Ageless Erotica Read online

  “I can’t stay overnight. Don’t even ask. This is a dentist’s appointment. I need to go back to work.”

  Wouldn’t someone smell the scotch?

  “I’m reading your mind again. It will be natural for me to come back smelling like toothpaste, if anyone gets that close. I brushed in the ladies’ room before I left, too.”

  “Of course. Discretion is the only reason this works. Did you park at the mall?”

  “Yes, and took a cab from the other end. With a Penney’s bag.” She gestures with the pointed toe of a black boot.

  Russ opens his wallet and sets a twenty on the occasional table near the door, more than enough to cover the round trip. They no longer bicker about him reimbursing her costs. “I bought us something. Care to see?”

  Scotch in hand, Diane trails him to the master suite. He turns at the open door to see her reaction: salt-and-pepper brows raised, her mouth a lipsticked O.

  The mahogany chest at the foot of the bed glows red-gold with candlelight, the flames multiplied in the crystalline lube drooling down a purple butt plug. Matching satin ribbon surrounds the base in an artistic swirl before trailing to the floor.

  He rests his hand on her sleeve, the way he reassures his mother-in-law when she is once again confused by the ordinary. “If you didn’t want to expand your horizons, you’d be home with your husband, not here with me.”

  Diane nods. “Same as you. We’re two peas in a pod.”

  “Exactly. This is not a part of my marriage, either—but I’ve always wanted to try it.”

  “I don’t think I could possibly—”

  “It’s for me.” The familiar shame engulfs him, heating his face and ears. It prevents him from looking into her eyes and speaking with the honesty they’ve promised.

  “For you.” Sly playfulness touches her voice. “I’m sure you remember how cute I think your ass is. If this is what you want, then by God, this is what you’ll get.”

  He doesn’t realize he’s raised his shoulders until they drop with relief. “Thank you. I was thinking you might use the ribbon to tie my hands, so I can’t interfere.”

  “I’m raping you with it?”

  “No, merely making me take it. The usual rules apply. I say ‘red,’ you stop. Finish your drink first, if you like. Another?”

  She upends the glass, swallows, and blinks comically. “No, one’s enough.”

  “Set it on the chest, so I won’t overlook it. You’re adorable. You know that, right?”

  “A reminder never hurts. Tie your hands how?”

  “Like shoelaces, I suppose. In front.” He offers his wrists. His forearms are bare, his watch removed, cuffs rolled in anticipation.

  Diane bends forward, tipping her head to see through the proper part of her trifocals. It’s oddly endearing, familiar, and she’s no longer as self-conscious as she was when the glasses were a newly acquired symbol of her age.

  The ribbon circling his paired wrists could be tighter, but her bow is pretty. “I feel positively gift wrapped.”

  “I don’t usually put a bow on a present to myself,” she says. “Which is what this is. I get to plug this nice little ass, and you can’t stop me? Merry Christmas and happy birthday.”

  “Unbuckle my belt?” Russ raises his wrists for her access. The brass clinks merrily. He feels rather than hears the trousers’ waistband released. The soft susurration of the zipper hisses in the charged stillness that has overtaken the room. His trousers fall, the belt buckle ringing like a bell. “I was thinking bent over the side of the bed.”

  She pushes down his underwear almost roughly. “The person who’s tied up doesn’t get to decide. Or think, for that matter.”

  Yes! He nods his assent and steps from the clothes overflowing his bare feet.

  “On the bed, hands and knees.”

  Though he’s lean, Russ is glad of his dress shirt hanging down, disguising his abs, which have yielded to six decades of gravity.

  “No, knees and chest. Oh, yes, that’s perfect. Let me get a good look at you. At it.”

  He should have had a scotch. His exposed vulnerability is more intense than the first time he undressed in front of another person. For a long moment neither speaks. The air in the room crackles with tension as she examines his most private spot.

  “Very nice,” she says. “A pretty color. If I’d known, I could have sold you a terrazzo that matches.” Her boot heels tock on the floor her company installed.

  She lifts the plug by its base, smoothes the lubricant’s thick dribbles to cover more of the silicone, smiles, but not at him, and leaves his line of sight to stand behind him. “This looks pretty big,” she murmurs. “And you don’t.”

  “Slow and easy is what works,” he says.

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Never on the receiving end. You want steady, gentle pressure, giving it however long it takes.”

  When she touches it to his center, the coolness startles as his face heats anew. She presses, light yet insistent.

  Russ can’t believe he’s doing this. The sexual fantasy of being invaded, the source of fifty years’ shame, is about to become reality. His heart speeds up as the plug eases inside just a little.

  This is intimate in a way that far exceeds thrusting himself balls-deep in this or that indifferent partner until he met one worth marrying. Not many years passed before there was one more sad entry on the list of indifferent partners. Russ tried to be a better husband, waited with patience for change that didn’t come. Finally they’d talked it through, though it hurt them both, agreeing to remain beloved friends.

  Friends who did not expect sex.

  From one another, anyway. The job offer that brought them here changed everything. The money was excellent. Russ could leave the career he’d come to detest, instead renovating a glorious older building fallen on hard times. The job’s grueling travel schedule let his marriage stay intact. They met their physical needs separately with complete discretion.

  Alone here, Russ kept himself busy with designs, contractors, budgets, and decisions. He’d asked Diane, the manager of the best tile and flooring store he’d visited, if he might bring samples to the building to see how they looked in its light. She’d insisted he needed to see an area larger than a single tile. Might she arrive with four-foot sections to be delivered on a pallet, at his convenience? She could. A few days later, when she’d agreed the most expensive was not the best or even second-best choice, he’d liked her honesty and offered to make lunch for them both; the kitchen was done enough to be functional. She countered: She would stay only if he agreed to keep his mind open as she praised heated floors. And so it began.

  Now Diane turns the plug from side to side, calling his attention to it. To her. “Am I doing a good job?”

  “Oh, yes. So good. You’re so good to me. For me.”

  “I am. A little more?” Diane does not wait for a reply but presses anew.

  He never dreamed of heated floors, or that only a few weeks later the sight of a bare wooden hanger would harden him. For the first time in years, Russ dared to dream of this. Her hand, feathery light on his lower back, urges it down, his ass up. Russ complies, and the plug enters more deeply.

  “This is hot.” Diane’s voice says she is, too.

  Once again Diane’s touch has changed him from a tired old man nobody wants to a silver-haired fox unapologetic about passing the age to draw his full Social Security benefits.

  He rarely sees women like her, embracing her sixties, hair more silver than brown, clothing classic rather than current. How could other men miss the beauty of laugh lines and calm wisdom which added so much to any woman who wore them with dignity and pride at being herself? Diane didn’t look terrific for her age—she looked terrific, period.

  “Oh, my,” she says. “More, and a little firmer, yes?”

  It almost hurts, yet it does not. The rounded tip passes the cylinder of muscle to enter his rectum. The nerve endings there are more sensiti
ve than his fingertips, or even the head of his cock with the foreskin pushed back.

  His heart thumps in his chest. “Stop—but don’t take it out.”

  The pressure leaves him. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. A little too good. I was thinking about you, and how this feels, and—well, I had fears my private party would be over before the guest of honor arrived, if you get my drift.”

  She laughs. “We have time yet, and you took your pill, obviously. Let whatever happens, happen.”

  Without asking, she pushes on the plug. He imagines her behind him, the frown of concentration, the good posture of a woman who’s on her feet all day, the dark-skirted suit and low-heeled winter boots seeming severe. Russ pretends Diane will force it inside, no matter what, as so often happens in the fantasies.

  “I wish you could see this,” she says from far away. “You’re opening right up. So big, and a little bigger, and bigger.” For the first time, Diane gives the plug a sharp shove. “In it goes.”

  It splits him, or feels like it might, the slicing pain paralyzing. Only seconds later, though, it rolls back to a level he can endure.

  “Hang on. I can tell that hurt, but it’s already better.”

  “Yes, a little.”

  The pain Russ can withstand soon diminishes to a strong discomfort, then further de-escalates to a mild distress which excites. He’s always marveled at a plug’s effect, but at last he understands. It touches him in ways he’s never imagined. “Oh, God . . .”

  “Russ?”

  “I’m fine, just fine. This is incredible.”

  “I thought it might be. I’ve seen you hard a lot of times, but you’re weeping cum like some teenager.”

  He grins. “A good woman can do that to a person.”

  “So long as she’s got a good plug. What do you say to standing up?”

  “I say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’” Moving with the plug inserted fully astonishes him. It rolls in place at the slightest movement, insisting he pay it attention.

  “Slow and easy,” Diane mimics his earlier words. “You know what your blood pressure medication does if you get up too fast.”

  Russ hasn’t fainted, but he’s made himself dizzy enough times to heed her warning. Straightening one leg produces an exquisite awareness of the silicone piercing him, amplified when the other foot finds the warm floor.

  The center of his being has relocated.

  He stands at the side of the bed, acutely conscious of the plug, more than the hard-on bobbing almost parallel to the floor. Russ puts his tied wrists behind his neck, a prisoner not of war but of sex. The ends of the ribbon tickle his back.

  Diane moves downward, settling with care. Her arthritis is mild, she says, and the heat’s effect on her knees far outweighs the discomfort from the hard surface.

  Her tongue glides under his foreskin, his cock held steady by thumb and forefinger’s light touch. At first his being uncut fascinated her. That she found it exotic flattered Russ, whose sophistication consisted of being born to parents recently immigrated to New York.

  He suspects she’s never traveled outside the United States, been with few men, hasn’t even seen much porn. While some people sneer at such provincialism—hell, he’s married to one who does—Russ finds her simplicity refreshing and honest.

  Then her tongue drives all thought from his brain as it circles beneath the soft collar of skin, flicks the frenulum like a forefinger on the bass string of an acoustic guitar, moves onward, slower for the second lap.

  He is only sensation, nothing more. A cock lightly toyed with by an expert mouth, an ass well-plugged, hands restrained, unable to stop any of it.

  Her mouth accepts the head now, rolling it in her warmth and once almost-chewing. The resulting little tremor makes him clench on the plug. It hurts in a way that’s wonderful.

  She pulls back. The room air is cool where he is wet.

  “You like the plug, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “I know. I think I like it in you.” She plunges, taking most of his cock, and not gently. Her index and middle finger meet her thumb, wrapping the base, working as an extension of her hot mouth.

  Diane’s lipstick smears as she works him. Russ bought the rosy shade at the city’s best department store. It matched her pussy, and the young saleswoman swore it did not stain lips or skin. “That’s what I like about it,” she said with a blush which implied much.

  Russ carried it in his pocket for weeks, enjoying the small risk of being unable to explain it, before giving it to Diane. She wears it whenever they will be together, although he suspects it’s a bit brighter than she might choose.

  But her skin smudged pink arouses him, so graphic that its sexuality is obvious even after the act, the evidence clear. The color extends well beyond her mouth, he sees with a pleasant shudder which ends at the plug. It demands he acknowledge it holds him agape an inch or more.

  Short nails scrabble at his lower buttocks, spreading him for the moment it takes one hand to grasp the plug and turn it. The sensation draws a gasp from him, another when it rotates the other direction. Her mouth engulfs him as she gives it a 360-degree crank, and it’s over.

  He comes, down her throat, his ass clamping the butt plug anew with each wave. The pain is superb and makes the orgasm last a long time.

  “Wonderful, just wonderful,” he says finally. “And now something for you, as soon as I get this out and wash it.”

  She swipes at her face with a tissue, removing the lipstick. “Anything I want?”

  “Anything.” Russ helps her to her feet, enjoying the role of courtly gentleman.

  Her smile is devious, and very pretty. “Keep it in.”

  Though exhausted, his cock stirs, and his asshole nips sharply tight. “Whatever you want.”

  “I want . . .” The pause lingers too long. Diane is not groping for a word or a lost thought. She’s afraid to say it.

  She stands at the window, folding back one edge of the heavy drapes. The sky has gone an angry gray; snow before long. “I want you to buy one of those for me. Smaller, maybe, or just . . .” She doesn’t finish, just hitches up her skirt.

  Russ finds the end of the ribbon with his teeth and tugs, freeing his hands. His cock jerks when he sees she’s not wearing panties. Untrimmed pussy fur in a moist curlicue at the front announces she’s aroused. When his knees press the floor it hurts, but since his motion shifts the plug within his body, it claims the greater attention.

  Then she’s set one booted foot on the low window still and he’s at her, lapping as if his life depends on it. She rocks her hips, thrusting her pussy at him and taking it almost away, the tip of his tongue batting her clit from side to side, back to front, then licking the oozing center of her again, his thumb finding the entrance, fucking her like an undersized cock while his front teeth nibble at her. He can tell when she’s about to come, her reactions paused in the stillness of an imminent orgasm, and his index finger bores between her cheeks to tickle her tightly closed asshole, the one she wants him to plug next time, like his is plugged right now.

  When Diane comes, he emits a weak spurt of what little cum his poor balls can muster in so short a time. It smears across the front of her boot. Without stopping to think, he bends to lick it off. The plug moves, and he presses his cheek to the damp leather, content to be plugged, pleased to be servile, however briefly.

  “Whew!” she says, the word so wholesome it delights him.

  “Whew indeed.” He gets up stiffly. “What do you say to a little nap?”

  “I really do need to get back to work.” She pushes her skirt into place. “I wish I could stay.” Her skirt has twisted.

  “If they’re giving out wishes, think big.”

  Her laugh is self-conscious. “Okay. I wish that Bill would sell the damned flooring business so we could both retire. Split the proceeds, file for divorce, and remain on good terms because he’s a good man. Just like Mark is a good man.”

  “H
e is,” Russ admits. “We’re alike again. Peas in a pod. My wish would be that neither one of us has a husband.”

  ENDLESS PRAISE, TIMELESS LOVE

  Linda Poelzl

  I rush out to buzz Max in when the doorbell rings. He is my most regular, ardent, enthusiastic, and skillful lover. He knows my body well and how to bring me from boredom to ecstasy every time we make love.

  Every week, his driver drops him off, and I wait at the top of the stairs and watch him climb up energetically, looking up at me with hungry eyes. When he reaches the top, he holds out his arms and cries, “Sweetheart, let me hug you!” I gently but quickly usher him in, not wanting to disturb the neighbors, and close the door before he can grab me. Once inside, he crushes me to his chest, then holds me at arm’s length and studies my face intently as if he’s seeing me for the first time. A litany of praises and compliments follows: “You are so beautiful! Your hair is shining. You have a beautiful figure! You feel so good in my arms! I missed you so much! I love you to no end! Let’s make love right now!”

  One might imagine this could get tiresome, but he is so fresh and present that it always makes me giggle and hug him. Besides, Max is eighty-two and I am fifty-nine, so to him, I am definitely a younger woman and a total babe! He is no typical eighty-two-year-old in his appearance, either. Almost completely bald, he keeps his head shaved but sports a salt-and-pepper beard and mustache, which I love to caress. He’s slim, six feet tall, and wiry. An avid walker and swimmer, he’s got a well-toned body and a nice, hairy chest. He likes to wear offbeat clothing, kind of like an aging hippie, although he’s way beyond boomer age. He’s got quite a collection of T-shirts with silly slogans. Today he’s wearing a black one that reads, “A clear conscience is the sign of a bad memory.” We both laugh at that one, since he’s not the only one with memory issues.

  Just like a typical guy years younger, Max is always ready to go before I am. “I am so horny,” he whispers hoarsely into my ear. I smile, enjoying his eagerness, while I steer him toward my comfy recliner where we can cuddle for a while.