Hunting Pixies

Hunting Pixies, Part 15

I close the door to the bathroom and begin my nightly routine. I'm not sure the masking sounds of the fan are quite loud enough as I hear a muffled "ewwww" and then giggles through the door as I take care of business. Well, everybody poops, after all, so nothing to do about that, I chuckle to myself.

I remove my hearing aids, grateful that the edge of the noisy world is now gone; I'm glad I wore them given the din of the restaurant, but they can make things a little too intense after a while. I wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth. I remove my contacts with a little difficulty; they've been in for a long time today, and are a little dried to my eye. I dispose of them and put my glasses on.

I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. The man returning my gaze looks a little tired, but a lot happier than he has in many, many years. And he's beginning to look as young as he feels. I mentally tally my various aches and pains, and decide I don't have any real need for Advil tonight.

I realize I came to the bathroom naked, and don't have any boxers in here to put on, but decide I would be overdressed for bed with Margaret if I did have them anyway, and that brings a smile to my face and a little bob to my dick. This has been a really good day, I think, as I exit the bathroom.

Margaret is still gloriously naked, lying in our well-used love nest, intently looking at her phone in one hand; the languorous stroking of her sex with the other almost appears absent-minded. My erection stiffens at the sight. My phone is lying on the bed beside her; she turns to look when she realizes I've been watching.

"Oh, hi, baby. You caught me curating my spank bank," she says with absolutely no shame. "Ooh, wait, stay just like that?" I do, and she points her phone at me and I deduce from the motions of her finger that she is zooming in on my dick for a picture, because, why not?

"Perfect!" She chimes, "not completely soft, but almost the littlest I've seen that guy."

"Maybe I'm a 'grower, not a show-er'?" I offer in my defense, pleased I've never needed one in that regard.

"Hah!" Margaret laughs with a little snort. That's new, and she continues laughing as she explains, "You are a show-er, baby. I mean you grow too, but your dragon is NOT shy. But you know what's so funny about that statement?" Margaret continues to giggle.

"No, what?"

"The first dick pic Chad sent me yesterday. He was fully erect, and he texted the same thing, 'Don't worry, baby. I'm a grower, not a show-er. I promise you won't be disappointed."

"What a dumbass. You would have been very disappointed," I laugh.

"And how! In and out of bed. Wait, you're wearing glasses. Do you wear contacts?"

"Um, yeah?"

"I didn't know. Did you wear your glasses the other night for bed?"

"Of course. I'm blind without them."

"How on earth did I not notice? Oh wait, when you came out, I was probably overwhelmed by your trailing fog of troll stench. It sounds like you dropped a bomb in there again tonight. Will I be safe?"

"Mmm, I think slutty pixies whose fingers and tongues have probed the source probably are immune to any ill effects..."

"Oh my god," Margaret laughs. "I hadn't thought of that, but you're absolutely right. But how did I not notice your glasses?"

"Mmm, I don't know. You spent a good bit of time being pleasantly distracted, if I recall?"

"That I was. At least tonight you're following the right dress code. When you're sharing my bed, I want you naked and ready, mister."

"Not a problem at all, baby. I'll even add 'willing' to the list."

"Same, Steve. I told you already I am your free-use slutty pixie, and I mean it. Let me see those glasses. How blind are you?" I move to the bed and get in under the covers on the sleeping side, handing her my glasses.

"Geez, you really are blind. I can't see a thing with these on."

"Well, you look cute in them, if it's any consolation."

"I'm glad you think so, because I'm already starting to need readers sometimes."

"There is no way you are old enough to need readers."

"Mmm, thank you, baby, but alas, I am." Margaret leans over to me and places my glasses back on me carefully, then straddles me and gives me a deep kiss. "Mmm, minty fresh, let me go get ready for bed. I know it's late, but maybe I can get you going for a final round tonight?" Margaret pulls the covers down to expose my growing shaft and leans in for a lick, bringing it to full attention. "I knew I could, I'll be right back, baby."

I give her a fairly firm slap on the ass as she rises from me to head to the bathroom, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a giggle. She pauses in the doorway, bending over with her back to me to fully moon me, and laughs as she closes the door. "And I'm the goofball?" I ask, and hear her snicker from behind the door.

I pull the covers back up and find my phone buried in them. I note the time is a little past twelve now; it is late, very late, by my standards, but I'm confident I can go another round with my sexy pixie if she so desires.

I open my phone and see I have one text notification. It's from Kelly, which surprises me because while she put her contract information in my phone, I did not give her mine. Intrigued, I open it and come face to face with my very first unsolicited pussy pic, and what a beautiful pussy it is.

She is waxed clean except for a delicate landing strip of soft, dirty blonde hair matching the long blonde hair she wore in a ponytail tonight. Her outer lips are generous and flush with apparent recent activity; they glisten with her dew. Her inner lips are long and engorged, slightly darker than the rest of her sex, and they are dripping in her moisture.

She is holding them apart with two fingers to reveal her moist deep pink treasure within which is gaped a bit at the entrance, but tapers quickly and looks to be deliciously tight. The hood of her clit is fully retracted, and her nub is fully engorged; it has the look of a very tiny penis, and I understand now how the term "man in the boat" was derived.

I'm hard again in an instant, and can't resist stroking myself a few times as I enjoy the erotic vision. I look beyond her pussy at the picture in full, and the angle reveals the length of her, part of the swell of her large, firm breasts, and just a sliver of the bottom of her face. She is clearly smiling.

The text below the image says "Ooh, I love it! But that's not playing fair. I've already had to get myself off three times since I got home from work. Now I'll have to go another round or I'll never sleep. I really do hope you meant it when you said we would talk soon. Because I absolutely would let you do ANYTHING to me. I want you to fill me just like Margaret. And soon? Good night, going to Jill-off again, thinking of you. Both."

Okay, so I've missed something here, I tell myself, and scroll up to see that Kelly was responding to "my" text which included the image I had just taken of my cream pie dripping from Margaret's well-satisfied pussy.

Ah, my slutty pixie has struck again. I scroll up to see her accompanying text. "Hi Kelly, it's Steve. Margaret wanted me to send you a dick pic. But I have a feeling you've received way too many of those? So here is an unsolicited picture of Margaret's extremely satisfied pussy. She said you'd probably much rather see what my dick does for her. Lovely meeting you tonight. Will chat sometime soon? Sweet dreams."

I should probably be mad that Margaret impersonated me, or at least concerned? But I can't describe the thrill that I am now feeling as I consider the underlying meaning of all of this. I never would have had the balls to send the text that Margaret sent, or to ask Kelly for a picture like the one she sent.

To know that this woman half my age, who I had met briefly only a few hours ago, sent me a picture like this because she wants me is a stroke to my ego the likes of which I've never felt. And to know that Margaret, this amazing woman that I have only known for days, did this for me just because she thinks it will make me happy swells my heart almost to bursting.

The image of her pussy that was the evidence of Beth's betrayal of me, that haunted me for so long, had already lost a lot of its hold on me when Margaret freely shared her duplicate image earlier today. This unsolicited third image from Kelly seems to break the last of that hold. There ARE women in the world who want me the way that I want them. The revelation breaks me emotionally, and I feel tears warming my cheeks.

I'm so absorbed in the moment that I don't see Margaret emerge from the bathroom, "Oh, baby, what's wrong?" She asks, then sees the phone in my hand, "Oh my god, I didn't mean to hurt you, or violate your trust, I shouldn't have texted Kelly from your phone or pretended to be you, I wasn't thinking. I..."

"Margaret, no, baby, it's fine. It's wonderful what you did. It's a gift. Thank you. My lovable, mischievous, kind-hearted pixie, thank you. These are tears of joy, baby. Come here?"

Margaret rushes for the bed and falls into my embrace. We hold each other for a long time, reveling in the simple intimacy of skin-on-skin touch. Margaret eventually pulls away, although her touch lingers with her fingers stroking my chest.

"I'm glad you aren't hurt or mad about it, and I am sorry, I probably should have asked. I'm guessing Kelly must have replied? Can I..."

I pass my phone to Margaret who opens the message string and reads the response, then focuses on the image. She clicks the image and I can see her fingers working to zoom in and explore it, much as one might in real life. I can't help but observe, "Is my pervy little pixie fingering Kelly virtually?"

She laughs a little and blushes a lot, then recovers, "What? You didn't? It's perfectly natural. This is one beautiful and flawless pussy, of course I'm going to 'perv' on it." She sticks her tongue out at me as if to settle her point.

"Yes, it's all perfectly normal for my 42-year-old girlfriend to salivate over the pussy pic she solicited from a 25-year-old we just met," I laugh at the wonderful absurdity of it all. God, my life has taken a turn for the good this week.

"Mm, she's 28, but back up, I'm your 'girlfriend' now, am I?" Margaret is beaming.

"Yeah, I mean, aren't you?"

"Happily, but I wonder if that's the best label?"

"I have a feeling with your academic credentials, we're about to explore the options," I laugh.

"You betcha'," Margaret smiles, adopting the Wisconsin twang she's been mostly hiding, and doing a quick Google search on her phone to generate a list of alternatives. She hands the phone to me and I start running them down.

"Lover?"

"Accurate, but...performative?"

"Yeah, I picture bearded Will Ferrell in the hot tub in the SNL sketches talking about 'love-ahs.'"

Margaret laughs, "exactly."

"Ladyfriend?"

"God, you're not 70 and we're not in the Villages, and I want one that works for both of us, because 'manfriend' would be even worse."

"True. Sweetheart?"

"No, we aren't teens, and this isn't the 1950s."

"Mistress? No, WAY too much baggage and we aren't being illicit." Margaret nods in agreement.

"Concubine, Courtesan, but we aren't part of a royal court...Inamorata?"

"Ooh, now we're getting somewhere. Very romantic sounding, very literary, so those fit. But pretty exotic sounding and 'Inamorato' doesn't seem right for a white bread troll like you," Margaret giggles and I lean in to give her a quick kiss.

"Hmm, this next one seems on track, Paramour?"

"Ooh, very good. That one's pretty dated too, but it swings both ways and rolls kind of nicely off the tongue. Let me see something?" I hand the phone to Margaret, and she follows some more links to the definition and origins and hands my phone back. "So it has 'illicit' undertones, but looks like it leans more heavily to 'secret' or 'forbidden,' and those are all kinds of romantic and sexy as hell."

"Paramour." Margaret purrs it, and it sounds right to my ear. I smile.

"My paramour," I repeat it, lowering my voice an octave to let it resonate a little. Margaret smiles. I look at the phone, "I don't think the roots are quite right, but it's close to being derived as being along side love."

"Yep, that's it that's perfect, actually. Makes me all tingly to hear it. You are my paramour. I'm your paramour. I love it." Margaret says with a very satisfied-looking smile.

"Unless you're sure you don't want to go with the more modern and classy 'sidepiece?'" My joke earns a playful punch to the arm, and then Margaret pulls me in for a very deep kiss.

"So, my paramour, we got all sidetracked when I came out of the bathroom. I meant to ask you some things?"

"Oh, okay, shoot."

"So I knew you were pretty deaf with the hearing aids, and now I find out you're blind as a bat with the glasses. What other infirmities have you been hiding from me? Are all your teeth real?" Margaret asks, attempting to remain serious, but almost breaking into a giggle at the end.

"Am I a horse you're buying? They're all mine, you can check if you want. AND no fillings, by the way," I laugh and open my mouth wide.

"Mmm, no, I'm good, but I'll want that mouth open for something else in a little bit, naughty boy. Okay, so all your own teeth, and at your age, that's pretty good. Any other fake parts?"

"Playing doctor now, are we? Sounds like fun." I let my gaze drop to my left shoulder. Margaret's eyes follow.

"Ahh, now we're getting somewhere," Margaret says and leans in to take a closer inspection. "I've been meaning to ask you about those, you have quite an intricate pattern of nasty looking scars there. Not cosmetic surgery, for sure." She traces a finger along the most prominent. I flex my shoulder a little to make it stand out even more.

"Ooh, fractured clavicle? From your bike crash? You know you can get the plate taken out, right?"

"So I hear, but I like to think it makes me look bionic."

Margaret leans in and kisses all along the scar. "Not sure about that, but it is kinda sexy, I suppose," she giggles. "And this scar crossing it, shoulder surgery?"

"Full replacement, like four years ago? They're probably faded, but the tiny scars are where I had it scoped and some tune-up done this past summer. The tendons were still kind of wonky. Margaret leans in to kiss my shoulder.

"You're actually kind of young for replacement?"

"Yeah, but I'd had it scoped once to clean it up, and tried collagen injections, but it was full bone-on-bone. The cartilage was all pretty gone with arthritis. It bothered me for years."

"Ouch, I bet. Seems good now?"

"Yes, finally. Much better."

Margaret takes my hands and traces the little scars that I have on each. "I remember seeing these when I looked at your hands earlier today. Wait, was that just today?" I nod, uncertain, but I think it was. We seem to be in another odd time continuum, that I'm now believing may be pixie-altered in some magical way.

"Left was a carving tool that slipped when I was maybe eight. I hid it because I wasn't supposed to be playing with the tool. Probably lucky I didn't bleed out..."

Margaret rolls her eyes, "please, I bet you didn't even need stitches?"

"No, but it...really hurt," Margaret looks in my eyes and hers soften.

"I'm sorry, baby. I bet it did. I'll kiss it better?" She leans in and gives it a light kiss.

"Thanks, much better. The right was surgery when I was in my late twenties to remove a cyst on my tendon. I think I got it from hammering too much when I was in my teens and early twenties. Seemed a little unnecessary, but I complained about it a few times, and my first wife was a bit of a hypochondriac, so..."

"Mmm, no problems since then?"

I laugh, "no, I got smart and switched to nail guns. Much more fun anyway."

"Any others, sir?"

"We're doing the full physical here, aren't we?"

"If you're very good, maybe I'll check your prostate again. You seemed to enjoy that a lot, dirty boy?"

"I'll be sure to stay very good, then." I smile, and Margaret giggles. "So yes, three more." I point to my left elbow and right knee. "Injuries from my football days."

"Wait, didn't I read about those in one of your stories, one season of peewee football?"

"I was not built for the game."

"No, you are not, and I am very okay with that," Margaret says and lifts my elbow to give it a kiss, then slides down the bed to kneel below me and kiss my knee. "It's a fun view from down here. Any more below the waist?" She grins up at me, resting on her elbows and knees, dipping her spine and raising her hips so that her ass is elevated, giving it a seductive wiggle.

"Mmm, yes, last one," I part my thighs wide and point to the perfect square on the inside of my upper right thigh. "Caught on barbed wire climbing over a fence to get away from a farm dog in a field I wasn't supposed to be crossing. I think I was eight then also."

"Mmm, sounds like you were kind of a bad boy?" Margaret purrs as she brings her lips up to kiss the scar, then gives it a lick and sucks it in lightly, tracing her tongue higher up my thigh until she is within easy reach of my hanging balls and now rigid shaft. She laughs and sits back on her haunches. "Exams not over yet, baby," she tsks at me. Tease. I flex my kegels to give my dick a bounce, and she giggles. "Soon, baby, I promise."

"So that's it for the scars. I broke my right tibia on a ski trip in the ninth grade, if that counts?"

"You skied, living in Florida?"

"My dad did. He went on trips at least twice a year, usually by himself or with buddies, supposedly, but occasionally with Mom. This was our first family trip, a week in Colorado."

"Ooh, I hope you at least had fun before it happened?"

"Nope. Happened on the first day. In lessons. On the bunny slope. My binding was frozen. I had one ski over the other and fell. I knew it was broken as soon as I hit the ground. The instructor didn't believe me until he had me try to get up, and my leg went the wrong way. I was a minor, so they could only take me off the slopes. They couldn't take me off property to the hospital without a parent. I lay on a gurney in the ambulance garage for hours before my brother met up with my mom for lunch and told her what happened, and she came to find me."

"Oh my god, baby, that's awful."

"Mmm, life in the 80s, I suppose. The worst part is I had to spend the rest of the week in the condo by myself, eating Campbell's soup and watching soap operas." I laugh, because what else can you do? It's been a long time since I've thought of that specific disappointment and choose not to dwell on it. "So that's all the outside stuff. Do I pass?"

"With flying colors, but what about the inside stuff? You're an old troll. You must be on a lot of meds?"

"Advil when I really feel like I need it."

"That's it. No prescriptions?"

"Meds? No, but I guess testosterone counts? More of a supplement, but it is a prescription. I get a shot every two weeks."

"Mmm, so we're juicing, are we? That might explain your sexual prowess."

"I don't think so. Beth thinks it elevated my sex drive, but it hasn't. But I have noticed it's boosted my confidence? Since I've been on it, I'm finding things clearer mentally, and I don't get bothered by little things that used to concern me? I don't mean for this to come off the wrong way, but I kind of don't give a shit about what others might think about me like I did most of my life. And that's kind of new since I've been on it, and I guess that's what confidence may feel like?"

"Sounds like that might be the case, but hard to say. What kind of things has it helped you with, do you think?"

"Well, the whole story that I wrote and shared with Beth about our sex life, that's something I would have written and just filed away a few years ago. But I felt confident in sharing it with her, because, frankly, I felt I needed it off my chest, and I didn't let how she might react to it keep me from doing it? Not that I didn't care, but that it just wouldn't bother me, it's hard to explain."