Hunting Pixies

This is a continuation of my ongoing series involving a developing consensual extramarital relationship between an older man and a younger woman. Most of the series has been posted under Romance, which is the overall tone. I'm choosing Anal for this for what will be obvious reasons. The first part is build-up from where the story last left off. The sex is from the middle on if that's all you're here for. Either way, I hope you enjoy it; this scene was fun to write.

I had checked Google Maps, and it's going to be a two-and-a-half-hour drive up to San Felasco, whether I go on the Turnpike past the Villages or through the Forest on the back roads. I opt for the latter, knowing I would hit the Turnpike just as traffic starts picking up. There is very little traffic on the road as I make my way up to Deland and stop for gas.

At the WaWa, I decide to check in with Margaret. I'm surprised that she hadn't been more front and center on my mind over the past couple of days, but I remember this is a good thing. I'm not sure what her schedule is today, so I shoot her a text in case she's still sleeping.

"Hi there. Hope you had a great Thanksgiving. Wanted to let you know there is a little change in plans. I'm not dropping Mom off in Ocala this morning..." my fat fingers hit the send button before I've finished with the good part of that news. I scramble trying to finish the message, just in case Margaret is up and reading it in real time. I see the bubble come up with the dancing ellipses, and know I'm out of luck.

"What do you mean, "change in plans?" Are you NOT coming? We said no ghosting..." Her reply beats mine and fills me with a pang of guilt. I didn't mean to cause her any doubts. I do some quick edits to what I was going to send.

"NO, baby, I'm so sorry that sent before I meant it to. I'm coming EARLIER than expected. Beth insisted I go 'riding' anyway. I can be in Gainesville as early as nine."

"Oooohhh, goody! Thank Beth for me, please? But I can't be that early...I'm having breakfast with Daddy and Susan before I get on the road...The hotel said I could have the room at eleven, but I probably can't be there and ready until like 11:30? Guess you actually will get to ride."

"Okay, that's good. I'll be at the Indigo at 11:30 then?"

"Yes. I can ask the desk to have a key for you if you get there before me? Wait...what's your last name?"

"Barber, lol." I actually laugh out loud as I send it, hoping no one at the fuel pumps is paying attention to me.

"I can't believe the things I've let you do to me and I didn't even know that...but you won't believe the things I'm going to do to YOU today when I see you..."

"Sounds very promising. But wait, what is your last name so I can ask at the desk?"

"Oops, Park, lol. And if you do get there before me, do NOT take a shower...I want you sweaty from your ride..." I can picture her biting her lip as she types this.

"I'm already pretty ripe, I was around a campfire most of the day yesterday..."

"Tease. Now you have me wet. Maybe I should go take care of myself? Oh, and remind me to punish you for scaring me with that first message..."

"Now who's a tease? I gotta go, have a good breakfast."

"K. Have a good ride."

I've finished fueling up the truck, and run inside for a breakfast sandwich for the drive, some snacks and water and Gatorade for the ride and post-ride, and a Boston cream donut just because. I'm back on the road and out of traffic now as I head into the Forest.

I switch my Pandora app to the Jason Isbell station, and as I'm driving into the heart of the Forest, his "Alabama Pines" comes on, one of my favorite songs. I turn up the volume and croon along well off-key with no audience and no shame. I'm not in Alabama, and the lyrics don't exactly fit my current life very well, but the song has always appealed to me, and a new woman from there is once again playing a prominent role in my romantic life. I smile like an idiot.

The drive is uneventful, and I find my mind to be largely empty of any specific thoughts, which is unusual. The last few days have gone a long way to soften the hard edges that I seem to have been carrying around now for years. I'm not plagued by negative thoughts or chasing them down rabbit holes of my own making. I'm not overthinking things.

I arrive at the trailhead at San Felasco Hammock State Preserve twenty minutes north of Gainesville at almost precisely nine. The parking area has surprisingly more cars already here than I would have anticipated given that the university is on break. Between undergraduate and graduate school, I lived in this area for nearly six years but never really ventured much past campus. My undergraduate years were literally spent wasted. My graduate years were consumed by my relationship with one of the Alabama girls in my past, my first wife. I'm here to ride, so don't dwell on either.

San Felasco gets its name from a continuous mispronunciation of "San Francisco" by early settlers. The Franciscan order maintained a mission here to the indigenous Potano peoples during the first Spanish Colonial period of Florida in the late 1600s. The San Francisco de Potano mission was near a route carved between St. Augustine on the east coast and Pensacola on the west, the two oldest continuous European settlements in what would become the US. The Spanish missions failed as the native population dwindled and all but died out.

San Felasco today is one of the largest surviving single stands of climax mesic hammock forest remaining in the state. It's essentially the same ecosystem as my property at Oak Haven, but with 7,500 acres compared to my 3. It's also MUCH hillier, and pocked with limestone outcrops, streams, and pools. The bike trails that have been cut in the north part of the preserve are primarily single-track for mountain bikes, and I realize that I've brought my gravel bike as I pull it out of the truck and mount the wheel. I guess I should have thought that through and brought a ride with a little more suspension, but I'll work with what I have.

I shoot Beth a quick check-in: "At San Felasco, going to ride for a couple of hours." I don't get an immediate response, and am in the saddle and headed out on the trail at 9:10, my constant playlist now coming through my Aftershokz headphones under my helmet. Given that I'm seriously underbiked for the terrain, I stick to the access roads and the "beginner" level green trails, and soon build a good rhythm on the smooth, flowy trails. The soil has a lot more clay than where I ride south of here, and makes for good conditions.

I string together some loops out of trails with names like Cotton Tail, Meadow View, Cellon Creek, and the Bramble Ramble. I stop frequently just off the trails at their connections, ostensibly to check my route for the next loop, but also to catch my breath, hydrate, and have some small bites of my snacks. There is far more elevation change here than I'm accustomed to, and I'm sweating profusely, even though the temperature is in the high fifties and it's overcast.

At more than one of these stops, the same group of five or six ladies passes by me on their way between the more intermediate and advanced loops with nods of acknowledgment and a few smiles. On one crossing, at the end of Bramble Ramble, the last rider, a very pretty and petite woman on a nice electric cross-country mountain bike, stops to ask me if I'm okay. I turn down the volume on my earphones so I can hear her better.

"All good," I respond, "just a little more than I expected."

"Well, you're doing really well if you made it out this far on the greens on a gravel bike," she responds, "I tried it on mine once, and bailed halfway to where you are now, so keep it up."

"Thanks," I respond as she rides away to catch her group.

Encouraged, I turn my music back up and decide to give one of the intermediate blue trails a shot, and turn onto Sweetgum. After five minutes of slogging and some hike-a-biking, I'm glad to find an easy bail point to the access road. As I take a break to catch my breath and plot my next course, I check the time, just after ten, so an hour in.

I have a signal, so I also check messages. Beth had responded. "Okay, good. We are just packing up to head back to Viera. Have fun with all of your riding. Just let me know when you get off the trails this morning, so I'm not worried?"

I shoot back, "okay, drive safe. I'm an hour in and at my turnaround."

As I'm putting my phone back in its cradle on my handlebars, another text comes in from Margaret. Attached is a selfie of her with her dad and Sue. I recognize the background as a First Watch restaurant, Florida's go-to brunch chain. "Daddy and Susan say hello. I'm heading to the hotel now, see you soon, baby."

"Can't wait." I respond.

I was going to take my time riding back, but have some renewed pep in my step, and using a combination of the access roads and the greens, I'm back at the parking lot a little before eleven. Even though it hasn't warmed up much, I'm soaked, and shed my shirt to towel off before loading my bike. I note the group of lady riders are all back and in various stages of loading their bikes.

I'm still shirtless and absorbed in stowing away my bike when I hear the light crunch of gravel underfoot from behind. I turn to see the small rider who had talked to me on the trail. Helmets off now, she seems familiar, and I sense she's thinking the same.

"You're Steve, right?" She asks.

"Yeah, and...Kathy, isn't it?" I respond, ninety percent sure I'm right.

"Yes, it's been a while, I'm surprised you remember."

I "know" Kathy from some Florida-related biking groups on Facebook, one of which I moderate, but hadn't seen her post anything in some time. I knew she lived in this area, and rides a lot, so I'm not entirely surprised to see her here. She's far prettier than her pictures, shoulder-length grey hair, a nice face, a petite but well-toned body. Her lycra biking gear leaves little to the imagination. She is a fit little woman who would land squarely in the "GILF" category, probably ten years my senior, I would guess. "Yeah, of course, I haven't seen you posting much lately, though?"

"Yeah, I've been taking a little break from social media. I made the mistake of updating my relationship status to 'single.' You would not believe the number of old cyclists who took that as an open invitation to send me dick pics. As if I didn't already know they weren't packing anything in their spandex bibs..." She laughs, but I see her eyes drift briefly down to my crotch. I can't help but respond, and even through the baggy shorts over my cycling shorts, I sense she can see me swell. A little color comes to her cheeks and she forces her eyes to meet mine, smiling back at hers.

"Ooh, is that my brother-in-law's work," she says to maybe change the subject, but her hand reaching out and touching my bare left clavicle does nothing to break the tension. She senses this and withdraws it quickly.

"It is, I laugh. I think he did a good job," I respond. Her brother-in-law is the surgeon who set my clavicle a few years ago after it was broken in a bike crash. She had recommended him when I posted about it. It's a very small world. I flex and suck in my gut a little, suddenly very conscious that I'm still shirtless. The flex makes the clavicle repair a little more obvious.

"You know, he can remove the plate if you wanted to, right?"

"Ahh, but that's my bionic arm," I joke. "I had him scope my shoulder, but that didn't work for long. Then I had it replaced, so that's almost all titanium." We laugh together.

"Didn't I see that you had finished the house you were building on the coast-to-coast trail, and weren't you thinking about offering camping or doing an Airbnb with it?"

"I did, in fact. I stayed there last night. Haven't done anything formal around offering it out to riders, yet though. Why?"

"My girlfriends and I are planning to do the trail in January or February, bike camping probably. Maybe you'd like to test the market a little with us?" She replies as she points out her group of riders, several of whom are paying attention to our interaction without trying to be obvious about it. I glance over at them. Kathy is probably the oldest of the group, but they are all on par in terms of fitness and attractiveness. This could be interesting.

"That could be a very good idea," I respond.

"Oh good. I'd been meaning to message you about it. We were all going to go to brunch. Maybe you could join us and we can talk about it?" I detect a little shy hesitation in the request.

"I would seriously love to, but I have a prior commitment." It may be my imagination, but I sense Kathy's focus drift to the bite and hickey on my pec below the scars on my shoulder, and a slight smile creeps across her face. I say, "But I'm sure we can work something out for your ride?"

"Ooh, great! Can I get your number...just in case I don't make it back on social media?"

"Of course," I respond and give it to her. She enters it in her phone and immediately sends me a test message to confirm. "Awesome, when you guys have an idea of your dates, just shoot them to me and we can chat then?"

"That would be really great, Steve. Thank you, and very nice meeting you in person." Again, it may be the imagination, but I sense her giving me a very thorough once-over before shyly smiling.

"Likewise, Kathy, enjoy your brunch," I respond as she turns to rejoin her group. I can't help but follow her nice little ass as it wiggles away. It's not my imagination that I hear several of them giggling as she fills them in on our conversation. I'm once again smiling like an idiot as I pull on a fleece top and make my way to the restroom, taking care of business and washing my hands thoroughly to get the chain grease and trail residue off of them. I get in the truck and pull out, returning the waves from the still-lingering ladies' group as I drive away.

My thoughts from yesterday of "when it rains, it pours" return to mind. As does my conversation with Margaret about "Big Dick Energy." Maybe mine is finally starting to surge? I'll have to fill her in on this little encounter. I have a feeling she'll get a kick out of it, my ego certainly has.

It's a little after eleven, and I'm a little under thirty minutes from the hotel according to the map on the dash, so I'm right on schedule. My messages on the dash screen show a new one received. It's from Margaret, and I play it, "Hey baby, I just checked in. I may still be getting ready when you get here, so go ahead and get a key from the desk when you get here. They are expecting Mr. Barber soon, and I REALLY need him soon."

The system asks if I want to reply, and I do, with, "on my way now."

While I'm thinking about it, I use the system to send a quick text to Beth, "Safely back from ride, will check back before I hit the road to come home tomorrow?"

Her response comes before I'm halfway to the hotel, "Sounds good. Have fun. Chris and I are taking Mom and Sophie shopping."

I remember my donut and enjoy it, washing it down with the last of my water. As I pull off the highway, I debate whether to run to Publix to pick up some supplies, or head straight to the hotel. It isn't much of a debate. I know what's waiting for me, and turn for the hotel.

I park and gather my overnight bag, the towel I had dried off with after my ride, and my soaking shirt, wrapping it up in it. I give myself a sniff as I'm locking the truck. Not awful, but definitely still well smoked. My sweat has dried, but the cold air in the parking lot reminds me that my cycling shorts are soaked through, and the baggy shorts over them are almost as bad. There is some chain grease, small briar cuts, and a little bit of dried splattered mud on my calves and thighs.

With my helmet hair added to the mix, I must look more than a little out of place as I enter the fairly stylish lobby of the Indigo and make my way to reception. The cute college-aged girl at the desk doesn't seem to take any offense, and gives me a wide smile when I ask for the key.

"Here you go, Mr. Barber, Ms. Park seemed very...excited for your arrival, she's in 620," she says with a grin and a twinkle in her eye. "I hope you both enjoy your stay, very much."

"Thank you...Meagan," I reply as I make a point to stare a little longer than I need to at her name tag just above the firm breast that is threatening to spill out of her tight top as she leans forward to hand me the key. I moisten my lips and finish, "I'm sure we will." Her fingers brush my hand as she gives me the key, color rising to her cheeks. Something wonderful is definitely afoot in my universe right now.

I turn for the elevator and take it to the sixth floor. 620 is a corner unit at the end of the hall. I lightly knock before opening the door. There is no response. The room is a fairly spacious suite, and the door to the bedroom is slightly ajar. I put my bag down and take off my shoes and socks, using my towel to wipe my legs somewhat clean, and move into the bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and I can hear sounds of activity behind it.

"Margaret, it's me, don't want to frighten you," I say in as non-threatening a voice as I can manage.

"Oooh, good, baby, just in time," she responds through the door, "I want you naked and in bed when I come out."

Alrighty then. I quickly move to comply. Stripping off my fleece top and placing it in a chair, pulling my shorts and cycling shorts off in one motion and leaving them near the bathroom door on the floor. I take in the bed for the first time.

Margaret already has it set up with our designated "play space" on one side. The covers on that side are pulled down completely, and she has spread a towel flat on the bed near the middle, and another draped over a couple of stacked pillows near the edge. Her little bag of tricks is on the nightstand next to it. I notice the box of condoms and a fairly sizable bottle of KY lube on the table next to it, and a couple of unopened bottles of water. I also notice a fairly substantial stack of towels on the floor next to it, and chuckle. This promises to be fun.

I put my phone and watch down on the nightstand next to the "sleeping" side of the bed as I crawl in. I position myself in the center of the flat towel, leaning up against a pillow on the headboard, waiting for the show to begin. I have one foot flat on the bed with the knee up, and the other splayed open to the side. I'm at half mast, and idly adjust myself, my balls grateful that they have the chance to breathe after their morning of confinement in the too-tight embrace of cycling shorts.

I look up when Margaret opens the bathroom door and enters the room. I am immediately fully erect. She is every fantasy-reading nerd's wet dream come to life. "Fuuuuuck me..." I mutter, not as much under my breath as I had thought.

She giggles, "Oh, I'm going to, don't you worry. I take it you like?" She blushes lightly, puts a finger to her lips, gives a coquettish wink, and performs a little spin. I flex my kegels so that my erection does a little nod for her, and she laughs.

Margaret has her beautiful auburn hair tied back in elaborate braids framing her delicate face, a garland of flowers as a tiara, and pointed elf ears that look for all intents and purposes real, they blend so well with her coloring.

She is wearing a layered and corseted Renaissance-style milkmaid dress in an embroidered velvet-looking sage green with lacy cream puffy sleeves and a low-cut neck and bust. The laced corset portion pushes her firm breasts so high they threaten to spill out of the lacy neck, the sleeves falling from her shoulders. The hemline of the layered skirting is to the knee, but there is a provocative slit high on the outside of each thigh, revealing the tops of lacy stockings clipped into a garter belt.