Ageless Erotica

Home > Other > Ageless Erotica > Page 21
Ageless Erotica Page 21

by Ageless Erotica [MF] (retail) (epub)


  He turned her around, replenished the body wash, and applied it liberally to her back, rubbing her shoulders and her upper back until she sighed deeply with the pleasure of his massage. He knew exactly what she needed and lathered her expertly until she felt completely relaxed under his hands. Next he bent down again and spread the suds over her lower back to get to her buttocks.

  She squealed when he ran his fingers up and down her crack then laughed while he lathered her cheeks, lingering on each one and finally moving down to her thighs. Reaching between them, he massaged them slowly and lovingly. Then he rinsed his hands under the spraying water, cleaned her pussy of all suds, and rubbed it again with great pleasure. She shuddered delightedly. When he felt he had stimulated her sufficiently, he pulled himself to his feet and patted her on her soapy buttocks to signal the end of his routine.

  After they rinsed themselves from all the suds, they climbed out of the enclosure, kissed each other tenderly, and toweled each other dry. They returned to the bedroom, climbed on their bed, and stretched out beside each other, feeling relaxed as well as deeply aroused from their shower activities.

  Celia reached for the tube of lubricant, squeezed a generous amount into her hand, and rubbed it all over her pussy and into her vagina. Then she took some more, lifted herself up on one elbow, and bent over her husband. With a skilled hand, she lubricated his strutting penis, pulled his foreskin back, and coated his glans with the liquid.

  Richard turned over on his side, and she let herself sink down on her back, spreading her legs expectantly. He reached over and put his hand on her slippery pussy. Gently rubbing her excited labia with his skillful fingers he probed her deliciously dripping insides and rubbed her clit. Celia took his lubricated penis into her hand and started stroking his erection until it twitched and pulsated lustily in her hand. They moaned in unison, sharing the joy of their mutual arousal until they were ready for the next phase.

  Richard climbed on top of her carefully, keeping the weight of his body lifted up with his arms, and touched the tip of his penis to her opening. Celia shuddered with delight and gasped at the first contact.

  “Oh, yes, Richard,” she cried out. “I want you so much right now!”

  She wiggled into position for Richard to plunge into her slick vagina. As he thrust his penis deeper into her and started pumping, she closed her legs to provide him with more friction and pushed her pelvis against his.

  They were breathing heavily, he thrusting and she pushing rhythmically, faster and faster as they worked themselves and each other higher and higher towards the zenith of their pleasure. Richard could feel her internal muscles tightening around him, pulling him deeper inside. It only took him a few more thrusts to get over the top and find his release in a glorious, liberating, and fulfilling orgasm.

  He stayed on top of her for a few moments to catch his breath, then rolled off and let himself fall on his back. He didn’t rest for long, but turned on his side again and reached for Celia’s pussy. He could feel her shiver with excitement as he sought out her budding clit again and began to rub her vigorously and with determination, eliciting visceral groans from her in return.

  It always took her quite a while to reach her orgasmic height, but he didn’t mind at all. He loved her pussy, loved the slick feeling of the lubricant. He stroked her skillfully until her body began to tense and then shudder with the onset of her orgasm. She grabbed his hand with both of her own and pressed it against her pussy, gyrating and shaking under him. She thrust her pussy into his hand until she began to tremble under him. Her body shivered as she climbed the dizzying apex of her arousal. Her orgasm took hold of her writhing body, and she screamed her way through her glorious release.

  She clung to Richard while he kept rubbing her clit to get her up to the top once more. It didn’t always work, but he felt that it might this time, and she certainly didn’t seem to be ready to stop. She kept pressing his hand into her pussy until she began to tense again and whimpered through a second release, not quite as strong as the first, but clearly quite satisfying, because she smiled happily as her body gradually relaxed.

  They collapsed on the bed together after their sensuous exertion, smiling their fulfillment at each other in the delicious afterglow of their orgasms.

  After a while, Richard turned on his side and wrapped his arm around his glowing wife and waited for her to fall asleep. Then, true to his word, he climbed out of bed, put on his pajamas, and went out into the kitchen to finish the dishes and clean up the counter. Celia had already done most of it, so it didn’t take him long to complete his task. Then he went back to bed and took her soft body into his arms.

  “You’re so beautiful and sexy,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m so incredibly happy that we have such a great love life together.”

  With that, he fell asleep with a contented smile on his face, Celia breathing deeply in his arms, her body satiated and fulfilled.

  THE WACKY IRAQI, THE SHAMAN LOVER, AND ME

  Erica Manfred

  At age fifty-nine, my husband of eighteen years dumped me. I emerged after a nine-month mourning period feeling horny as hell. I hadn’t had any sexual desire throughout our marriage because I had spent all my sexual energy avoiding sex with my husband. Except for a brief crush on our carpenter, which I wouldn’t have done anything about, I had never looked at a man sexually since my wild, single-girl days.

  Now I was long past menopause and supposedly long past my sexual prime. My body didn’t know this, however. It started twitching every time an attractive man came into the room. All of a sudden I was evaluating every man I saw as a sexual partner. I was on fire all the time, so I joined Match.com.

  I agonized over the weight categories on Match. Was I “large,” “a few extra pounds,” “average,” “athletic and toned?” Forget the last category—I settled for “a few extra pounds” since forty was a “few” in my opinion. Some men told me women from five to 105 pounds overweight put themselves in this category, so they tended to avoid anyone who checked that box. My picture was misleading. Since my face was so thin, no one envisioned the size of my rear end.

  Harry, whose user name was the Wacky Iraqi, first caught my eye. He was the kind of oddball guy who has always attracted me. His photo showed a face like an elderly Norman Mailer on a bad day, but his profile was offbeat and funny enough to overcome the ugly photo. And this is how he described himself:

  Most body parts work—some are brand-new and work better than others—and I am in reasonable health. Up to two pills a day! My ideal? An attractive woman with a big smile, twinkling eyes, high center of gravity. All else is optional. Intelligence is a great help to good conversation and discussion when this is necessary. An affinity for Indian or Burmese or Arabic food will make dinner selection easier. A sense of humor is very important—good or bad is irrelevant. Her “get up and go” must not have “got up and gone.”

  Unfortunately, Harry lived more than one hundred miles from me. Naively I thought distance didn’t matter. As it turned out, Harry was also casting a wide net.

  Distance was no impediment to emails and phone calls. Harry was an Iraqi Jew from Calcutta, whose parents had fled Burma during the Second World War and walked overland to India. He grew up as part of a small Jewish community in Calcutta. The experience had scarred him in many ways. Seeing people die on his doorstep daily had hardened Harry’s heart and given him little faith in human nature. The death of his mother when he was five made him wary of women and commitment, and in his own estimation, unable to fall in love.

  I spoke with Harry a couple of times on the phone and liked him better each time. He was very funny, offbeat, and cynical. We dickered about where to meet. I didn’t want him to travel all the way to pick me up. I’d have to ask him to turn around and go home if I didn’t like him. That kind of distance would put pressure on me to spend more time with him than I might want to. But Harry insisted he wanted to travel to my town, and eventually I gave in.

  The
minute I saw him, he passed my “Hmm, I could do him” test. He looked younger than his pic, and, though not conventionally handsome, he had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and a sly smile that charmed me. His self-confidence and his male energy turned me on. He’d only posted a picture of his face on Match.com, but I could see he had an attractive body, fit and strong, if a bit stocky.

  He arrived at my house bearing an enormous cake with happy birthday erica written on it and three cannoli. I asked him why he’d had “Happy Birthday” written on the cake since it wasn’t my birthday. He said he couldn’t think of anything else. I was charmed by his silliness.

  We spent the evening together, talked and joked, went out to a lecture, and found we had plenty in common. Afterward, back at my house, Harry sat on the couch, patted the spot next to him, and asked me to sit there. He cuddled me sweetly, and I sank into his chest. He kissed me passionately, his tongue moving inside my mouth. It had been a long time since I’d been kissed like that. I felt myself swooning in the way that I used to before I got married. My mind left my body, and my body took over, gluing itself to him. I ran my hand up and down his strong back, feeling muscles and a bit of a spare tire around the middle that I found sexy.

  I’d forgotten how much I loved men’s bodies. Harry’s body was luscious. I wanted to touch it everywhere and never stop. But I did stop. I didn’t know if the “no sex on the first date” rule was still de rigueur in the dating scene, and I wasn’t taking any chances. I pulled away reluctantly, said it was getting late, and told him he had a long drive home. Harry didn’t look the least bit put out. He gave me a big hug and said goodbye.

  During the next few weeks, we emailed back and forth for a while, but Harry didn’t mention visiting again. I kept making my sexual intentions clear in my emails, despite his unexpected protestations that he wanted to be my “friend.” This felt like coitus interruptus. How was I going to get him to come back, to take me to bed? I kept making my sexual intentions clear in my emails. I kinda felt that couch cuddle and passionate goodnight kiss meant you had a bit more than friendship in mind. I sure do. I just try to behave on a first date. Next time I’d certainly invite you to stay over. It’s not too often I meet someone sexy who makes me laugh and listens to my mishegas.

  He emailed back:

  Sex with a woman at my age? I am considering the priesthood and celibacy. I have a lot of physical problems. My knees are weak. My eyes are dim. I have colic. I am not sure what I want. And I don’t know if I can satisfy you.

  He was at least thinking about going to bed with me. That was a start.

  Jeez, Harry, you’re only fifty-eight, not ninety! Don’t worry about satisfying me—I don’t think about sex that way. To me it’s the closeness and touchy feely stuff that I long for, and getting satisfied is pretty easy, really. There are many body parts for that.

  Harry was a bit freaked out by my eagerness, but he agreed to another visit.

  I am not sure I am so good for you. I hate to disappoint. But I’ll enjoy your company if you are so inclined.

  Harry showed up very late on our second date night. By the time he arrived, I was exhausted from housecleaning, food shopping, shopping for sexy nighties, leg shaving, hair blowing, making up my face, and all the other tasks I’d forgotten about when it came to having a man visit.

  I had also realized I no idea how to go about having sex with a new man. Was I supposed to take my clothes off first? Get into bed with my bra and panties on and let him take them off? Leave the lights on or turn them off? I decided to take off my underwear and leave my sexy nightie on. It has always turned me on to be naked underneath a flowing gown. The swishing of the fabric against my flesh, having a man snake his hand up under the material, work his way slowly up my legs, between my thighs and inside me, keeps me wet even if we’re talking about other things. I was wet by the time Harry arrived, strictly from the fantasies I’d been harboring about him since our cuddling on my couch.

  He came in, and we immediately fell into bed, awkwardly. He matter-of-factly took my hand and rubbed it on his body, bringing it down to his cock, which was impressively hard. I was relieved that it wasn’t huge. I knew that my days of adoring big cocks were past. No way was I dealing with anything bigger than five inches without a lot of practice.

  Harry was very hairy, unlike my ex, who was boyish and smooth. His body was so different—solid, substantial, virile. I wanted him to feel me all over, too, but he showed no inclination to do any stroking. I didn’t mind much—just being in bed with a new man was thrilling. He grabbed me and kissed me hard, rubbing that hairy body against mine. Just hugging and clutching him, feeling his cock hard against my belly, was enough.

  Actually just about anything would have been enough. That’s the beauty of sex with a stranger, especially after a long period of deprivation. All Harry’s disclaimers about needing Viagra and not being sexually potent were a total crock. He had no trouble getting hard and fucked like a bandit. Even though I felt awkward and self-conscious and was far from having an orgasm, feeling him inside me was unutterably arousing.

  There’s something about a male organ plunging into a woman that nothing else sexual can match. It must be a primal, genetic reproductive urge, to take the male inside. Actually, it hurt when he plunged it inside me—it had been so long—but I didn’t care. Just having that cock moving up and down inside me, feeling that hairy chest against my soft breasts, sucking on his tongue as it thrust inside my mouth, resting my head on his shoulder afterward, and getting to spend the whole night in bed with him with my arm across his body was all I needed. The whole experience was thrilling and even the pain was exciting. I could make believe I was a virgin again.

  Harry was a pretty unimaginative lover by the standards I’d had before marriage—oral sex was anathema to him, for instance, and the missionary position was his only one. But as my first experience post-marriage, he was just what the doctor (and my therapist) ordered. He was the alpha male who grabbed me, threw me down on the bed, and had his way with me. He made me feel desirable, he made me laugh, he wanted me, and he was very male. After eighteen years of a “girly-man,” as my ex-husband would call himself laughingly while we watched Hans and Franz on Saturday Night Live, a “manly man” was thrilling. Harry fixed things, advised me about my finances, gave me legal advice, and installed my printer.

  And, unfortunately, after staying one more night, he left—and never came back.

  After Harry, I didn’t go dateless for long, but orgasms were few and far between. I became obsessed with Internet dating, spending hours on Match, JDate, and OKCupid. I was like the proverbial kid in a candy store, fantasizing about every guy I saw, wondering if he was good in bed. I found young guys, old guys, guys who wanted phone sex, guys who wanted cybersex, AOL chat room late-night weirdness, men who weren’t what they seemed. I slept with a string of unsatisfying lovers.

  At the time I was reading Broken Open by Elizabeth Lesser and was struck by how finding her “Shaman Lover” awakened her to the life force. As Lesser described him, “Sometimes the Shaman Lover has been sent by fate to blast us open, to awaken the dead parts of our body, to deliver the kiss of life. If we succumb, we are changed forever.” I knew I wanted a Shaman Lover to blast me open.

  After many bad dates, I finally met him through Match.com. The connection was powerful and almost instantaneous. After our first date, dinner at a bar, Bob asked me to come back to his apartment to watch a video, which I interpreted as, “Wanna have sex?” My answer was a resounding yes, yes, yes, yes. A Molly Bloom of a yes.

  Bob told me later he actually thought we were just going to watch a video. He never thought I’d go to bed with him on the first date. But I’d learned from my experience with Harry to take my sexual opportunities when I could. To hell with the “no sex on the first date” rule.

  Bob had the same kind of masculine energy that I’d found so attractive in Harry. He fucked with a strength, force, and abandon that was thrilling. He didn’
t ask if he was hurting me, nor did he care. I’m sure he would have stopped if I’d asked, but that was the last thing I wanted him to do. Bob called forth lubrication from my vagina that I thought was long gone. When I was younger, I’d thought I preferred slender men with gentleness and finesse, but I found myself lusting for this short, stocky, powerful tennis player, a Taurus who lived up to his sign—bullish, obstinate, and pushy. Bob reminded me of a seal, with a layer of fat covering a muscular, sleek body. His skin was hairless, white, smooth, and silky to the touch. I couldn’t get enough of him.

  One delirious night, Bob put his hand between my legs after fucking me and started gently massaging, the way I’d shown him to make me come. I had a strong orgasm, assumed it was over, and prepared to relax—but then another orgasmic wave rolled over me, and then another. At first I couldn’t understand why the orgasm hadn’t ended, why more orgasms kept rocking my body. I couldn’t stop shivering and moaning. I clasped Bob’s hand to my crotch and told him not to let go.

  “Omygod, I’m having multiple orgasms,” I gasped.

  “Oh?” He seemed to think it wasn’t that big of a deal.

  “I never had one like this before—this is the first time.”

  He grinned. An adorable, boyish grin. “Wow, I’m quite the stud, aren’t I?”

  I squeezed his penis affectionately. “More than you know.”

  Here we were, fifty-five and sixty, with as much electricity running between us as teenagers, more than either of us could remember having before. The miracle for me was the mutuality of it. Back when I was single, men I’d wanted this badly usually didn’t want me.

 

‹ Prev