How I Bagged A Cougar Who Loved BDSM

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Nice Move

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It was a typical Florida summer day — with 100% relative humidity and the heat index pushing 130 — and I had to move into my new apartment by myself. I was hauling the last bit of stuff up the stairs (my beloved beer pong table fashioned from oak, quebracho and the tears of pledges), when I heard a shout from behind me.

“Hey! Let me help you with that!”

Without my glasses, I saw only a nebulous blur duck behind the other end of the table; but I figured a little help couldn’t hurt.

We reached my apartment without incident and I began hunting for my glasses in typical Velma-from-Scooby-Doo fashion. After a moment, the blur held something to my face.

“Are you looking for these?”

I was glad to put my glasses on, because the blur resolved into an athletic yet demure lady with Swedish blonde hair and yoga pants.

“I saw you moving by yourself, do you need help with anything?” she asked. Distracted by her legs, I had to take off my glasses again.

“No ma’am, that’s the last of it.”

She giggled. “Nobody says ma’am anymore. How old are you, 65? Retiring to Florida?”

Scratching my beard, I responded, “No ma’am, only 22.” A surprised and disappointed look flashed across her face.

“Oh, uhmm, I’m sorry; I thought you were older. I should get going.”

Suddenly, I realized what was happening: she was a cougar on the prowl, and thought I was too young “to ride this ride.” Needless to say, I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by.

“Let me get you some water before you go. And if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

She reflected for a moment and threw me a suggestive glance. “Just know that I’m somewhere in my 30s.”

A casual shrug conveyed my indifference to the age gap. “May I ask your name, or do you prefer ma’am?”

Another giggle. “My name is Brandy, but I don’t mind either way.”

A few more minutes of cheeky parlance and I had secured a date for the following Saturday night under the pretense of “neighbors getting to know each other.”

Saturday night comes, and the date goes more or less as expected. She was polite and mildly tomboyish in that she liked sports and wasn’t a ditz. I also noticed she was a little more handsy than I anticipated, in an aggressive sense. Peculiar, but not unwelcome.

We’re on our way home when she points out a little ice cream parlor, “Want to go? They have the best milkshakes!” The cunning linguist I am, I retort with a wink. “Sure. Would you like a large fry with that shake?” Another giggle.

Fast-forward a bit and we’re sitting under the stars on her balcony enjoying our shakes. We’re going back and forth, typical chitchat, when Brandy goes silent. With the sudden shift in tempo, I got worried. Something momentous was about to happen.

With trepidation, she forces out a question, “I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

I brace for impact.

“…how do you feel about alternative sexualities?”

My world imploded as I was smacked with the mushroom stamp of reality. In my haste to acquire this cougar’s pelt, I had ignored all the evidence that lay so plainly before my eyes. Athlete, blonde, tomboy, crazy hot, large sexual appetite, aggressively handsy; this woman was clearly a pitcher. That is, she liked wearing strap-ons and despoiling young men like myself.

The air-raid sirens were blaring, “ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.” The little switchboard operator in my head set my penis to “Flaccid,” buttcheeks to “Clenched,” and then decided to jump ship. With my brain effectively out of the decision-making cycle, my hormones ventured the question, “Could you clarify?”

Mumbling, she asked, “Have you ever heard of BDSM?”

My mind was running a million miles a minute as I tried to comprehend what was happening. The result was an appalled, deer-in-headlights look on my face that she interpreted as “tell me more.” She started with “I know I look innocent…” and ended with “… kidnap role play.” I couldn’t help but imagine a short figure in a black leather suit leaping out of a rental car, bludgeoning me in the back of the head, throwing my inert body into the trunk of the car, spiriting me away to a cheap Motel 6, and chaining me to a wall while she had her way with me, the crack of a whip punctuating my intermittent screams.

I was oddly aroused.

I somehow strung together enough of the right words to move the conversation into the bedroom with the guarantee that there would be no penetration of my bum. She wasn’t into that kind of thing; she was mostly a submissive. There was also the promise that tonight would be relatively tame, with potential for “more” down the road.

Two hours later and I emerged with a smile and a strange cut across my chest.

Today, I got a text that read something like “Hey! Due to my work contract, I’m moving to Baltimore in two days. I know you’re at a conference, but will I be able to see you before then?”

And risk my butthole? Ha, I think not.

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