Hunting Pixies

This is the third installment in my continuing story of Steve and Margaret. A little shorter than the first two, and a lot more sex. So if that's all you're here for, I hope I've delivered. I'm still struggling with where to categorize this. I think it ultimately probably will land as Romance, so I'm going to try that for this piece. But the elements that make the story fit in Mature and Loving Husbands both remain. If you've been with this from the start, thanks. There will be several more pieces coming. The story is building the more I write it. As a new contributor here, I'm still a little uncertain on reader expectations when voting, and frankly a little discouraged by the ratings and comments on the second piece. But I'm writing this for me, so I'll keep posting for those who might also relate to it or enjoy it.

Tuesday morning

Given my much later than normal night out, I don't arrive at the Landbridge trailhead of the Cross Florida Greenway before dawn, as I had planned, but the sun hasn't yet cleared the treetops in the parking lot when I pull in. It's cool out, with a little bit of fog still clearing, and the parking area is largely empty on this Tuesday morning.

I didn't really sleep much, if at all, even with the unexpected exertion of the walk home last night. With that walk, I didn't get back to my hotel until well after midnight, and it was 1 a.m. before I had unwound and finally got in bed. My mind replaying the unbelievable events of the evening kept me awake. My erection had gone down, of course, but I was on a hair trigger. I resisted the urge to relieve myself before bed and when I got up this morning. I'm really hoping to be putting it to much better use later in the day, and at my age, I don't want to waste any bullets I might need. Reloading takes so much longer than it used to.

Putting Margaret's panties on my pillow, as she suggested, was just torture, but a sweet torture I just couldn't resist. They were still damp and intoxicating when I went to bed, but had dried when I got up. Her aroma was much fainter, but still present and incredibly arousing. An erotic potpourri, for sure. I guess I am "pervy" when given half a chance.

I finally gave up on any more meaningful sleep by 5 a.m., made myself a big tumbler of coffee with my trusty, travel Keurig, had an energy bar, and took a quick shower before loading the bike and driving over. A second tumbler of decaf warming me on the chill drive. Fourish hours of "sleep" isn't that unusual for me; I've had trouble sleeping ever since I quit drinking more than a decade ago, so I've learned to deal with it. For years, I mostly passed out at night, and I think that permanently damaged my internal clock. I'm hoping to squeeze a power nap in before this evening.

I unload, gear up, and start my planned ride at about six thirty: an out-and-back on the winding blue-rated trails across the Landbridge and west. The flowy single track is always a nice challenge in the drop bars of my gravel bike. Riding these trails makes me feel like I'm on a speeder bike racing through the forests of Endor in 'Return of the Jedi.' Only in much slower motion every year. They are challenging without being overly risky, a small safe thrill, if you will. I happily take what I can get.

The trails on the west side are all but deserted today. The exertion is helping to clear my mind. My planned turnaround is a point where the easy single track I've been following intersects the paved trail. I reach it and am happy to see a bench nearby. I lean my bike on a tree, grab my water bottle and phone, and sit on the bench to take a breather. It's still moderately cool this early, in the 60s, but I'm pretty soaked with sweat from the first half of the ride. I have a tendency to perspire heavily. Or, more accurately, sweat like a pig. Now that I'm not moving, the chill begins to creep in, so I don't want to stop for long.

I check the time; it's a little after eight. I remember I haven't checked in with Beth since last night. She's usually up with the sun like I am, but I wanted to give her a chance to sleep in if she wanted it, so I hadn't texted before I got started this morning. She knows I planned to ride this morning, and I don't want to worry her. A few years ago, I was on a solo ride miles from home, like I am this morning, when a dog blindsided the bike out from under me. She got a crash alert from my watch and was checking in with me before I really knew what was going on, so there's precedent for her concern. The accident triggered the series of events that have led to my chronic left shoulder issues, and it throbs with the recollection, although it has been remarkably pain-free since the last surgery months ago.

I shoot Beth a quick text, "Good morning! I'm at the halfway point of my ride, didn't text earlier, hope you maybe had a chance to sleep in? I'll wrap this up in a couple of hours, then head to Mom's. How is everything there?"

I'm not sure I'll get a response before I finish my break, but sip some water and rest a little longer than I normally might. My spot is in the sun, and it is high enough now to start providing some heat. The Florida sun has become a thing to avoid over my lifetime, but this early, and this time of year, I don't mind basking in it a bit. A minute passes and I get a ping of a response to my message. "Oh, that's good, everything is fine here. How was it?"

"The ride is great."

"Not the ride, how was last night? You said you'd maybe met someone? I don't need 'details' but did you...make a connection?"

"I did...I plan to see her again today."

"Oh...okay. I think that's great. I'm happy for you."

"You're sure?"

"I trust you in this, Steve, you need to trust me too."

"I do...and thank you. Everything okay there? Everyone still getting in Wednesday like planned?"

"Yes, all good. Finish your ride. Good luck with your mom...and have fun tonight. You're still getting your mom to the house early afternoon Wednesday?"

"That's the plan. Will touch base later."

I get up to stretch a little before I resume my ride. I think for a minute about how much meaning can be lost in written messages versus through speaking, but it's always been my default when the alternative is a phone call. If I'm not able to speak with someone face to face, I would rather have the luxury of some time to choose my words before I type them, than the miserable feeling of awkward silences on the phone. Maybe I'm just weird that way, but Beth and I seem to be on the same page with this, and it's always been our default remote communication style.

I laugh as this thought is interrupted when my phone pings with another message, and I'm a little surprised it isn't a continuation of my chat with Beth. It's from a number I don't recognize with a 205 area code, "Good morning, Steve!" I have a good guess who it is, and begin smiling like an idiot. But there are only birds and deer to see me out here.

I open the message and see that it has popped into the chat that began with her parents' address, confirming it's from sweet Margaret. I immediately add "Margaret" to my contacts. I have no idea what her last name might be. And I didn't get any pictures of her last night. She did get one of me, and I'm wondering if she was thinking ahead of me. All my trepidation about how much she'd had to drink was probably an overreaction, but I just didn't want to risk pushing her too far, and I'm done beating myself up over it.

"Well, hello there, Margaret. How did you sleep?"

"Oh cool, you're there! I thought you might still be riding and you'd leave me hanging 'on delivered' a while, but wanted to check in anyway...sleep wasn't great...I was buzzing a little...and more than just a little...horny ;) "

I actually blush. "I'm at my turn around point on the ride. Same for me on sleep...the horny kept me up, not the buzzing, lol...and those panties...How are you feeling now?"

"Ooh, dirty boy, I bet you liked them...I'm a little hung over still, but not too bad. Took some Advil and getting coffee and a shower, that will help...And "someone" started plying me with water and tonic last night...I think that helped a lot, so thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll be done riding in a couple of hours. Then to Mom's. Then back to the hotel, and hopefully..."

A pause. Then her response, "So about last night..."

Uh oh. I watch with some trepidation as the boxes of the ellipses of the pending and incoming messages being typed pop up as they roll in fragments...

"I know I said I wanted you to fuck me last night...and you wouldn't...because you were worried that maybe I'd had too much to drink?...I know you got me off REALLY good...and I guess I shouldn't have been so greedy for more...but I've never been that turned on...NEVER...I was basically begging for your dick...and you walked away, literally...so I thought about all that this morning..."

Oh. Shit. I think. "Oh?" I type.

"...and I realized you were only trying to protect me from making a choice I'd regret...last night I WAS a little drunk when I asked you to fuck me...I'm not drunk now, and I've made a slightly different choice...I've decided instead that I want to fuck YOU...I know you're married...I know there are rules you'll probably have to follow...I'm okay with that...I want to give you everything...share everything you and I could possibly want in bed...even if that's all we can have...even if it's only this one time...I want to be your pixie."

"That is fantastic! You have no idea how happy that makes me. So I'll see my pixie about two?"

"Yes. Wait what room? You gave me the key but not the number?"

"720."

"K. Enjoy the rest of your ride and time with your mom."

"Thx. Hope the morning with Sue goes well."

She responds with an eyeroll emoji, followed by a middle finger emoji. I laugh out loud, in real life, by myself in the woods.

I'm elated. I no longer feel any chill. My newly returned erection requires some adjustment in my biking shorts before I can sit comfortably in the saddle for the return ride. I elect to forego the longer single-track option and return to my truck by way of the paved trail to save some time. I make it back to my truck in half the time that it took me to ride out earlier in the morning. Mostly because the paved trail allows for more speed than the dirt, but also because I'm feeling a bit more motivated to get back to the hotel in time to be "ready" for Margaret.

I load my bike and make the short drive to my mom's. I'm there by ten. We chat a little and I accept a few of her ever-present homemade chocolate chip cookies and a small cup of decaf as my "brunch." I then change from my now sweat-soaked "gravel" riding attire to my well-worn "work" attire that is more suitable for the tasks at hand. I'm relieved to lose the tight fit of my biking shorts. I'm not a lycra-clad road warrior, but the padded shorts suitable for my riding style are still far more constrictive than I prefer.

My work this trip involves replacing the small well house I last replaced maybe 20 years ago. I had measured on my last visit a month ago, crafted a suitable replacement in modular panels over the last few weeks, and have brought the panels and tools to assemble them. I can wrap up the dozen or so hours spent fabricating them at home with a little more than an hour of assembly and clean up on site.

My mom will be 89 in the next two weeks, and shows little sign of giving up her independence. She's lived in this house she designed, mostly alone, for over 35 years. She and my dad had divorced several years before then, but have remained amicable to varied degrees since, and my dad acted as her general contractor for the build, no doubt trying to atone a little for some of the many things he had put her through over their 26 years of marriage. At the time they divorced, they were closer to Beth's age than mine, in their early 50s. Even with all their issues, Mom was surprised and devastated when Dad moved out and asked for the divorce. Her coming into a family trust around the same time kept them both from being financially ruined by splitting their assets so late in life. I try not to dwell on some of the similarities in our relationship paths; I'd like to think I'm not following theirs.

Working with my hands in the late morning is a good distraction for me. I much prefer creating new things to maintaining them, because I enjoy the design process and bringing something I've envisioned to reality, but the mindlessness of upkeep is okay sometimes, too. I try not to delve too deep on those thoughts, as they probably say quite a bit about me, psychologically. Assembling my prebuilt pieces is a little monotonous, but finishing the job is satisfying. I have a bad habit of getting projects to the 90-95% complete stage before moving on to something else. There's probably something psychological to that as well. In any event, this one is done, and should serve to protect her well adequately if this winter brings the same subfreezing temperatures as last.

Tasks complete, I'm pleased to note I barely broke a sweat. I clean up and say goodbye to Mom, reminding her I'll be back tomorrow by ten to pick her up. It's almost noon when I get back to the Brownwood, and I realize I'm running short on time, and may have to miss my nap. I'm really hoping to be exerting myself later in the day, and the growling of my stomach reminds me I've had almost nothing to eat yet, but it can wait a little while longer. I unload my bike and gear and wheel it through the lobby up the elevator to my room. The Villages is a very safe community, but this bike was an indulgence that cost me much more than my first used car. I hadn't bought it new, of course, but it was still a relative extravagance and not something I leave outside overnight, even locked down.

I catch a whiff of myself and decide for the sake of others that I better take a shower before I find food. The steam of the quick shower feels good, invigorating me a bit. I shaved yesterday and decide to forego it in the interest of time. I remember to hang my used cycling kit to dry before I head out. It isn't dripping, but it is well past damp. I re-don my work outfit, still kind of surprised I somehow managed to not sweat in it, or at least not that much.

It's a little after 12:30 when I walk through the lobby, thinking I might grab lunch at the bar or the Wolfgang Puck restaurant. Both appear to be pretty crowded, so I make a beeline for the local grocery store next door, conveniently sharing the same parking lot. Publix is almost as ubiquitous to life in Florida as cabbage palms. It isn't just urban myth that there are several places in the state with stores located literally across the street from one another. There are ten in the Villages alone, with plans for more. The line at the deli is long, as it always is, so I grab my go-to premade chicken strip salad, a half-gallon jug of their lemonade, a two-liter bottle of sugar-free tonic water (store brand, of course), macaroons, pistachios, and some Hershey's dark chocolate nuggets. I have plenty of water and Gatorade Zero chilling in the room refrigerator, thankful I won't need to lug them back over to the hotel. I clear self-checkout with my purchases and am back up in the room by one p.m.

I refresh my ice bucket and mix a tumbler of lemonade and tonic water to wash down my salad, and have a couple of macaroons and dark chocolate nuggets. I refresh my tumbler with water, down it, and refill with tonic and lemonade. It isn't quite 1:30 when my quick meal is complete. Hunger sated, I decide to lie down and see if I can catch a catnap for at least a few minutes. If she's really coming, and if she's on time, Margaret won't be long. I close the sheer curtains in the room, foregoing the darkness of the blackout layer, and strip down and pull on yoga shorts before sliding under the covers for a bit. I have a preset timer on my phone for 32 minutes that I use almost daily for this purpose, which should be just perfect, but for some reason, I don't start it today before I drift into unconsciousness.

I wake slowly, disoriented. Late afternoon light is filtering through the sheer fabric of the curtains across the room. The bed is unfamiliar in my sleep-fogged memory. As is the size and shape of the companion spooned into my side, captured under the crook of my left arm. Her head shares my pillow, auburn tresses framing her petite face turned toward me. Small nose, high cheekbones, full lips, delicate jaw and chin. She's breathing in the slow rhythm of light sleep. I feel one small hand draped over my chest. The warmth of a bare thigh across mine. The skin-on-skin contact is electric. I shift slightly, and reach over to touch her upturned hip, tracing my fingers gently higher and lower. She's clothed, barely. A cool, soft cottony fabric cladding warm, softer skin. My movement wakes her and she stirs.

"Well hello there," she sighs, "you're finally awake. Do you remember me?"

"Megan?" I slowly reply, feigning confusion, trying to keep my smile from giving away my weak attempt at humor. She reads it for what it is and plays along.

"That's right, Walter," her serious expression quickly giving way to a wide smile. She playfully punches me, adding, "Jerk!" The spark in her hazel eyes is alive and burning. She is a firecracker and I find myself smitten, already and once again.

I laugh, "sorry, Margaret, I couldn't resist." Then I drop my gaze to her lips, raise my hand to softly stroke her cheek, then cup it behind her delicately arched neck and pull her in for a single, deep kiss before releasing her and sitting up, adjusting the pillows on the headboard before leaning back propped halfway.

"I SHOULD make you suffer for teasing me like that," she replies, color rising to her cheeks. Then she bites her lower lip and adds, "but that would only make me suffer. And I already had to wait so long for you to wake up that I dozed off myself." She rises up to her knees to face me. She's a vision of loveliness backlit in the semi-filtered soft light of the afternoon. Her auburn hair frames her beautiful face, which appears to not have a hint of makeup. She doesn't need any. Her delicate throat and chest exposed by the heather-grey camisole top that drapes from her lovely shoulders. Her arms are delicately sculpted but toned to perfection. No doubt concealing a deceptive strength. Her breasts are beautiful, full but firm, apple-sized, sitting high on her chest, a perfect handful. Her nipples are erect with the coolness of the room and possibly more. Twin perfect bullets seemingly targeted straight to my groin. The short top leaves a little bit of midriff exposed. The sliver of soft skin of her flat belly is enticing. Her hips flare wider than her petite frame would suggest. High-cut boy short bottoms leave lots of toned leg exposed. I'm already intimately familiar with her creamy thighs and beautifully toned legs, but seeing them in this light is mesmerizing. She watches me drinking her in and smiles. Her heather eyes meet mine, smoldering. I respond, tenting my shorts, still concealed under the covers.

"How long was I asleep?" I ask, reaching for my phone to check the time. Seeing that the timer application is open and unstarted. It's only just before 3, but still that was a much longer nap than expected. "I'm sorry, honestly, how long have you been here?"

"I got here a little before 2, knocked, but didn't get an answer. I figured you must still be out, so I let myself in. It startled me a little when I saw you napping. I thought about waking you up in a REALLY special way, but you looked so cute resting, I decided to let you and just curled up with you. Your snoring must be contagious, or I was still really tired too, so I guess I fell asleep."