Ageless Erotica Read online

  Jimmy draws an audible breath and reaches over to squeeze my hand. I look at him and see him mouth, “I want that,” as the boy reaches us.

  I don’t respond to Jimmy. I look at the boy, who glances my way and offers a sneer I know all too well, a mix of “here I am,” and “don’t you wish,” but I don’t care because my dick is filling. When the boy is in front of us, he steps on something and raises a foot to brush it off. Once righted, he adjusts his package while facing us, then saunters on.

  “I may cream,” Jimmy says, leaning against me.

  “You wish,” I snap because my dick is awake. The kid wouldn’t be able to walk when I was finished.

  “Well, he certainly gets the prize,” Jimmy says when the boy is gone.

  “And what prize is that?” I ask, holding back a sarcastic, You?

  As if he can hear the unspoken mock, Jimmy says, “A man can dream.”

  And there we are again, two old men on a bench. The sun is high now, rare for a San Francisco summer. I am too warm, but unlike most men my age, I will not throw off the shirt covering a less than perfect body. Sweat trickles down my back and into my crack. I shift on the bench, think on going home, but don’t move.

  “Don was forty-five,” I hear myself say. “He left me six months ago.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Eight years and four months. Pure bliss. I mean, I was old when we met which made it worse, you know. It’s not like my aging could have surprised him.”

  “Was it for someone else?” Jimmy asks.

  “Of course. A forty-something pastry chef. They have a place over on Eighteenth. I see them around sometimes.”

  Just then a young man, maybe thirty, runs up, and in pursuit runs a similar one. “Ethan,” he calls, but the first one doesn’t stop. “Ethan, please,” he begs as they rush on.

  “What do they know?” Jimmy asks when their chase has gone. “Babies.”

  “Some slight,” I offer. “Looked at someone wrong or forgot to call.”

  “How simple it was.”

  “Was it?” I ask, then quickly add, “No, never mind. I do not want to go there. Life is the here and now.” I stand. “I am going down to Twin Peaks for a drink. Care to join me?”

  “I have a better idea,” Jimmy says.

  I wait. He smiles.

  “Okay,” he continues. “Let me make you lunch at my place. It’s two blocks over.”

  As we walk there, I tell myself it’s the heat that’s undone me. Jimmy tells me as we go along that the flat is small so he sold most of his furniture. “Kept the best pieces,” he says. He rambles a bit, and I wonder if it’s nervousness because I too feel a growing apprehension. I mean, I don’t do this. Not men my age. Never my age. It’s the heat and this damnable sweat, like my body started without me.

  He has the ground floor of a Victorian, somewhat dowdy inside, little updating, but there’s a deck off the back and a lush garden. “This is why I took it,” Jimmy says, offering wine as I stand on the deck in the shade from an old oak tree.

  “Gorgeous,” I tell him, happily distracted.

  “Now, Karl, are you hungry?” Jimmy asks.

  “Actually no. I’m hot from too much sun and I’m all sweaty.”

  “How about a shower?”

  I turn to face him. He wears a loose, short-sleeved blue shirt, which means the body underneath is neither thin nor firm. Like my own. “Sure,” I say.

  The bathroom looks to have been updated in the fifties, a tub-shower combo done up in aqua tile. “I know,” Jimmy says before I can comment, “but the water pressure is good.” He sets out a towel. “Enjoy,” he adds, and he departs but leaves the door open. I am both relieved and offended. Is he put off by thoughts of us?

  I strip and get under a wonderful spray, forgetting all as I wash away the sweat.

  “Karl?” I hear in a singsong.

  “Yes?” I sing back.

  “Would you like company, or are you otherwise engaged?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. I pull aside the shower curtain to see him standing naked, working a fine cock. His body is no surprise, thick but not fat, gray hair across his chest, formidable thighs. All okay, I think. I am sixty-seven, and Jimmy has to be around that. We are excused our flab. I motion for him to join me.

  We are surprisingly awkward until Jimmy says, “There’s a young man inside us both,” as he reaches down to tug my cock. As I bask in his touch, I put my mouth to his and find his lips soft and welcoming, tongue eager. This awakens me as much as the pull below. I reach around and get my hands onto his butt, begin to squeeze, at which he moans. He is soft and too fleshy, but there are no bad butts. Soon I have a finger in his crack and he is spreading for me. When I get into his pucker, he says, “Bed would be better.”

  “Good idea.”

  We release one another, hop out of the shower and towel dry, then hurry to his room where a walnut sleigh bed awaits. Jimmy throws back the covers, falls onto his back, and opens his arms. I hesitate because this is new, and I want to tell him, but it reeks of insult so I simply crawl onto him. Our dicks stiffen between us, and I thrill to the encounter. Time and numbers are erased with the feel of a cock against mine. I begin to ride Jimmy and choke back a cry as it’s the first contact since Don, and I am grateful. I kiss Jimmy, who runs his hands over my back, kneading until I finally rasp, “Condom.”

  He retrieves necessities from the nightstand. While I suit up, he lies back and raises his legs. I glance at a quivering pucker.

  Once sheathed and greased, I climb into position, look down at his thick gray patch and the hard cock sprouted from its midst. Then further, to my own poised for entry. I guide myself in to the root, which Jimmy takes hold of. “Fuck me,” he says.

  Though I’ve done nothing since Don left, there is no urgency, and maybe there is some good that comes with age. Absent the rush of youth, I am free to enjoy Jimmy. I set to thrusting easily at first, leg and butt muscles awakening to complain about new activity. Jimmy swoons as I do him. He is most animated in a quiet sort of way, arms waving, hands fluttering, head lolling on the pillow, all of it in a fluid motion. “Heavenly,” he says after a while. “I am transported.”

  He works his dick intermittently, and I enjoy the show, especially as he issues drops of precome and smears them down his shaft. I keep a steady thrust, not quite driven as yet. I take note of this because before, with Don, with others, the drive was all. Now I seem to have shifted to a lower gear, but it doesn’t matter because I know it will be there when I am ready, and I am not yet ready. I want to be inside Jimmy for a good while. I want a good, long fuck, one that is more than just getting off. I want to know this man in the best way and later on, the worst.

  After a good while, Jimmy’s swoon begins to turn. His jaw stiffens, his breathing picks up, and he works himself in earnest. This rouses me from my indulgence, balls swelling with the stir.

  “Make me come,” Jimmy says.

  “With pleasure.”

  I ease his legs up onto my shoulders and pick up the pace, ramming now, which gets a series of yeses out of him. And as I begin to feel my own rise, I see Jimmy start to come, his juice spurting up onto his stomach. The sight drives me over. I manage a “now me” before it hits, and I grimace and pound and push as I unload. Sweat flies as every muscle in my body seizes with the effort but mercifully spares me any crimps or cramps. I hear grunts and groans throughout, mine I suppose, but really I do not know. I’m that far gone.

  Soon as I’m done, I pull out and collapse beside Jimmy. Heavy breathing is not adequate to describe the aftermath.

  “Geezer ward,” Jimmy says when he can speak.

  “Beats the morgue,” I manage.

  We are quiet as we settle, and in this blissful period, I consider that I have now fucked an old man. I look at Jimmy, who raises his eyebrows and grins. He knows what I’m thinking, probably because he’s thinking it, too. I roll onto my side to face him, and he does the same. We simply l
ook for a while. Then I slide a hand onto his bottom.

  “Nice butt,” I say.

  INVITATION TO LUNCH

  Donna George Storey

  WATCHING

  She waits for him in their bed, naked, the blankets pulled up to her chin. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The air rushes through her chest and pools in her belly, feeding the tiny flame between her legs.

  When she inhales again, the air sinks all the way to her pussy, pushing out the lips. On the exhalation, her secret muscles flutter in anticipation. She can never predict exactly what will happen when he comes, but she knows it will be good.

  The creak of his office chair, the steady tap of footsteps in the hall. She feels his presence in the room and opens her eyes. She smiles at the sight of him—fair Celtic features and smooth skin that seems all the more youthful in contrast to his silver hair, which has gotten him offers of senior discounts since his early forties. He smiles back, with that special twinkle he reserves for “lunchtime.”

  She watches as he unbuckles his belt and starts to unbutton his shirt. She’s always liked to watch him undress, as if he’s peeling away the public male self—daunting and untouchable—to reveal the part of him that is vulnerable, desiring, hers.

  She still gets a secret thrill from admiring his big shoulders and arms, his sturdy legs that seem made for a kilt. His waist is a bit wider than it was when they met twenty-seven years ago, not that he ever had the surreal abs of the romance novel model. Which is why she feels a special pride for how well he wears his years.

  He strikes a muscle-man pose to acknowledge her appreciative gaze, then, laughing, dives under the covers with her. His skin is cool, but deliciously soft. He snuggles against her, considerately rubbing his hands against his thighs before he touches her.

  “Ah, you’re so warm,” he says.

  Their limbs weave together in the way they love, his arm across her chest, her leg sandwiched between his. They share news of the morning, exchange a few private jokes. Why not take it slow? Today they have a full hour before they have to return to their computers and conference calls.

  Soon they fall into silence.

  He places his palm on her belly and takes a slow breath, as he always does at the beginning.

  Again she closes her eyes and thinks of the times he held his hand to the hill of her stomach to feel the babies kicking and rolling inside. Then her mind takes a more fanciful turn, as if this capable, tireless hand that pleases her so well has the power to conjure up, layer by layer, all of their past pleasures dormant in her flesh. She remembers her gratitude that first night they were together, when she took the risk of telling him she didn’t come easily during intercourse. He listened thoughtfully and asked her to help him please her. She remembers the months when they spent whole weekends in bed, reluctantly dressing only to refuel at their favorite pancake house, one of the few restaurants in the suburban college town that stayed open after 10:00 pm. As if leafing through a precious antique book, she sees their couplings in exotic hotels in Japan and Vienna and Napa, and best of all in their own bed when the rain beat against the windows and made them hold each other closer. Sometimes the memories are bittersweet—sex after they’d quarreled or when she’d healed enough after childbirth and felt like a virgin all over again.

  Sex with him is truly like fine old wine, each year adding more complexity and mystery.

  She turns to him. Their lips meet, tongues dance. Her mouth floods with the taste of him, male and foreign, yet profoundly familiar. She tries to name the flavors, as you do with wine—dried cherries, leather, Cabernet?—then abandons the effort. The answer is simple: His kiss tastes of sex and sweet history.

  He cups her breast. His fingers tweak the nipple. The sensation surges straight to her pussy. He caresses her with easy skill, as a jazz musician might play a favorite standard, adding in a few flourishes and surprises. Only when she begins to squirm and moan does he roll on top and kiss her again. She loves the weight of him, his sturdy arms embracing her. She opens her legs and rhythmically pushes her mons up into his solid abdomen. When he starts to tongue her nipples, her moans go into overdrive. Still he patiently sucks until she thinks she might lose her mind.

  Finally he rolls off to her right, the “sex side,” and dips his hand between her legs. He knows how to play her there, too, rubbing gently at first in the groove to the right of her clit. Sometimes he’ll spank her, just so, knowing a wave of pleasure will follow the sting. But today, because they have time, he scoots down between her thighs to feast. The blankets fall away, but she is very warm now, and she doesn’t mind him seeing her in broad daylight. Although her strawberry blond hair is no longer her natural color, she is actually trimmer than she was in her thirties, thanks to daily walks and yoga. After years of struggle, she and her body are finally friends.

  She gasps when he tastes her. His tongue is softer than his finger. She relaxes, cruising in the liquid buzz. Now and then, he’ll ask her to come on his face, but it’s not her favorite way. She likes him inside best, old-fashioned as it is.

  As if sensing her unspoken thought, he pulls away, his breath tickling her vulva. “Look at that pretty pink pussy all spread wide,” he murmurs. “They see you all naked and exposed. They’re touching themselves as they watch, because they know how much you like to show off.”

  Her body tenses as if she’s been slapped. Suddenly they are not alone in the room. The bed is surrounded by glittering eyes. An entire hockey team of horny college boys taking a lesson in how to please a woman from the coach’s wife. Decadent oil sheik playboys paying a novice prostitute handsomely for an intimate show. Or her favorite standby, an elite businessman offering the sexual charms of his comely secretary to two entranced, drooling clients.

  Of course he knows all about her fantasies. Now and then he’ll dress up in his gray pin-stripe suit, which he never actually wears to work anymore, so she can clutch at the stiff wool jacket as he makes love to her on the desk, his hard cock protruding from the fly. In the tiny part of her brain that’s still capable of rational thought, she makes a note to ask for the suit the next time they have an evening alone.

  But they don’t really need costumes or salivating strangers. Words are enough. His husky voice compliments her swollen wetness, her diamond-hard clit. He begins to strum her and she arches up, spreading her legs wider still.

  “Please,” she begs. “Fuck me now.”

  “Do you want to be on top so they can see your tits hanging down and your back get all flushed when you come?”

  “Yes, yes, and . . .” The words freeze in her throat, but she forces herself past the embarrassment to speak, “and they can watch your cock going in and out of my hole.”

  “That’s right, they’ll watch my cock pumping in and out of your tight, pink twat.”

  She loves that silky voice, urging her on to greater depravity, ever approving of her “wickedness.”

  He lies back against the pillows. Kneeling, she takes his rigid cock in her fist. She teases the sensitive spot beneath the tip with her tongue, gives the shaft wet-lipped kisses. His breath comes faster. She takes him in her mouth slowly and begins to “milk” him as she does with her pussy, gentle contractions and releases with the soft walls of her cheeks. He makes a musical sound in his throat. His cock swells between her lips, satin wrapped around steel.

  He touches her shoulder, his sign he is ready. He likes to be inside her, too. She sits up, straddles him, slides down onto his slick cock. Yes, the strangers are still watching. In this position her ass cheeks are obscenely spread for everyone to see her most private secrets. A few of the watching men take their cell phones out to film the lewd scene.

  A simple touch will drive her over the edge. Will he make her beg for it this time?

  While he flicks her nipple with one hand, the other trails down her back.

  So, he won’t make her beg, but he may extract another price.

  His fingers reach her buttocks, draw
leisurely circles on the globes, creep slowly toward the tender valley. She yelps when he touches her there. Unfazed, he tickles the ring of muscle. She lets out a low wail of pleasure.

  “You like this, don’t you?” As if he doesn’t know the answer, gleaned from reading her erotic stories with a careful eye as to how to translate them into bedroom games.

  “No,” she chokes out. “It’s dirty and bad.”

  “You do like it,” he insists, “tell them you like it or I’ll stop.”

  How could she ever admit such a thing to these faceless voyeurs? Yet she’s so aroused now, if he stops, she’ll surely expire from frustration. She has no choice but to stammer out the truth. “I . . . I like it. Oh, god. I like it when you play with me there.”

  “Oh, you are bad. You are such a sinful girl.” His finger begins to strum her anus, like a second clit.

  The word “sinful” makes her pussy clench like a fist. Back-sliding Catholic that she is, she finds sex hotter under the threat of hellfire. He takes her nipple in the furnace of his mouth and begins to tap-tap-tap her devil’s door in earnest.

  She bucks into him desperately. The pulsing ball of fire in her belly throbs and bursts, rolling up her spine, exploding in a groan. Her skull shatters as she somersaults through the starry sky behind her eyelids and plummets back to earth. This was a good one, a great, big, full-body come. As she rides the last wave, he eases up on the stimulation, knowing her breasts and clit are exquisitely sensitive after orgasm.

  Then he begins to move, thrusting his hips up into her, grabbing her ass cheeks hard. Her pussy tingles with each thrust, a sweet echo of pleasure. All of her senses are heightened as she savors the tension in his thighs, the chug of his breath, the quickening rhythm of his hips. She enjoys this almost as much as her own climax.