He knew what was going to happen as soon as she opened the door and stared him down—he’d watched enough movies and enjoyed enough fantasies to know. “You, uh... you asked me to cut the grass?” The words took too long to come to him, catching on his suddenly-dry throat.
 
She put her body at an angle, cattycorner, resting her hip on the doorframe and stretching a wicked arm across. She was swathed in a towel, wrapping once, twice about her body, tight enough to press against her flat stomach, high enough to accentuate her impossible legs, and low enough to flash just the merest hint of the ridge of her nipples, the brown of her areolae. Her long, purple hair (an odd color, he noted dimly, but he took in in stride) hung in wet strands, clinging to her damp skin, skin on which the furious light of the Saturday sun danced like a drunken Gypsy, constantly whirring and gleaming, an impossible kaleidoscope of motion and passion. Around her neck was a necklace, the string as tight as a choker, a Venus symbol hanging just above her sternum. Her eyes glared out at him through the haze of sunlight reflected off her regal face, bluer than any blue, at times the color of a baby’s blanket and at others like the sea. But as they flashed a predatory light at him, they were the color of storm clouds. When she spoke, it was smoky, dripping with feline, sadistic lust.
 
“Did I? I can’t recall. Oh, yes” she purred, holding on to the ‘s’ for a good three seconds, staring straight into him. “You’re my new gardening boy, aren’t you? Please, do come in.” She turned slightly, swept her arm back, but didn’t budge, blocking nearly all of the doorway with her towel-wrapped, wet body. She shifted her weight, bringing her hips in line with his. Her face was stone, cold and emotionless, but her eyes danced with the light of her game. He decided to play along. He turned to his side and twisted awkwardly, trying to get around her form—not trying that hard, of course, but enough that he almost worried that he’d get by her without any contact. Clearly, she had the same fear: she nudged her hip out oh-so-slightly, the fabric of his jeans and the metal of the zipper dragging against her towel. They could almost feel the taut, hungry flesh beneath each other’s clothes. He passed her, popping out from between the doorframe’s rock and her soft place, and into her lair.
 
She nudged the door closed with her hip and slinked forward, hooking a finger into a belt loop, and tugged him along behind her. “Do you fancy a drink, darling? I know I do.” She led him into the kitchen and pushed him roughly up against the refrigerator. “Why don’t you make me one, darling? Oh, I don’t care what kind”, she said, anticipating his question before he could even voice is. “Surprise me. Something with lots of milk.”
 
She watched him with amused interest as he fumbled his way about the kitchen, looking for everything: she raised lazy fingers to point to the glasses, the vodka, the liqueur. She watched, too, as he made it. She padded towards him.
 
“Mm. I love alcohol. But I have this one problem with it, you see.” She wrapped her long arms about his waist, a finger or two slipping under his shirt and onto his stomach. He felt the cool tips of her digits playing along his waistline, around his bellybutton, giving him the kind of embarrassed, tickling twinge that he hadn’t felt since he was in high school, fooling around with a girl for the first time. She stood on her tip-toes and put her nose against the back of his neck, inhaling deep. “When I drink, darling, I’m afraid I rather lose control. I’m liable to do anything.”
 
He turned in her arms, staring down into her cruel blue eyes, holding her drink with a slightly-shaky hand. “Ah. Well, you see, my hands are busy”, she cooed—and slipped her hands into his pants to grope his ass—eyeing the drink hungrily. “Would you be a dear and...?” He tipped the glass to her lips and watched as she downed it all in one draught. She coughed, and blinked. “Oh. Made it a little strong, didn’t you? Are you trying to get me drunk so that you can have your way with me? Well, I won’t stand for it. I’m a lady, after all, dammit.” She grabbed his head and pulled it down to hers roughly, kissing him with a hungry intensity. “So I suppose I’d better have my way with you first.”
 
She spun away from him and started walking towards the stairs. A third of the way there, her hands started lazily grabbing at the towel that hugged her curves. Halfway there, they tugged at the tucked tie over her tummy, pulling it apart, one end in either hand. The light struck her, and he could see her form through the sunlight-transparent fabric. A step or two from the stairs, and the towel dropped completely as a single long leg arched out to meet the first step. Her body was a curious mix of soft and hard at the same time, the natural forces of age, time, and gravity only just starting to win their wars with a dogmatic exercise and diet regime. A firm, round ass that stubbornly refused to stay as taut as it had been a year ago, cheeks drooping down to only just cover the backs of her upper legs; thighs, plump and beautiful with only the slightest jiggle when she stepped; breasts, he could see as she turned, heavy with age and starting to sag, but still big, round, full, and heart-breaking, with dark areolae the size of half-dollars and puffy, pouty nipples that practically begged to be sucked on. The line of her spine was only visible along her back, just a whisper amongst the defined muscles and pockets of fat that covered the canvas of her body, a single tattoo—three diamonds together in a cluster—sitting in the middle of her back. Her belly, so meticulously kept flat for years, was starting to run to fat, as were her hips, and her hourglass waist—it only added to her allure, the flesh rippling beneath a thin layer of fat. He could se the lines on her tummy where her washboard abs had been, now given way to the forming of womanly chub. She was at the peak of her sexual and physiological mountains, only just starting the long descent back down again—old but not too old, taut but not too taut, flabby but not too flabby. She was an experienced, confident huntress, and above all, a hungry one, too long without a male of the species to scratch her itches. And here he was.
 
She was at the top of the stairs and called back down to him before he was slapped out of his fantasies and musings. “Aren’t you coming, or do I have to walk all the way back down there and grab you?” As much fun as he imagined that would be, he had hungers of his own—he belted up the stairs, two at a time. She herded him into her room with a disapproving tut-tut-tut and a self-sure smirk that belied how flattered she was by his silent compliment.
 
“Did you know that if you lock two animals in a room together, they’ll either kill each other or have sex?” She closed the door, and he heard the click of the lock. One perfectly-manicured finger lanced out as she catwalked her way toward him, the nail digging into his chest as she approached, her breasts drawing up against the fabric of his shirt, their exhalations mingling in the small distance between them. She raised herself up on her toes, and he closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and waited for hers to touch.
 
They never did. She thought for a moment, then, with a wicked smile, pushed her finger forward, into him, his unresisting body falling backwards onto the Egyptian cotton and goose-down bed with a muffled ‘pomf’. “Wah!” he exclaimed. She didn’t give him an opportunity to finish the joke, though—throwing her legs to either side of him, straddling and clambering over him, dragging her crotch in a line over his body, whining like a bitch in heat as she scooted across him, over his heart, over his collarbones, over his chin, to rest on his face. He obeyed her physical command immediately, licking in sloppy, untrained strokes, occasionally darting his tongue into her honeypot or grinding the puffy flesh and quickly-swelling clit between his teeth just hard enough to give her a pin-prick of pain to go along with the pleasure. She rode his face, grinding the sensitive skin around her vagina against the stubble that dotted his face, mewling piteously as she tried to scratch an itch she couldn’t reach. Her heady, bitter scent and taste flooded his senses, swimming through his head, swelling his cock with pheromone-laced blood, getting ready to heed the primal directive her copulence carried with it: this one is in season, this one is yours. The fire grew in both of their bellies, and his hands were all over her, smacking her ass, pinching her puffy pink nipples, leaving violent red lines down her back, digging into her flesh, getting her ready to be impaled on his sex-addled cock. She screamed and lurched over, riding his tongue to a shuddering orgasm, fingers twisting in his hair and toes curled over on themselves, every nerve in her body alight with passion. She stared down at him from above, her hands clenched on the headboard of the bed, chest heaving, hair hanging down between the two of them. The only sounds were her ragged gasps and the occasional smack as he ate her.
 
She twisted on his face, facing back down the bed. She bent over him and set to work at his pants, tugging the button apart with such force that it was sent flying through the air and pinged under a dresser. She worked his pants down his legs, and he obliged by lifting his back, then his legs, up. She slid his pants off one leg, and he kicked them off the other, to the side. His face was suddenly cold as she lifted herself off of it, a trail of his saliva and her juices soaking through his shirt as she lowered herself down his body. He drew himself up and rested his back against the headboard, and his hands, as if of their own will, guided themselves to her hips. Her legs drew back under themselves, and she hovered over his crotch. For a brief moment, he could feel the heat from her pouring out onto his cock. Then he became impatient and dissatisfied with that feeling, and pulled down on her hips, forcing himself inside of her. He hilted inside of her easily, his balls resting beneath her ass comfortably, and as he lifted her back up again, it was like a warm, velvet-covered vise on him. A heavy moan slipped through her lips as he speared her back down. She allowed herself to be fucked, to be picked up and put back down again, and her back arched and leaned into him, pressing against his body. It was a desperate and artless fuck, two animals humping against each other. She screamed, and he could feel her need pouring off of her. Her hands went up to her chest, mashing her breasts roughly, not even trying to be delicate; they were far past that. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips as he lifted her up and threw her back down, over and over again, a single, all-consuming drive overpowering every other thought in his body. He bit the back of her neck, and his tongue glided over the chain of her necklace, the metallic, iron-salty taste mingling with the sheen of sweat that covered both of them. She was in heaven as she rode him, screaming and bucking, to a second orgasm, and somewhere deep in his lizard-brain, he registered this as a compliment to his prowess as a male. But he couldn’t care less. He could feel her flagging strength, and he pushed himself up with all his might, throwing her facedown on the bed. He bent over her, one hand on her ass, the other reaching around to her face. She suckled on a finger, moaning encouragements to him, her head buried in sex-soaked bedsheets and ass raised up into the air. Long, slow, brutal strokes followed, strokes that rocked her, caused her flesh to ripple beneath him, and she smiled. She felt years of her life fall off of her with his every grunting animal thrust. He laid his weight on her as he came, and she sighed, the liquid warmth flooding her, the excesses dripping out of her onto the sheets.
 
They rolled back on the bed and laid there together, letting their bodies cool down from the workout they’d just gotten. The only effort he made was to strip off his shirt, so that he could lie next to her just as naked as she was. They fell asleep next to each other, and when he woke, she was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, the dripping of the shower and fine mist of water vapor behind her, again swathed in a towel, smirking like a cat with a canary and a lit cigarette between her fingers, smoke drifting lazily up through the air.
 
“You’re a very bad boy, you know, darling. You put me on my face. Don’t you know the lady is supposed to be on top and in control? Breaking all of the rules, naughty boy.”
 
She sat next to him on the bed, and he raised himself to sit up. She looked down at him for a moment, eyebrow raised, and then shrugged. “Lucky for you, I like rule-breakers and naughty boys.” She kissed him, and pressed the cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing it. She dropped the towel and leaned in front of him.
 
And at that same time, somewhere in Hollywood, a camera faded to black.