Ageless Erotica Read online

  He kisses me slowly to explore and suck. I get lost in his kiss. When his tongue nibbles my lip it seems like he’s directly touching my clit. My groin jumps in anticipation. Do with me what you will; just don’t stop. I open my legs even more.

  He slips his finger between my folds, and finds my clit. I catch my breath and cling to his shoulder with a stronger hand. He stops and holds the pad of his finger right there. What a touch! So restrained. He hardly shifts his finger over my clit—barely moving, then stops and waits; barely moves again, then stops and waits; barely moves—it goes on and on. He owns me. He’s with me. I never quite know when the thrill of his next shift will come.

  When it does, I moan and ache, inflamed by his touch. He slides his finger inside my vagina. I’m deep in the thrall of the sensations he’s causing when he says, “Lake Miriam.” I’m thrilled that he appreciates my inner flood.

  I dip my fingers into my lake and slick up just the underside of the tip of his penis and play with him while he moans. Yes . . . your moans, they send me higher. Then I take his cock fully and firmly in my hand, switching between light brushes and firm squeezes. It grows bigger and harder. I relish feeling it leap in my hand. I let go and it arches back to lie on his stomach. Look what I did. I’m so powerful. I tell him, “What a sexy view.”

  He reaches for the condom and rolls it on. I climb on top of him to control the place and the pace of his penis. I slide my labia all along the underside, my slickness caressing his utmost sensitivity. We love our delicious sliding.

  We’re going slow, slower, slowest today. I cover just the tip of the head with my labia. Pause. Next I barely insert his tip into my vagina. Pause. He likes that first penetration past the tighter opening into the larger cavern beyond. Finally, inch-by-inch, I let his whole shaft slip inside me.

  Andrew says, “You’re fucking me.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  All the while he looks at me and utters appreciative sighs. This is both exciting and sweet. I strip off my camisole. As though summoned, his palms reach up to brush my nipples. He swirls my breasts with the backs of his hands, then his palms again, back and forth. I get more excited and see that he’s having exquisite sensations—he never quite knows when or how I’ll move next. He looks deep into my eyes and holds my gaze. He says, “You’re really caressing me, really fucking me.”

  The pace is now so slow and so tantalizing that Andrew lightly grasps my hips to guide me, so he can go faster and farther in. But I tease him; No, no, no—I’m riding you so much more slowly and shallowly today. He looks at me with urgency, but then releases my hips, giving in to my pace. It’s delicious torture and his responsiveness adds to my arousal.

  After a long while, I roll over onto my back alongside him. Okay, you can have your way now. He climbs on top, smiles, and plunges deep into me. “You’re so hot.”

  “Yes I am.” It pleases me to hear him say it.

  He laughs. “No, I mean literally. You’re amazingly hot, deep down inside.”

  I’m elated that I’m making love with a man who likes to talk during sex as much as I do. It’s a turn-on for us both, amplifying our pleasure. Making love and talking about it is a way to taste it twice.

  “I’m all the way to your core. I love being this close and intimate with you. And I love that you love it.”

  He thrusts in so many ways and paces and depths that he helps me feel my vagina at different angles. “Now I’m fucking you,” he says.

  I relish hearing this, but feel challenged to take it for what it is, and not, for so long, what I wished it would be. You feel this close and intimate with me, and yet you don’t want to be my mate. I have to remind myself that we are meeting in the middle, approaching from opposite directions—polyamory and monogamy. I need to keep that in mind, even in the throes of lovemaking, to both enjoy this meantime and to keep looking for my man.

  Andrew occasionally checks to ensure the condom is still in place. He treats it as a pause in the action. I think it’s a great opportunity for double duty, to graze my clit with his fingers while he checks. Please, do check the condom more often!

  “It feels like I’m not wearing a condom.”

  I’m glad. He used to think it was a drag. Why is it better now? I could guess, but I’m just thankful.

  Andrew kisses me while he thrusts. Then he smiles into my eyes, a friendly and tender gaze. His thumbs trace each of my eyebrows. I melt when you do that; I feel so close to you. A couple of times he gets excited and tenses up but doesn’t climax. I ask what he wants to do so he will have an orgasm.

  “I’m quite satisfied with these delicious feelings. In fact, being deep inside you and being so intimate almost works against going for an orgasm.”

  “But surely climaxing would be fabulous.” How could this be enough?

  “I’m often close, but it’s not frustrating. It feels great. This must be a little bit like Tantric sex.”

  Andrew is fine with not climaxing. I want him to, but he demurs. I’ve learned to respect how far he wants to go in each love-making session.

  He withdraws and I slip off the condom. I lube him up with one hand, and lube myself with my other hand. It’s time for some ambidextrous fun. I give him a hand job with my left hand while I touch myself with my right. As I get more excited, I can feel him getting excited.

  He slowly, randomly flicks my nipples in an insanely electrifying way. My jagged breath tells us that I’m close. His fingers on my nipples edge me to that primal unleashing. Don’t stop; don’t ever stop touching my nipples! We kiss, and with his nipple flicks, our kiss, the rhythm on my clit, feeling his penis growing harder again—it all builds to a whopping climax.

  I recognize the peak arriving and open my eyes. He’s been waiting to look into my eyes, with affection and interest. He likes to see in my eyes how the pleasure overtakes me. It’s a stretch for me to watch him watch me be overtaken. His eyes flicker with recognition of the pleasure that is reflected deep in my eyes. His eyes smile an invitation to climax. My eyes narrow as I try to hold his gaze while the explosive bliss overtakes me. I love showing you my climax! I grab his finger and slide it back into my vagina so he can feel me jump inside. He enjoys my bucking spasms.

  Andrew says, “Welcome home.” He offers that eager smile again, greeting me on the other side of my orgasm. He treats it as a gift he cherishes. “I love to witness this. I like the wildness of it.”

  We hold each other for a long time, naked on the bed whose sheets and blankets spill onto the floor. He calls our time in bed a sanctuary. I bury my face in the soft hair on his chest. I could lie here for hours. We often do. We visit and watch the pale light of a northern winter day grow to dusk.

  I climb on top of him once again. I pin his arms with my legs, sit on his ribs, holding my torso low and close so he can’t topple me—it’s wrestling time. He seems surprised every time I do this, even though I give him the same sly look when I straddle his arms. I grew up with brothers; I know what I’m doing.

  “Hmmm, nice view,” he says as he lifts his head briefly to nuzzle my breast. Then, in grunting slow motion—with me pressing back on him—he pushes me off and onto my side. “You’re strong,” he gasps between breaths. We pant and laugh our way through a ridiculous yet competitive battle. I’m five foot nine to his six feet, so I can hold my own—for a while. And thankfully my hip doesn’t hurt today—I feel carefree as I wrestle and giggle with him. I try to keep myself low on my stomach, so he can’t turn me onto my back . . . until he does. Then, with the inescapable push of his hand on my shoulder toward the bed, he pins me and it’s over. I’m zero for umpteen million.

  We get up with racing hearts to fix “brunch” at 4:30 PM, winding down our time together. After we eat, Andrew gives me a brief kiss at the door and leaves. I feel all melty toward him, drunk on the bonding chemicals of lovemaking. But tomorrow I will continue on my path to meet my mate. Maybe I will email that intriguing man from the dating website, the one I noticed earlier this m
orning as I drank my morning tea.

  MR. SMITH, MS. JONES WILL SEE YOU NOW

  D.L. King

  “Marge, I’m going to be staying in the city tonight. I’ve got a meeting with an out-of-town client and it’s gonna go late. . . . No, honey, don’t worry about me. Dinner? I’ve made reservations at Antonelli’s. . . . Yes, that’s right. You just enjoy your evening alone; I’m sure it’ll be a welcome break from farting and football. . . . Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the solitude anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow evening and we’ll have the whole weekend to lounge around together. Maybe go see a movie. I love you too, sweetheart.”

  I closed the cell and my eyes were drawn surreptitiously to the receptionist. She stared at me and smiled. Actually, it wasn’t so much a smile as a smirk. The intercom on her desk beeped, and she picked up the handset.

  “Yes?” She paused, listening to someone on the other end, and looked at me again. She continued to smirk as she ran a hand over her breast and gave it a squeeze, ending in a nipple tweak. She laughed. “All right,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  “Mr.,” she paused, “Smith?” There was an underlying hint of honeyed contempt. “Ms. Jones will see you now.” She licked her upper lip and searched for smudges on her clawlike, neon purple nails. Never looking up again, she said, “I believe you know the way.” She pushed a button on her desk and the door lock buzzed.

  I walked through the door and heard it close behind me. It felt like going through an air lock—almost like being weightless, crossing that barrier. There was no sound in the hallway at all. I was scared the first time I came here, having no idea what to expect. Now, I can feel the tension drain away with each step. I’d like to come here every week, but I make sure I get here at least once a month. I need it now, to stay sane.

  There are four doors on each side of this hallway, and every time I come, I wonder what’s behind them. I don’t suppose it matters, because my door is at the end. There won’t be any other doors for me, unless she says so.

  I can’t believe it took me fifty-five years. What a fucking waste. Well, I suppose it wasn’t really fifty-five years. After all, I couldn’t have discovered sexual satisfaction at the age of one or ten, but wouldn’t it have been nice to find this before I became a paunchy, balding, out-of-shape man of fifty-five.

  She’ll get me into shape again. She’s probably the only person who could.

  At the door, I knock twice and wait for admittance.

  Once inside, I close the door behind me and turn towards Ms. Jones. She says, “You’ll find your things over there,” and points a beautifully manicured finger at the floor in the corner of the room. “I’m very busy today and really should be doing other things, so don’t waste my time.”

  I catch a glimpse of her before sinking to my hands and knees. It will be a good night. She’s wearing her tight, black rubber corset: the one that comes up to just below her breasts. I want to run my hands down her sides to feel her delicate frame encased in that shiny, black covering. I spend a lot of time imagining what it would feel like, as I’m never allowed that particular sensation.

  Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head. Her hands and arms are bare right now. They show off the deep red of her short nails. She wears black stockings, held up by garters attached to her corset, and her black calfskin boots, perhaps my favorites. They don’t have spike heels to torment me, but the leather’s so soft, and they transmit the heat of her skin so readily to my hands and lips. They’re completely flat, with smooth, unmarked leather soles, really more like slippers. They encase her legs and rise just past her knees. Sometimes, she lets me stroke her legs through the boots, when I worship her.

  Did I see her dark-haired pussy peeking out from under the corset? I can’t be sure. She doesn’t allow me the luxury of lingering eyes. I take all this in immediately, before casting my eyes down. I keep them on the floor until she tells me otherwise.

  In that split second, my cock has detected all it needs. It’s painfully pressed against my zipper, with only a thin layer of silk between. It’s not like I can get this hard in a split second; I’m not saying that. No, the blood starts flowing as soon as I hear the door buzzer: a true Pavlovian response. By the time I get to the inner sanctum and see her, it’s all over. Nothing gets me hard like Ms. Jones. It’s like I’m seventeen again, but with the control of age and experience.

  I was always drawn to the strict teachers in school or the nurses and hygienists who had a cold, no-nonsense air about them, but I never realized why. My wife, Margie, is the sweetest, most loving and gentle woman I’ve ever known. She worships me and does everything she can to make my life easier.

  I had a talk with her about that once, about my need to be dominated, and she understood. She even tried accommodating me. But she couldn’t do it. It made her laugh, and she found it too embarrassing. It just isn’t in her. Even if she could pull it off, it would be total make-believe and I’d know it. Make-believe doesn’t cut it. I need the real thing.

  I crawl to the corner and quickly begin removing my clothes.

  “What’s that?” she says, when I get my pants off. She walks over to me, carrying a thin bamboo cane in her hand. She runs it up and down the underside of my cock. “Some boys are simply incorrigible, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” She makes me feel like a boy. I think she must be my age, but she seems so much more mature, more in control. She’s not like one of those young girls who seem to be playing at being dominant; I can never think of them as having true power. Ms. Jones is regal, and her power radiates from every pore.

  “Hurry up with those clothes and get ready. I haven’t got all night.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Quickly, I remove the rest of my clothes and put on the locking, heavy leather ankle and wrist cuffs she’s provided. They feel so right against my skin. Is it hot in here? I’m naked; you’d think I’d be cold, but I notice a light sheen of perspiration has begun to form under my arms and on my upper lip. My balls stretch out and hang slightly lower.

  My wife, my little Margie, did this for me. That’s how much she loves me. She was the one who found Ms. Jones and made an appointment. It was my fifty-fifth birthday present. Can you believe it? And she didn’t tell me what the appointment was for; she just told me I had an appointment with a Ms. Jones, at this address after work, as my birthday present. Someone should have taken pictures of my reaction—birthday cake, $29.95; appointment with a dominatrix, priceless!

  “All right, stand up.”

  Ms. Jones uses her cane under my cock to help me up. Once I’m standing, she gives my rear end a quick, playful swat with it. I feel the burn as the line forms.

  “It’s time for your collar. If there are no objections . . .”

  “No, Ma’am.” Why, on earth, would I have any objections? But she always asks me. I feel it go round my neck, and her cool fingers fasten the buckle and click the padlock closed in back. I sense the first drop of precome drip from the end of my cock as she takes a dog leash from a hook at her waist and attaches it to a ring on the front of the collar. She drops it, and it bounces off my chest and hangs loose, down past my cock. The metal chain links are cold.

  “Sit on your stool and put your kneepads on. I won’t have you complaining halfway through the session that your arthritis is killing you.” She turns and walks away.

  She’s left a pair of heavy leather kneepads for me. The insides are soft thick foam, which conforms to my knees. Without these, I’d never be able to hold up.

  I always feel invincible in here with Ms. Jones, but there are some things about age that are completely unforgiving.

  When I got home that first night, I thanked Margie profusely, and we made love with more passion than we’d been able to summon in years. I never mention it, but I know Margie knows I still come here. I think she’s glad, but she doesn’t talk about it, so neither do I.

  “If you’re quite through, come over here.�
��

  I quickly drop to my hands and knees and crawl across the room to Ms. Jones’s chair. The leash trails between my legs as I crawl. When I reach her, she uses it to pull me into a sitting position.

  “What do you think you’re looking at?”

  I lower my eyes. She’s in a high wooden chair, on a dais. Staring straight ahead, I see I was right; she isn’t wearing any panties. I am given a lovely view of her pussy, spread slightly open. Thick, curly black hair frames the almost purple interior. Her clit is prominently displayed at the top of her slit. Does she like me, or is it the thought of the games she will play that arouses her?

  “I know how much you like that view. You’ll get a better one later,” she says as a petite, leather-clad foot fills my vision.

  She presses the sole of her boot to my lips, and I kiss it, reverently.

  “Lick it. Lick it completely clean, and don’t forget the heel.”

  As I bathe it with my tongue, she pulls the leash to her, keeping my face held tightly against her foot. Once she’s satisfied, she tells me to stop, and she rubs the damp leather over my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth and chin. She loosens her hold on the leash and pushes against my face with her boot as she rises, pushing me down to the floor.

  “On your back,” she says. Her voice has a musical, commanding tone I can’t get enough of. It really doesn’t matter what she says to me; it’s that sound—it always sends shivers down my spine, directly to my balls.

  When I’m lying on my back, she rubs the foot I’ve cleaned against my nipples, making them hard. She slides her foot lower and presses against my stomach.

  “Are you working out, like I told you? This is not transforming quickly enough. I can see that I’ll have to look over your diet again and modify it even more. I’ll not have you dying of a heart attack because you have no control over your lifestyle!” She prods my flab. “Do you want to make that charming wife of yours a widow? All this has to go—or you will.”