Jeannette I'd seen Jeannette's smile in photos, but it's always better in person. She was waiting for my flight to arrive, leaning against a wall, watching passengers streaming through the security checkpoint. I recognized her immediately. She was a bit heftier than was visible in her photos, a bit taller. But her eyes and her smile captivated me. The first surprise was the roughness and strength of her hands. Jeannette was a professional chef at a country inn upstate. Hot pan handles, scalding liquids, and occasional knife nicks came with the territory. We held hands as we walked to baggage claim, making halting small talk, making silent assessments of the other. It was one of those things you did, meeting like this, after months of Internet chat. Especially when you both knew that the plan was to spend the night together at a downtown hotel. The drive from the airport to downtown was easy on this Sunday evening. Our talk was still small, still edging from awkward toward comfortable, tinged with an undercurrent of nervous anticipation. She was married, I was married, and this was a rendezvous that took weeks to arrange. "I hate condoms," she'd told me, "and I'm allergic to latex." We chatted about health issues. No herpes. No warts. She was on the Pill. We both knew were we were headed. We were on a path that was going to end in bed. From the airport to downtown, then walking the block from the parking garage to the ornate lobby with its carved wood and formal tables and three-foot vases with cut flower. Jeannette hung back, studying the rack of tourist brochures at the concierge's station while I checked in. I'd reserved a single room with a queen size bed. That sounded good. We shared the elevator with conference attendees wearing name badges and tipsy smiles. They were all jibberjabbing in the elevator, though Jeannette and I were silent. At the seventh floor, we slipped past the elbows and walked down the hallway to the room. I rolled my suitcase, Jeannette had a duffelbag slung over her shoulder. We found our room, 724. The card key worked. And there we were, inside the privacy of the room, still on that unspoken path. It was a corner room, spacious, with an obvious bed and a couch, a sitting chair and a desk. Jeannette dropped her duffel on the chair, I flopped my suitcase on the couch, and there we were. We faced each other, paused only a split second, then embraced and kissed. Open mouths, friendly tongues, stroking hands. A few minutes later we were in bed, naked, still kissing and still stroking. Jeannette's breasts were softball sized and tipped with small, pointy brown nipples, smaller in diameter than a pencil eraser. Her dark pubic hair was unshaven, her inner labia pouting pink, her breathing erratic, her dark eyes glistening. Her rough hands found my erection. "So hard," she whispered. I couldn't wait to be inside her. My mouth explored her face, her neck, her breasts, her nipples. Jeannette lay on her back and I moved atop her, my mouth moving downward. Tummy, bellybutton. Her fingers caressed my head, played in my hair, while I kept moving lower. My nose trickled through her pubic hair, soft and wavy. Now I could smell her scent, and it only made me harder, if that was possible. Lower, slowly lower, until I was there, face to pubes. Her thighs sprawled open, her labia yawned wide and inviting. My first lick was an upward swipe, and Jeannette's gasping wail made me hope the wall was insulated. Again and again, my hands held her ample hips and my tongue lapped her open pussy, her clit standing tall and stiff, her outer labia fattened thick with her arousal and her juices flowing. My tongue found her heat source, thrusting inside her vagina and then up and down her crimson cleft. Jeannette was vocal, with gasps and moans and exclamations. She climaxed quickly that first time, my two fingers stroking her g-spot, her hands squeezing my head and her fingers indenting my skull as she pulled my mouth firmly against her slickness, her hips rocking her pussy against my tongue and lips. She was all heat and slippery pink parts and sharp, guttural exhales. You know they're multiorgasmic when they climax that strongly and, seconds later, she's tugging on your shoulders, urging you upward, as desperate to have your stiff cock inside her as you are to get it there. The first time is usually quick, almost frantic, maybe even a bit awkward as you mount that new body with her unfamiliar thighs and torso and thickness and height. Jeannette was squirming, almost a moving target, and I nestled my thighs between hers, notched my shaft in her juicy furrow, positioned myself above her. And then, there I was, her knees bent, her thighs widened, my cock had sufficiently smeared itself with her lubrication and had found her entrance. Her right hand, her rough palm, was on my butt, pulling, urging, and her left hand was between my shoulderblades. The next time would be slower, but this one wasn't. I was inside her in one heated, slick thrust until our pubic hair mashed together. She howled a primal noise. Jeannette was liquid silk, her vagina's warm slickness in sharp contrast to the roughness of her hands. The little muscle at her entrance was thin yet distinct, and as I stroked in and out, every time I bottomed out she gave me a small clench with it. In, clench, out, in, clench, out. My cock, I'm sure was leaking like crazy. I was throbbing, twitching, my moans and groans overmatched by Jeannette's. All too fast, all too soon, I was beyond the point of no return. No pause would halt it, no slowdown would slow it. I knew it, Jeannette knew it. "Yes, do it, do it," she hissed, "Give it to me," and I did. I quickened my thrusts, my pubic bone thumping against her mons. Three, four, five deep, completely deep wet slickery straining thrusts and I was there, pressing myself into her, holding myself there, hardened to my max. I cried out in pleasure, which surprised me. My knees dug into the mattress, my body stiffened almost as much as my cock, and my head exploded. And then, so did my cock, with one long spurt after another. Somewhere in the middle of all that, Jeannette cried out herself, and I was half-conscious of her fingernails digging into my lower back, clawing into my skin, my flesh. It was our primal moment, all instinct and no rationality. I restarted my thrusts, now creamier from me and from her, her orgasm ricocheting through her body with quivers and those little clutching pulses around my shaft that continued, ever weakening, to fill her with my come. The second time that night was less frantic. And, alas, our orgasms were equally more muted. Her pussy smelled and tasted of sex, the soup of her juices and mine, oozing out and smearing the inside of her thighs and the sheets. "You get me so wet," she breathed in my ear as we entwined together, afterwards. In the light of the summer morning, when I visited the bathroom, I saw the scratches she'd given me. Three deep red clawmarks on one side, two on the other. I was going to need to buy some Neosporine at a drug store and hope it worked its wonders during the five days of my upcoming conference before I flew home to my wife. Back in bed, in the quiet of the morning, Jeannette made love to my cock with her mouth. She aroused me, played with me, toyed with my penis and brought me to an orgasm on her own terms. She was a master, using her lips and her tongue, her rough hands caressing my chest and my legs. Her lips encircled my shaft almost at the base when I spurted, drawing back halfway to swallow, and deep again to embrace me until I softened. I matched that with another oral orgasm for her, slow and tender, with just the right acceleration to crest her over the top. We cuddled, then she hardened me again with her mouth and mounted me. We both knew this was the last time. The morning was almost gone, and she needed to drive back home to her kitchen and her fiery panhandles. Jeannette's hips ground against me, our eyes locked together, her rough hands on my chest and my softer hands on her breasts, pinching her pointy nipples and feeling her clutchy squeezes. "Oh there," she breathed, closing her eyes and rubbing, driving, thrusting against me, her face frozen in an open-mouthed mask of pleasure. Her hips slowed and her eyes opened. She smiled that radiant smile. I hadn't climaxed, but I began to soften. Two orgasms the previous night, one earlier that morning. "Oh," she said, squeezing my disappearing erection. "You came?" "No," I told her. She looked disappointed. I knew what might work. "Roll on your back," I said. Moments later I was inside her again, half-hard and getting harder. "That's it," I said. "Take me," she whispered. She opened herself up to me, spreading her thighs wide, holding a knee with each hand. "Is this how you want me?" I nodded. I was preoccupied. I wanted to memorize her, memorize her body, memorize the sensations of her vagina. She was wet to the point of being frictionless. She watched me, watched my face, felt my body, surrendered her own. I got firmer, stiffer, and each notch higher she smiled more. "That's it," she told me, "Just like that." My strokes quickened. This one wasn't going to be explosive, but it was going to be sweet. "Oh," I breathed as I got close. "Oh." She had to be able to feel me stiffen. "Do it," she whispered. "Give me all of it." And I did, even if there wasn't much remaining in the reservoir. Faster and faster thrusts, racing to the finish, her hands pulled her knees higher and there I was, pressing deep. Jeannette clenched around the base of my cock with one long, gripping hug, and I moaned with one last set of pulsing throbs that figuratively and literally emptied my balls. Her clench relaxed, my body relaxed, and I softened quickly. An hour later, after showers and dressing, a small measure of awkwardness returned. Jeannette repacked her duffel, and we paused at the door, embracing and kissing. "I'm driving directly to work," she told me, nose to nose, her fingers in my hair as my hands her moving from breasts to hips and back. "I'll be leaking all day." She pecked my lips again. "I hope you'll be remembering me, too." I did.