Ageless Erotica Read online

  Lady Bella reached for Roger’s arm, and he helped her to her feet. She kissed Steven on the forehead. “Take him back to my pavilion. Make sure he has water and something to eat.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Roger put one elbow under each of Steven’s pits and pulled him to his feet. He kept his shoulder under Steven’s arm and helped him walk back toward the Lady’s campsite.

  “You must be good, dude. Never known her to pick a playmate to keep for the weekend on Friday night. She likes to keep her options open.”

  Steven could only grin. He hoped she would keep him for longer than just a weekend, but it was a start.

  HAND JOBS

  Kate Dominic

  I didn’t like winter anymore. The snow still painted brilliant whitecaps on the mountains. The wind blew clear and brisk. A lifetime of hard work let me afford trendy cashmere sweaters. But this only disguised my futile search for warmth. The bottom line was that even in sunny Southern California, winter was cold, and these days, cold on my hands just plain sucked.

  For ten years now, I’d “worked around” the repetitive stress injury that drove me from the mainstream corporate world. Voice-activated software and the freedom of being my own boss let me control the pacing and schedules of the contracts I took on, to the point where my consulting firm had stayed competitive despite what were physically some really crappy days. Tendinitis. Tenosynovitis. Insert every tunnel-passing-through-the-wrist syndrome. Since I was the only one in the day-to-day trenches of my office, who was to know that my fucking hands and arms really didn’t work very well at all anymore?

  I was grouchy today. I’d been grouchy for a very long time. This winter, shortly after my fifty-sixth birthday, arthritis set in to my knuckles. The doctor said this was “to be expected” given my age and injuries. Whatever. It still sucked. The colder the weather, the more I ached. Older homes around here don’t have central heat, and the wall heater in my living room doesn’t throw heat far enough to warm the office. When it’s a balmy 58 degrees outside for the Rose Bowl, that’s also the temperature at my desk.

  Typing with gloves on was my latest trade-off in the battle to maximize my hand use. My husband had gotten me a pair of butter-soft leather fingerless gloves for Christmas. I knew I’d make the deadlines for tomorrow’s end-of-the-month reports with no problem.

  It wasn’t even housework at the end of the day that was irritating me. Twenty paces down the hall from my desk, I had enough ergonomically correct wonder gadgets to cook everything from French toast to gourmet dinners whenever I was in the mood. There were remotes galore. Hell, the appliances were so talented the house almost cleaned itself!

  My problem had to do with bedtime. My husband was a hunk. Gorgeous blue eyes. Shoulders out to here that looked great in a leather jacket and a butt that showed how a man was meant to wear jeans. Jeff was smart and sexy, and he had a great sense of humor. Even though we’d been married since before I was disabled, I had trouble accepting that my trashed paws were no biggie to him. Okay, so I still had a few insecurities about my “hidden” disability.

  The thing was, Jeff loved hand jobs. Fast ones, slow ones, tight or loose. And he loved his hand jobs wet. He was good with our using pretty much anything but hot sauce for lube. I had more kinds of hand lotion than a boutique on the nightstand by our bed. Unfortunately, the bedroom was even farther away from the heater than the office was. So, the 58 degrees on the thermometer outside the window at bedtime meant I was shivering in my sexiest flannel nightgown even with the space heater on.

  Jeff had had that look in his eye all night. He’d been touching and nuzzling me. He was all about mutual satisfaction. He’d plied me with banana cream pie with whipping cream. Subtlety was so not his strong suit! He was wearing a soft new sweatshirt that emphasized his shoulders and the flannel lounge pants I’d gotten him last Valentine’s Day. Several times this evening, I’d caught him unconsciously stroking himself through that warm, soft cotton. And he couldn’t keep his hands off my breasts, something I’d encouraged by not wearing a bra.

  My fingers were itching to touch him. I so wanted to stroke him long enough, and sexily enough, to really get him off. But between the swelling in my knuckles and the bone-deep ache in my wrists, my hands hurt badly. There was no way I was going to be able take my gloves off without being so miserable that Jeff would pick up on it. But, this afternoon, I’d come up with a plan. Despite how nervous I was with the whole idea, I was going to try to start us both on track for a total glove fetish.

  The trick was going to be in the timing. Thanks to the local thrift store, I was now the proud owner of an assortment of gloves. I’d laid out several pairs on the nightstand: an elbow-length pair in navy blue velvet; a retro, lacy white dress-up pair; fur-lined leather driving gloves that had been in the clearance bin because one entire palm was split open; some plain, pink knit ones; and three sizes of non-latex hospital gloves, because I wasn’t sure which ones would fit for what I needed. The LED on the bedroom space heater said the room was now 64 degrees. I was just turning on the flameless candles when Jeff walked through the door.

  “What’s this?” he laughed, eyeing the nightstand and the turned-down bed. His hand drifted to rub his crotch again. His cock was already heavily tenting the front.

  “My hands are cold,” I purred, stroking my icy knuckle lightly down his cheek. His eyes instantly looked concerned.

  “Damn, babe! Your hands are cold!” He tucked them under his arms. “Better?”

  Oh, his smile made me hot and tingly in all the right places!

  “Much,” I smiled, carefully extracting my hands. “But I was thinking the way to keep them warm all night might be to wear gloves to bed.” I looked meaningfully at the nightstand, then reached over and flipped the top off my favorite rose-scented lotion. “If that’s okay with you.”

  I could almost see the wheels turning. He rubbed the front of his pants again. A wet spot appeared, and he swallowed hard.

  “That could be okay.” His voice was suddenly hoarse. He looked from the nightstand to the bed, then back to me. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Lie down on the bed with enough clothes off for me to get to your cock.”

  In a flash, he was buck-naked except for his socks. The covers were at the bottom of the bed, and Jeff was lying in the middle of the sheets with his hands behind his head and his legs spread.

  “Will this do?” he grinned. His cock waved over his belly like a thick burgundy flagpole. His tiny nipples were pebbled in the silvered dark fur of his chest.

  “You’ll freeze!” I laughed.

  “I don’t think so.” His balls were pulled up close, but his voice held enough heat to warm the whole room 10 degrees. “I just need a little bit of friction.” He clenched his groin muscles, making his cock dance. I giggled as a thin web of precum leaked down to his belly.

  “Friction. Hmm.” I brushed the back of my hand over his shaft. He gasped, his balls moving closer as he shivered. I smiled down at him. “Velvet would make nice friction. Keep your hands under your head.”

  His eyes followed my every movement as I slowly pulled the velvet gloves on in a reverse striptease. Inch by inch, I drew the dark blue gloves up to my elbows. Then I carefully worked my fingers all the way down, sliding the fabric carefully until each fingertip hit the base. Several times, Jeff’s arms twitched, like he wanted to reach down to stroke himself. But each time, he caught himself and did nothing but watch.

  I could feel my fingers thawing inside the velvet. In no time at all, the gloves were toasty warm. I reached out with just my index finger and drew the tip slowly up the length of Jeff’s shaft. He gasped and arched his hips.

  “I see you like that.” I stroked in lazy patterns all over his turgid flesh. His shudders told me how much he was enjoying it. But his precum was getting my gloves damp. That wasn’t the texture I wanted him feeling right now. I told him so, so he knew what was coming when I leaned down and delicately swiped my tongue over the head
of his cock.

  He groaned as I licked up the salty stream and blew him dry. Then I took his cock in a loose grip and pumped slowly up and down. I deliberately kept my movements erratic, twisting and turning until he was trembling. Twice more I washed and dried the weeping head. His moans were so intense I swore I felt them all the way to my pussy. I leaned down and gave his cockhead one quick final kiss.

  “You know, love, I think my hands are actually getting a bit hot. I’m going to switch to something cooler.”

  Jeff’s eyes were like magnets as he watched me peel off the velvet gloves. I laid them on the nightstand and drew on the lacy white gloves, once more taking my time working the fingers all the way into place.

  I’d been surprised at how scratchy the lacy gloves were. Not on the inside—that was comfortably neutral. The outside, though, had a roughness that was completely at odds with the delicate feminine look of the lace—much like some of the summer negligees I wore to catch Jeff’s eye, even though we both slept nude when it was hot. He quirked an eyebrow at me. I smiled innocently.

  “You have such beautiful, manly nipples, sweetheart.”

  His indrawn breath told me he knew what was coming. I rubbed his nipples between my fingers, murmuring sweet, soft, very dirty descriptions of what I was going to do to him. Then I leaned over and licked his nipples.

  He stiffened and moaned. I wasn’t sure how much was anticipation and how much sensation, so I took my time getting his nipples nice and wet. Then I took the tips in my lacy fingers, and I rubbed very, very gently.

  “Fuck!” He threw his head back, closing his eyes and panting as his cock jutted up. He was trembling beneath me, but I didn’t stop. Eventually, he relaxed back into the bed, his breath shaky as he looked down at where my fingers were still rubbing his now tender, pink nipples.

  “I’m going to rub your cock, too.”

  He groaned, his gaze glued to my fingers as I slowly trailed one lace-covered hand over his chest and down his belly. My touch was getting rougher. Then the white lace of my glove stroked firmly over the deep red skin of his thoroughly engorged cock.

  “Stop!” Jeff grabbed my wrist, gently but firmly holding me still as he panted like he’d run a marathon. I waited, my hand frozen on his cock while he caught his breath. Finally he let go, dropped his hand, and slid it back under his head.

  “Sorry,” he smiled, though I could see he was anything but. “I was too close.”

  I tapped his cock, trying my best to look stern. “See that it doesn’t happen again. Um, until I make it happen.”

  His cock twitched against me, hard. “Yes, ma’am!”

  I trailed my finger up his shaft, lingering on the head as his precum soaked my lacy fingertip. An unexpected shiver ran through me as his eyes widened. I was really enjoying this! So I started to rub.

  It had been a long time since my hands had done exactly what I wanted. I kept one hand on his nipple and one on his cock. It wasn’t long at all before he was once again on the brink. So, I stopped again. The only problem with all this teasing was that by now, I was so horny I was ready to throw off all my clothes—and the damn gloves—and jump his bones!

  On the other hand, I was having so much fun. Jeff’s eyes were glazed with desire. I took my time with the fur-lined leather glove, turning the torn one mostly inside out so I could use both sensations to soothe the skin I’d sensitized with the lace. But we were both getting too worked up to last much longer. I skipped teasing him with the knitted glove and went straight to the surgical one—in my usual size. My hands were warm enough that I didn’t need to double layer, or maybe I was just too turned on to care.

  I squirted lotion in my palm, the sweet rose scent filling my nostrils as I rubbed my hands together just enough to warm the lube. Then I took Jeff’s cock in a sturdy two-handed grip and pulled slowly up.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” His low growl made my pussy clench. Filthy incoherence is always a positive sign at that point in our lovemaking.

  I varied my grip just enough to keep him from coming until he was writhing on the bed. Then with no warning, I tightened one hand, cupped his balls in the other, and touched him in the ways I knew he loved best. Jeff bucked up, shouting as his cock spurted streams of musky, hot semen all over my hands and his belly and the bed. The first shot was so hard, it landed on his nipple. By then my hands ached, and my wrist felt like someone had shoved a knife into it, but oh! I felt good!

  As soon as he could breathe, Jeff hauled me down beside him, yanked off my nightgown, and used his strong, powerful fingers to make me feel even better. He rubbed my clit and fucked me with his fingers in ways my own couldn’t anymore, and he didn’t stop until I’d had three orgasms and was lying in a boneless puddle in his arms. Then before I could get cold, he hopped out of bed, shut off the space heater, and pulled the covers up over both of us.

  “I love you, babe,” he murmured, turning off the candles and hauling me back into his arms. He stilled, then snuggled closer. “Damn, my nipples are tender!” A moment later, he laughed. “I think I like it!”

  Gloves, I thought. As soon as I’d sent off the next day’s reports, I was going back to the thrift store and buying every damn pair of gloves I could find. I was still smiling as I let myself drift off to sleep.

  SMOOTH AND SLIPPERY

  Doug Harrison

  I’m shaving my torso in the shower. A few nicks, a little blood, but, hey, that comes with the territory. Warm water and aftercare with isopropyl pads and dabs of Neosporin mend all. The stubborn safety razor jams, grasping strands of my masculinity, but I persist. My boyfriend and neighbor, Jim, slated to arrive early afternoon after walking his yappy dog, likes me smooth. Says I look sexy. But I refuse to shave my legs. Looks goofy, like I’m a drag queen or am impersonating a much younger, proficient triathlete.

  It’s a very close shave. I feel no stubble as I slide my fingers around my firm pecs. And, I must admit, I’m excited by the smooth hardness. All right, I’m caressing myself. So what? I don’t yank on my penis, well, not too much—that’s Jim’s job. He wants me naked when I fling the front door open, but he always arrives a few minutes early, a direct affront to my perennial procrastination and frequent attempts to tease with an outlandishly skimpy outfit.

  No aftershave, no underarm deodorant. I reek of raw manliness, masculinity personified.

  I know I sound a tad bit smart-ass, like a teenage boy, but that side of me emerges despite my technical PhD and career. It’s my boyish charm, so I’m told, that hangs around, unlike my hair.

  I’ve cleaned out—that’s boy talk for douched—so Jim can fuck me silly. And I’ll return the favor. Equal strokes for equal folks.

  But we’re not equal, at least not in age. He’s twenty years younger than my seventy-two. Why do I attract younger men? Do they crave daddy figures? Well, that’s a question for those who slump into therapists’ chairs. I welcome guys of any age who rove my way, which repeatedly leads to satisfactory couplings. Perhaps my gold earring—left side, of course—and my gold nose ring hint that there’s still a spark of life and concomitant joy in me.

  The nose ring is always a conversation opener: “Did that hurt?”

  “No.”

  Raised eyebrows.

  “There’s a sweet spot in there. A good piercer can find it.”

  “Oh.”

  Of course, I’ve always taken care of myself: diet, running, hiking, weight lifting, the works. So, I’m buffed, but now must settle for long walks. A good example of a solid foundation combined with HIV loss of body fat. Shuck my shirt, and folks gasp. Jim is forever complimenting me on my body, almost to the point of embarrassment. But we’re intellectually compatible. At last, someone to share tech talk on this sparsely populated lava rock. Plus, Jim is also HIV positive. We compare our pill regimens like two old ladies evaluating recipes. It’s important if I want to drink his piss. Don’t want discordant medication sloshing around in my stomach. So he waits until after we play to gulp his handf
ul of capsules and tablets.

  Except for Viagra, Levitra, or Cialis—you choose—and we’re hard. A young man’s assistant and an old man’s savior. My natural erections are almost hard enough and persist almost long enough, but insurance leads to assurance. Pop the pill, and I feel a body flush—a legal high. Soon it settles in one place and I’m ready for action. But not today—I have a surprise in mind.

  Yes, my body isn’t what it used to be, but I’m not waiting for mature resignation like the Marschallin in Der Rosenkavalier. My cock doesn’t thwap against my belly when I think about sex, gawk at porn, or ogle sexy men and women. I jerk off once or twice a week, not my youthful two to five times a day. But I still curl, thrust, and parry my tongue like a pro. I open and relax my throat and massage a humongous cock like Jim’s with supple throat muscles. I circular breathe like an operatic diva when necessary.

  A few special toys are arrayed for Jim as an invitation, perhaps a challenge. I’ve included the inevitable butt plug. It’s de rigueur that he shove one up my ass before I fuck him. Feels so good, like I’m being fingered while I plow him. And he’ll bring his own toys. Always wants to surprise me. A cock cage here, nipple clamps there. My nipples have gained in size and sensitivity over the years. Play partners are attracted to them, perhaps because of my six-gauge, one-inch diameter, stainless steel nipple rings, and they all delight in coaxing moans of pleasure with gentle caresses and gasps of pain with pinching and pulling.

  I’m well rested. My age and the HIV meds undermine my once-youthful vigor. I manage about three or four hours of work a day, perhaps push it a bit more with coffee. If it’s hard labor, like yard work, I’m sedentary the next day. A heavy date requires a slow day beforehand and a preparatory nap.

  Not like when I was a youthful stud—work all day, drive an hour or so into the big city for a hot date, get home late, and work like hell at my technical job in Silicon Valley the next day. No sweat—all in stride.