougher crowd hung out at the rectum. Discretion is the better part of valor, I figured.
Factory Hollow used to be a tiny village on the outskirts of Hebron. It had long since vanished. The area is now mostly woods, and for some reason it’s now a small state park. It has a swimming pond, a few picnic tables, and some hiking trails–that’s about it. We seemed to be the only people here today.
This was our last stop. From here to home would be an easy jaunt for each of us: maybe ten miles northwest for me, eight miles southeast for Beth.
Factory Hollow State Park seemed an unlikely place for our first anal sex. Of course, it was no weirder than the scene of our first genital sex–a clearing behind a dumpster behind an auto garage–and everything worked out wonderfully that time.
Personally, I would have preferred a bedroom, but by now I understood the principle by which Beth was operating. If you want to do something risky and ill-advised, do it as soon as possible–before logic and good judgment have a chance to intervene and ruin your plans. That’s how we became lovers in the first place, so I wasn’t going to quarrel with the principle.
We rode up to the pond and dismounted. Beth knew the hiking trails here: she thought we could roll the bikes along for a while. The path she wanted started to the right of the pond and went through the woods. We walked, each wheeling our bike, Beth in the lead.
About a quarter mile in, the path got too steep, narrow, and twisty to roll the bikes comfortably. We leaned the bikes against a white birch and secured them and our helmets with my thin cable-lock. “Take everything you need for a good time, Stephen,” Beth advised. “Don’t you dare forget the K-Y Jelly.”
I unhooked one pannier from my bike and tossed in some useful tuzla içmeler escort supplies: water, soap, condoms, K-Y Jelly, and so on. I grabbed the pannier by its cloth handle, put my other arm around Beth, and we continued our journey uphill.
About a quarter mile further on, a side-path forked off to the left. We took it. It ended at a small clearing on a hilltop.
The view was beautiful: rolling hills and treetops and a clear blue sky. I could see a couple of towns in the distance. They looked too far away to be Hebron or Bolton. Marlborough, maybe? Colchester? I decided it didn’t matter.
A fairly new park bench faced outwards. The wooden slats were still varnished and smooth. A small brass plaque on the backrest read, “In memory of….” I forget her name: Gwen somebody. Beth and I sat, taking in the view.
“Do you like?” she asked.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “You are beautiful.”
“We are beautiful, Stephen, beautiful together. Beautiful, star-crossed lovers.” She kissed me, first tenderly then with increasing passion. Our hands wandered about each other’s body as we kissed. In a remarkably short time I was erect and Beth was moist.
Her jersey’s long zipper went down to about her navel. I pulled it all the way down. This time–unlike our first–she wasn’t wearing a hard-to-remove, hard-to-dislodge sports bra underneath. She wore an ordinary bra with a front clasp.
“That was thoughtful,” I said. She smiled. As I freed her pretty breasts she reached over and pulled down the long zipper on my own jersey. We caressed each other’s chest for a bit. She teased my nipples with the edge of a fingernail. I fondled her breasts with my palm and fingers.
Beth’s breasts were on the generous end of a B cup–larger than Ann’s though less firm. Just a touch of sag, which was actually quite attractive on her. The beautiful brown nipples were thick. They were always a little prominent; now they were very prominent.
“Stand,” Beth commanded.
I obeyed, facing her. Still seated, she reached out both arms, quickly and efficiently pulled my bike shorts down, and drew me closer.
The sun was shining, and the day was warm; even so, the air was cool. It was October this time, after all, not July. I zipped my jersey back up. Beth left hers unzipped and gaping, her bra undone. She knew how much exposed breasts increase a man’s pleasure during fellatio. Then suddenly my erect penis was warm, wet, and bathed in delight as her cheeks and tongue caressed it.
Beth stood and removed her own shorts. She unzipped the pannier–it was on the bench next to her–and retrieved the K-Y Jelly. She must have noticed the condoms but said nothing. She faced me, kissed me, and looked me in the eyes. “Would you like my vagina first?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’d better not,” I said. “I’m already close to climaxing.”
Beth smiled. “Flatterer!” she said. “Hold out your hand.”
I extended my left hand, palm up. She squeezed a large dollop of K-Y Jelly onto the pad of my middle finger. She put her arms around my neck. As we kissed I moved my finger to her anus and caressed it in a circular motion. She was very tight. I could feel that she was making conscious efforts to relax her sphincter. In a couple minutes I had penetrated about a half inch.
“Good, Stephen. It’s working. Let’s have some more jelly.”
We lubed up my finger again and got back to work. Nice work, if you can get it. She felt so very, very warm and very, very tight back there. It would feel like heaven when I got my penis in there, I thought. In another couple minutes I had reached the second knuckle and was rotating my finger a little. At some point we had stopped kissing. Beth’s head was on my shoulder, her face nuzzling my neck.
“Let me bend over the bench,” she said. I withdrew my finger. With the other hand I took the tube of lubricant from her. She moved to the rear of the bench then bent over its back. I was struck by the numerous curly, brown pubic hairs stretching outwards behind her labia. A lovely and sexy reminder of our furry-animal real nature, I thought.
I squatted and spent a minute kissing her firm buttocks though not her jelly-drenched anus itself. I stood again then lubed up my middle and index fingers both. I started with the index finger. Beth was getting better at relaxing. It wasn’t long before I had both fingers well in and twisting gently.
“Ready for my penis?”
“I think so.”
“It wasn’t part of my original thought. But yes, it makes good sense. It’s fine.”
As I retrieved a condom and opened its packet, Beth sucked my cock back to full erection. She unrolled the lubricated condom onto me and leaned over the bench again. I went to work with my fingers again for a minute. Then I squirted a good dose of K-Y Jelly onto the condom and pressed the head of my cock against her rosebud. I maintained steady, moderate pressure as Beth relaxed in spurts. She would exhale sharply, her anus would relax briefly, and my penis would slip in another few millimeters. Slowly but surely.
I felt her anus close behind my glans and I knew we were home safe. A flood of happiness washed over me, oddly. Not lust, not physical pleasure, but happiness.
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