Hooking Up With My Dad's Best Friend

I almost roll my eyes. I should’ve known that it would. I’ve always been someone who’s preferred action over languishing.

Picking up the rhythm that I lost earlier, things start going quickly. Elle brings me books from the boxes outside and I enter them into the system. Our computer system isn’t the fanciest, but it gets the job done.

A little perspective helps everything. I was complaining about how late it is, but it’s barely six o’clock. We close early on Mondays in order to have extra time to prepare for the Tuesday rush. All in all, things aren’t as bad as they seemed.

I swear it’s only been ten minutes when my phone chimes. In reality it’s been closer to forty, but I’m still confused, because that’s not a sound I’ve ever heard my phone make before. It’s not my text or ring sound. When I pick it up and the screen tells me that I have a new message from Hearts First, I nearly drop the damn thing.

Swiping open the app, it takes me to a message from a user named VonRedwood. The picture is blank—of course—and the message is short and to the point.

I believe I fit the bill. I’m forty-nine, was raised in Oxford, England, and I’m in town for the evening. I’d be more than happy to be your companion for the night.

Marathon orgasms? Does that mean twenty-six? Sounds like the low end, to be honest.

My stomach swirls with a weird anticipation and arousal. Forty-nine. British. Willing to fuck me. This isn’t really happening, right? I’m imagining twenty-six orgasms in a row, and my temperature rises. God, what would that even feel like? At my horniest, I only think that I’ve ever given myself three in one session. Holy shit, I’d end up screaming in a puddle on the floor after twenty-six.

I click on his profile, and it’s sparse. Basic details. Six-foot-two. Dark hair. Really nothing else. I guess, like he just did, he prefers to be the one to reach out. I don’t mind. I like people who are proactive.

Nerves tingle across my skin. What do I even say? I wanted this, but I don’t really know how to do this. But I suppose here goes nothing.

Forty-nine and British, you say? Tell me more.

Little text bubbles jump at the bottom of the screen. Holy shit he’s typing.

Born and raised in Oxford. I was there until college, when I moved to the states to start a business.

More typing.

But I’m more interested in why a younger woman like you would be so desperate for a sexual encounter. Surely with the confidence to admit that you want sex, and wild sex at that, you have no shortage of suitors.

His syntax is British. I can tell. In general, unless someone is making a really concerted effort, we default to the way we were raised to speak.

I have a busy life. I type. Romance hasn’t been a priority for me, no matter my desire for it. And even now, I don’t really have the time. But it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, and I need it.

I hesitate before I type the next bit.

And I’m trying to get someone out of my head. You fit the bill.

More typing.

I’m fine with that. I’m intrigued by your mention of toys. Do you have many? Would you like them to be used on you?

God. Heat rolls through me. It’s not even that what he said was explicit. It clearly wasn’t. But the idea of doing this is…intoxicating. I do have a lot of toys, and never once have they been used by anyone but me. The thought of having someone else use them on me draws wetness and anticipation from my body.

Yes. Fuck, yes.

One more question. He types. Do you really like older men? Or is your goal to forget this person the only reason you’re looking for that?

I think about it. I’ve wanted Bryce for as long as I can remember. He was the man that triggered my…I don’t know…sexual awakening. He was all I could see, and all I wanted. But even when I was actively trying to get away from that, I was attracted to men older than I was. Everyone my age seemed too immature, too green, to be what I wanted.

No, it’s what I want. I say. It’s what I’ve always wanted.

Good. He says. Then if you’re willing, I will spend the night with you. I’m going to peel the clothes off you until you’re naked and ravish you until you’re screaming. Twenty-six orgasms will just be the starting point.

I’ll make sure you get what you need. With my tongue. With my fingers. With my cock. When I’m finished you, no memory will bother you anymore.

I have to put the phone down for a second, because I want that. For the last couple years, I haven’t allowed myself to think about it. Sure, I’ve got all the toys, and the porn, and I masturbate every day. But it’s not the same as someone learning you. Wringing pleasure from you whether or not you want them to.