Ageless Erotica Read online

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Jones. I’ll do better.”

  “Who told you to talk? Did I ask you a question?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “That’s right,” she says, giving my gut one last toe prod. She slides her foot lower and tweaks my cock with the toe. She moves her foot between my legs and prods my balls, then brings it up to mash my erection against my groin.

  I must have moaned, because she stops and says, “What’s that, boy?” I don’t say anything, and she goes back to grinding my genitals. “Good boy,” she says, and I melt.

  Eventually, she forces her foot between my legs and slightly under my bottom. She pulls me to a sitting position with the leash, and I find myself sitting on her foot. It is small enough to almost completely fit inside my ass crack. The soft leather feels amazing, and I rock from side to side on it, forcing it further up my crack.

  “Stop that.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Wiggling like that is lewd. I won’t stand for that type of behavior. Stand up. Bend over and put your hands on the seat of my chair.”

  Placing my hands on the chair, I notice she’s taken the cover off the seat, exposing the opening. Anticipation of what’s to come makes my cock jump just as I feel the cane stroke. I get five hard ones, but I can barely focus on the pain for thoughts of her perfect pussy over my face.

  She pulls the leash, breaking me out of my thoughts, and traces the marks on my ass with her finger. “Very nice.” She worries one particular welt with a fingernail. “Put your head in the headrest.”

  Down on the floor, I place my head in a sling, directly under the opening in the seat of her chair, and put my arms down by my sides. I feel her clip my wrists to eyebolts on the legs of the chair and then wrap the leash around both my cock and balls. She brings it up between my balls, separating them and then wraps it around the whole package once more, pulling it tight.

  “Put those feet flat on the floor.”

  I bend my knees and do as I’m told. She spreads my legs apart.

  “I want these legs spread as far as possible. What are you waiting for?”

  I spread my feet until my hamstrings ache and she fastens my ankle cuffs to other eyebolts, keeping my legs in position. She sits down, confining my vision to only a few square inches of pussy. I breathe her musk in deeply through my nose.

  “Now that’s a nice view,” she says.

  You ain’t kiddin’, I think.

  “And good access, too.”

  The cane slides between my ass cheeks and soon I feel the tip resting on my asshole. Right—her view, her access. For a minute I thought . . . but no, of course not.

  “I better not see those knees begin to close. What are you waiting for? Lick!”

  I wallow in the taste and scent of her. I really had very little experience providing good cunnilingus before Ms. Jones taught me how to perform it properly. It takes a while, but it’s worth the extra effort. I tongue, suck, and lick for a good twenty minutes or more. It takes a while for the first orgasm, but the second follows fairly quickly.

  It took exercise and practice, to be able to continue for this length of time. There were some sessions spent entirely on oral exercises and cunnilingus, but it was worth it. Margie has definitely benefited from all the hard work.

  Ms. Jones smacks me between the legs with her cane. She gets the underside of my ass and my inner thighs. I know this is just a warm-up for things to come, and my imagination runs wild. There are so many things she could do—has done—with me. Her knowledge supersedes my ability to even imagine. I should probably be punished for these kinds of thoughts. An endless stream of precome dribbles from my cock. It’ll be a long night—although, certainly, not long enough.

  A slightly different version of “Mr. Smith, Ms. Jones Will See You Now” appeared under the pseudonym Malcolm Harris in Pleasure Bound: True Bondage Stories, edited by Alison Tyler.

  JAGUAR DREAMS

  Evvy Lynn

  I lie on my belly in the warm jungle grass. I hear his rumbling growl, almost a purr, and then I feel his weight on my back, so heavy, so soft, his paws kneading my shoulders, the tips of his claws pricking my skin.

  His fur changes to skin and the claws transform into fingers, strong and gentle at once as they caress my shoulders. His hands move down my sides, then he turns me onto my back. He presses his mouth against mine, probes with his tongue, and an electric thrill runs straight through my body. I feel his hot breath on my face as he enters me, his penis burning with a fire that fills my entire body, and I come, again and again until I can no longer breathe. When my spasms have subsided to tingling, he holds me tightly, then enters me again. My body cries out for him, welcomes him, thrills to the spasms of the whole-body orgasm, deep, unending, as if I have become one with my vagina.

  I wake, gasping, trembling. Never before have I had such a dream, so erotic, so real. I keep my eyes shut tight and try to memorize every detail. First, the jaguar. King of the jungle. Lithe, sleek, and smooth, powerful muscles bunching beneath his soft, spotted fur. Then . . . who? In the dream I was unable to see his face.

  I don’t remember anything earlier in the dream. Nothing before lying in the grass, waiting for . . . something. Feeling a thrill of fear as the great cat pads close to me, feeling the fear turn to desire.

  My entire pubic area is still faintly pulsing as I rise and take my morning shower. I half expect to smell the big cat’s musky scent on my body, to see scratch marks on my shoulders, but my skin is as it was when I went to bed, unmarked except by time.

  It has been a long time since I had sex. But even in the days when I had my choice of men, never was lovemaking so intense, so deeply satisfying. Never in the past did I have multiple orgasms, each one stronger than the last.

  As I dress and prepare to go to work, I continue to think about the dream. What could have brought it on? I haven’t recently read or thought about jaguars, though I have, I admit, thought a lot about sex. About lying with a man, feeling his warm body against mine, feeling his hardness inside me.

  When Rob and I split up after twenty years of so-so marriage, I reveled in my freedom, in the excitement of dating different men, sleeping with whomever I wanted when I wanted. But then I turned fifty and became invisible. All at once, men didn’t see me anymore. I once asked my brother why men aren’t interested in women their own age. He just stared at me, then laughed. “Well, why do you think, Janice?” he said. “Young women are prettier.”

  Of course. How obvious. I was “pretty” once—meaning young—with a good figure, smooth pale skin, and long blond hair. Men turned to stare at me on the street. Now, though my figure is still good—I take care of myself—nobody can see past the lines on my face and streaks of gray in my hair.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Janice, I tell myself. You have a good job, a nice house, plenty of friends.

  I head through the lobby for my office at Vista View Retirement Center, past the circle of women sitting on the Santa Fe–patterned sofas in the lobby. I know all of them by name. Some, like Mrs. Anton, with her frizzy gray hair and thick black eyeliner, are always grouchy, scowling at everyone they see. She must have had a bitter life, I think. But a few others always seem happy. Tiny Mrs. Miller always smiles over her knitting, although she’s crippled by arthritis and has no family. Is this an accident of temperament? I wonder. Which will I be in twenty-five years?

  In my office off the activities room, I try to concentrate on work, planning the next week’s events, but the jaguar comes to my mind. His image and the way I felt with him inside me. I glance up at the shelves across from my desk, cluttered with mementos from residents over the years. My heart thuds as I spot a small figurine among the ceramic kittens, personalized coffee mugs, and snow globes. I had forgotten, but now I rise and gaze closely at it: a small, smooth jaguar carved from shiny, caramel-colored stone. The details are sketchy, but I can see its hard, bunched muscles and the fierce look on its face.

  I reme
mber now the jaguar was a gift from Ms. Lemmly, long since passed on. She had obtained it in the Yucatán on one of her many trips there. She was always one of my favorites—active, cheerful, unafraid to travel alone into her mid-eighties—when she suddenly died of a heart attack. Shortly before her death, she had presented the figurine to me. “This is for you, dear Janice,” she said. “It is my favorite remembrance of my travels, and I know you are the right person to give it to.”

  Touched, I thanked her and accepted it, then set it on the shelf among the many other gifts and forgot about it. As I look down at it now, it almost seems to glow. I reach out, pick it up, finger it, feel it grow warm from my body heat, and then nearly drop it as a surge of sexual desire suddenly runs down my arm and through my body.

  This is ridiculous! I tell myself. I drop the figurine into my purse, then return to my computer and the morning’s mail.

  “It may have been a dream, but it was the best sex I ever had in my life,” I half-jokingly tell my friend Emily that afternoon over lunch.

  Emily looks up from beneath her shiny black bangs. She toys with her mesclun salad for a moment. “You need to meet someone,” she decides. “I’m going to a singles thing for over-fifties Friday night. Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

  Fun? I think. Fun? Like Internet dating, speed dating, social dance mixers? Like root canal surgery? But against my own good judgment, I agree to go.

  That night, lying in bed, I am too tense to sleep. I get up, reach into my purse, and pull out the jaguar figurine. I stroke it with my fingertips. So smooth, almost like skin. As it did when I picked it up earlier, it grows warm, warm as flesh. It seems to vibrate in my hand. I press it against the space between my breasts, then gently move it over my breasts and around my aureoles. I feel my nipples grow hard. I rub my fingers over each nipple, then move the figurine slowly down my chest, my belly, to my pubic mound. I press it there a moment, remembering the jaguar from last night, and I suddenly begin to come, nearly as intensely as I had the night before in the dream. If only I could have that dream again, I think, gasping. If I could count on it, say once a week, I wouldn’t need a man at all.

  The next day I head for the library on my lunch hour. My hand trembles as I pull out a thick volume. Jaguar the title says. On the cover there he is, staring at me with his yellow-brown eyes. A jaguar, I read, can be up to six feet long and weigh up to three hundred pounds. I flip through the pages, admiring the handsome, densely muscled cats. I turn to a section labeled “The Jaguar in Myth and Legend,” and my breath catches at a drawing of an Indian man standing behind a jaguar. Like the cat, he is muscular but lithe, his skin the reddish brown of the cat’s spots. I can’t tell his age—he could be in his teens or his sixties—and his dark eyes seem to be looking directly at me. Again I feel that stirring in my groin, so similar to the way I felt when I was fourteen and first began to awaken sexually.

  The book tells me that the jaguar first appeared in Olmec legends as a were-jaguar, a cat who became a man by night. According to Mayan mythology, a jaguar symbolized the right of kings, the underworld, rain and lightning, and the god of the night.

  God of the night. Oh yes.

  Friday evening I come home from work early. I shower, set my hair, take extra care with my face. Firming cream, eyeliner, but not too much. Too much makeup is aging. I put on the green silk dress with a plunging neckline that I’ve never had the nerve to wear before, along with my black bangle earrings. Not bad, I think. Sexy. Maybe I will meet someone tonight.

  The party is in the back room of a big Chinese restaurant downtown. As Emily and I enter, I become aware of eyes checking us out. The men’s eyes linger on Emily. They slide right past me. Already, I know coming here is a mistake, but I pay my ten dollars, receive a drink ticket, and follow Emily to the area where men and women stand and talk against a suffocating backdrop of red-flocked wallpaper.

  I feel dizzy, ready to bolt. Emily takes my hand and pulls me to a small knot of people standing by a potted palm.

  “Hi,” she says to a silver-haired, handsome man about my age. “Hi,” he says, looking her up and down appreciatively. “I’m Brad.”

  “I’m Emily. And this is my friend, Janice.”

  Brad doesn’t even turn his eyes to me. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  “I’ll catch you later,” I say. I make my way to the patio outside, past the small knots of men and women talking. Not one of the men looks at me.

  I stand on the patio breathing deeply as the sun drops toward the pink stucco wall behind the restaurant. Atop a light pole, a mockingbird runs through his repertoire. I think again of all the old women I see in the retirement community. I wonder about the serene, contented-looking ones like Mrs. Miller, or Ms. Lemmly, when she was with us.

  What do they have to be happy about? Ms. Lemmly never even married, and Mrs. Miller has been alone for many years. Their kids? Their grandkids? Most of the women I know are disappointed in their children and never see their grandchildren.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  I turn. Standing behind me is a man who looks to be in his late sixties. He’s not bad looking: tall, with thinning blond hair like Leslie Howard in Gone With the Wind. He smiles, revealing very large teeth. “You looked lonely out here,” he says.

  “Not lonely,” I reply. “I was just thinking.”

  “So was I,” he says. “I was thinking that you’re a very attractive lady. My name’s Ray.”

  “Hi, Ray. I’m Janice.” I offer him my hand. He shakes it moistly. He looks twenty years older than me. To him, I’m a young chick.

  “So, Janice, what do you do?” he asks.

  “I’m the recreation director in a retirement community,” I say.

  “Sounds interesting,” he says. “I was in one of those nursing homes once.”

  “It’s not a nursing home. It’s—”

  He interrupts, still smiling. “I had to go there after my first bypass. They told me I couldn’t care for myself alone. The nurses were nice enough, but I couldn’t stand all the old sick people.” Without stopping, he begins to tell me about his second bypass operation. “My cholesterol count’s much better now,” he goes on. “And the doctor tells me I have the triglycerides of a man in his forties.”

  This is far worse than not dating. This is far worse than not having a man. I tune out, watch the sunset, try to think about anything but Ray and his bypasses.

  “So what about you? What health problems do you have?”

  I want to laugh. I want to run screaming from the patio and demand that Emily take me home. But instead, I politely excuse myself and go back inside to refill my ginger ale. I sit on a cracked red Naugahyde bench and watch couples dance. Not once in the next fifty minutes does a man approach me. I no longer care.

  It’s over, I think. It’s really over.

  As soon as I have that thought, I feel a sudden and familiar tickling at my groin. Stop it, I tell my body. No more.

  By the time Emily drops me off, I am exhausted. I remove my makeup and get ready for bed. I look at the jaguar figurine on my nightstand. Then I shut my eyes.

  I am lying on the jungle floor. I hear the heavy padding of feet approaching me. I look up to see the jaguar standing above me. As I watch, he transforms into the man from the picture in the book. His dark, handsome eyes fix on me, and his words form in my mind. You are ready for me now, he says.

  “Ready?”

  I am the God of the Night, he goes on. I appear to all women when it is time. Some women do not want me. They do not remember the dream.

  I nod, beginning to understand.

  I am a jealous god, he continues. His rich baritone vibrates throughout my body. I do not appear to younger women. They are not ready for my gifts.

  I don’t answer. I don’t need to ask what his gifts are.

  As if he has read my mind, he goes on. You know what I can offer, he says. But in return you must promise me your devotion. Your exclusive love.

  �
��If I promise—” I breathe.

  Then I will come to you each night. I will fill you with myself. We will be one. But only as long as you are mine alone. One slip, one promise given to another man, and I will be gone forever.

  It’s a no-brainer. I promise. And he immediately begins to keep his end of the bargain. He pulls me close, nuzzles my neck, then gently pinches my nipples. I arch my back in response, and he kisses me deeply. Then he slides his hands down my body, caressing my skin with his own, rubbing his strong, smooth body against mine. As I groan with desire, he gently opens my legs and presses into me until I cry out in ecstasy.

  When I walk past the women in the lobby the next day, the regulars are all there, staring or chatting or hunched over needlework. I notice them in a way I never have before. Mrs. Miller glances up from her knitting. I no longer wonder why she’s smiling.

  TOAST FOR BREAKFAST

  Cheyenne Blue

  “Do you ever get lonely, Mum?”

  I feel Livvy’s eyes boring into my back as I stand at the sink washing the spinach I’ve just picked from the garden. I don’t need to see her to know how she looks at this moment: tall and slender, leaning against the bench, picking at the bowl of raspberries.

  I take my time in answering her, dignifying her question with a measured response. Swish, swish goes the spinach in the sink as I shake the dirt loose.

  “Sometimes,” I say. “Do I seem particularly sad to you?”

  “Not really,” she says. “You’re very content with your own company. But sometimes you look sad, as if you’ve left the planet for a minute. Your hands stop what they’re doing and you stare off into space.”

  I’d stopped swishing the spinach as I listened to her words. The silence is noticeable. Self-consciously, I resume the movement. Swish, swish.