At work, I went back to my project. I’m a planner, and it was what we called “grant season.” I had a Community Development Block Grant application I was working on, seeking funding for road improvements in one of our little town’s industrial parks.

Oh, hell, you don’t care about any of that. I guess I’m just sort of proud, to be honest. One of the things a planner does is handle those apps and as a grantsman, that’s what we call ourselves, I was very good. My batting average was about.800, good enough for the big leagues by anybody’s metric.

Anyway, I worked on the application, handled a panicked call from a City Administrator, showed one of our junior planners how to do a labor market analysis, and did a proofread and edit on another application. This was by one of our junior planners, they tend to get the slam dunks while I get the projects that look impossible.

I’m doing it again. Well, okay, I’m good at what I do and I’m sort of vain. But enough of that.

When I got home, Arlene greeted me with a beer, a smile, and a kiss.

My wife is older than me. If the numbers matter, I’m 34 and she just hit the BIG 5-oh. I met her at a school bar when I was in graduate college, finishing up my Master’s degree. I was 29 at the time and had joked to the students in my class, I was a Teaching Assistant back then, that in just a few months they wouldn’t be able to trust me anymore. I was a history major and loved working little archaicisms (if it’s not a word, it should be) like that into the discussion. You know, that slogan from the 1960s – never trust anyone over 30?

Anyway, she came into a bar I frequented in those days. Not a “college bar” per se, but a place where the older students hung out. Not as loud as a true school bar, but still pretty much a meat market.

When she came in I was smitten. Okay, I don’t believe in “love at first sight” or any of that crap. But I WAS smitten.

She might as well have had a big sign reading “COUGAR.” She was pretty obvious, actually.

Arlene’s a big woman. She might run to truly fat now that I’ve talked her into quitting her stupid dieting, but she’s definitely a big woman. At 5’8″ she’s tall for a woman. Just a couple of inches short of my 5’10”. She’s busty, her bras are 44FF and her measurements, by my actual tape, are 44-38-48. The extra four inches at her hips are from big hips but mostly from her truly spectacular bubble butt.

That night she was dressed in the perfect cougar uniform. A sleeveless blouse showed off her big arms. She’s one of those women who accumulate fat at the back of her upper arms, something I have at all times found sexy on a woman. The skirt ended a little above her knees but fringe around the bottom took it below them. She had on nylons with a seam up the back, ruler-straight I was happy to note and I made a quick bet with myself that they weren’t pantyhose either, and open-toed high heels, not true stilettos, but the three-inch heels made her a bit taller than me. Completing the uniform were big hoop earrings and a big, jangly, bracelet.

She was a bit over-made up too. She had gone a bit heavy on the eyeshadow, had on those ridiculous false eyelashes that I have never found attractive but I do think are sexy (if that makes any sense), and her hair was done big. Oh, not Dolly Parton big, but she had obviously spent some time with a brush and probably a rat tail comb.

Her hair was actually pretty damn good. She’s a blonde, and one of those natural blondes with that thick hair. There was no hint of grey that I could see, though, and I suspected Miss Clairol or, more likely given her sort of well-tended look, something more expensive, in a white bottle with simple black lettering, from the salon she visited regularly.

So I turned on my best boyish grin, the one I practice regularly in the mirror, stood, and did the slight bow, arm sweeping gesture to offer the stool next to mine.

She paused, looked around the room, doing a slow survey, then met my eyes and nodded.

As she mounted and got seated on the stool I held out my hand and said, “David, pleased to meet you,” in that formal way my mom had taught me.

That drew her smile and it was a good smile. I liked that she didn’t bleach her teeth and her bottom teeth were slightly crooked. I made her human rather than a Barbie doll.

“Arlene,” she said, taking my hand in a good grip and shaking it, “pleased to meet you, David.”

I liked her voice too. Just a bit husky, suggesting she was, or at least had been, a smoker. It was soft too, almost out of place coming from her face.

You can cut a few yards of stock dialogue – younger man, mature woman, bar, you get the scene – and you’ll have it.

We wound up at her place that night and by the next morning, I knew I would be marrying this woman.

All of that was before her first spanking of course.

Anyway, back to the present.

She greeted me with a beer, a smile, and a kiss.

She at all times tried to look her best on Wednesday when she knew after a MOTH meeting I’d probably be keyed up. Today was no different. She had on her bra, a sheer thing with a carefully measured 8 inches of cleavage on display as well as her nipples, clearly visible through the sheer material, her apron giving her a delightfully domestic look, the special tights I had bought her two Christmases ago with the wide belt cinched tightly at her waist and her bare ass lifted and displayed by the straps, and her red pumps doing good things for her legs.

“You look terrific,” I said, taking a sip of my beer and then holding still while she took my jacket off and hung it carefully.

She blushed prettily and said, “thank you, honey, I try.”

Over dinner, I told her about Thomas and Valerie’s new toy.

And I watched as her eyes got bright and shiny with her excitement. God, she looked good.

I had saved the best for last.

“We have a date with them Friday night,” I said.

Her eyes got big and I could smell her sudden rush of excitement.

I smiled at her.

“If you’re a very good girl,” I said, “maybe I’ll let you try the chair out.”

“But I’m always a good girl,” she said, and her batting eyes made me think of the word “simper.”

“Show me,” I said.

She slid out of her chair in that oddly graceful, almost boneless way she has, her training as a gymnast as a girl showing through her half-century.

Then she crawled the few feet between us, her back arched dramatically, showing her big bubble butt off to its best benefit, and her boobs proudly on display.

“Is this good enough?” she asked, looking up at me with lidded eyes.

Her brown eyes and dark brows were striking for a natural blonde, but I had at all times liked the look and, well, it’s not like she has any pubic hair to compare it to. We had taken care of that, permanently, years ago.

I patted her hair and said, “it’s a start.”

Our lovemaking that night was gentle and sweet. I kissed her breasts and her belly, enjoying the softness there since I had finally persuaded her to stop her stupid dieting, and the roundness of her mons veneris, that gorgeous Mound of Venus at the entry to her sex. As I kissed and used my face and cheeks to caress it I wondered of that acronym I had run across somewhere, FUPA. She fit that description, a Fat Upper Pussy Area, especially since she quit dieting. Her body seemed to deposit fat cells there and it was round and soft and very, VERY prominent. I liked it. Hell, I loved it.

I gave her her first orgasm with my lips and tongue, tasting her excitement and enjoying it. I inhaled her pheromone-laden womanscent like it was good pot, sucking my breath in with a sibilant hiss.

When Arlene gets aroused it’s obvious. She has very active, if we’re being honest here, overactive Skene’s and Bartholin’s glands, and with that mucus cell lining of her vagina, they leave no doubt when she’s ready. Her thick, white, love nectar, looking very much like the lotion she uses on her skin, flows freely, running down to puddle at the crack of her big ass.

I lapped up her excitement like a thirsty dog, and sucked each swollen nether lip individually, enjoying how her hips rocked in response.

I opened her with my fingertips and said, softly, “push.”

Arlene has three kids. I can not say “we” have three kids because they were all moved out before I met her. But the third had been a very difficult birth and she had prolapsed completely with that final push.

You know, “prolapse” is SUCH an ugly word for something so gorgeous.

When I said “push” she grunted and her body tensed, and her cervix emerged. And I wondered it was gorgeous, pink and firm and slightly pear-shaped, that tiny opening to her uterus just begging to be kissed. So I kissed it and tasted more of her excitement. I held her like that, the very core of a woman, and kissed it lovingly while her hips rocked and her breathing got ragged and rapid.

She came, her pleasure thick and white and obvious and I licked up some more of it, hungrily, devouring her release.

“Push,” I said again, supporting her cervix with my hand.

She grunted again, and her face turned red with the strain, and I was holding her uterus, firm and pink and shiny with her arousal. I massaged it, gently, and she came again, that gorgeous white release flowing freely now.

I don’t really know how many times she came. When she’s really going like that they all sort of blend together.

After she was spent, too tired to move anymore, I gently pushed things back where they belonged and then made love to her. It was gentle and quiet. I covered her face with kisses and told her she was a very good girl which made her giggle a little, and when I finished she managed a very soft, “thank you,” before she started snoring softly.

The thing is, as any man in The Life will tell you, it can not be ALL punishment and pain for your woman. If it was she’d soon go crazy.