Looking at how an older man and a younger woman handle the thirty-year difference as they begin an affair.
It’s probably better if you read the previous parts although that’s not essential as hopefully this works as a self-contained story. And, by the way there are at least four more parts to follow.
Hugs
Jayne.
Over the next few days, which frustratingly became a few weeks and drifted into over a month I forgot nothing. Jayne was on my mind almost constantly. Everything we said, how she looked, what we did and all that she promised, albeit non-verbally! All day she was there both with and without her glasses which, if anything, made her look even sexier.
Of course, I wanted to see her again, in fact I wanted her but for what? Naturally, as a red-blooded male my thinking veered from fucking her to other activities. Less intense activities, touches, kisses and affectionate moments. Simply just to be with her and look at her. Was that love, God knows? I didn’t want to marry her or even be with her all the time, after all what would others say or think about a thirty-year age difference? What I most wanted, I think, was simply to hold her. For us both to be naked and in each other’s arms was the vision that mostly came to mind although the memory faded a little with time. Maybe we would make love as I was more thinking of full sex with her now rather than shagging, screwing or fucking, but then maybe we wouldn’t. That seemed almost secondary to holding each other. But then I would revert to being the red-blooded male and fantasise about fucking her rigid, silly old bugger that I was.
The call came when I was least expecting it. How long had passed? It was a few weeks, at the very least. Long enough for me to convince myself that I wouldn’t hear from Jayne again.
“I’m doing a survey,” a familiar voice told me. “Do you have a few minutes to help?”
I thought it was, but couldn’t be sure, that it was her.
“Of course,” I replied, settling back on my couch as I felt an instant reaction between my thighs. Even after the break in contact between us, she still had the same affect.
“I’m from a London agency,” you continued. “Privacy prevents me from saying exactly who. I have a few questions.”
Yes, that was Jayne. Her voice was unmistakeable.
“Fire away,” I answered, my nervous voice trembling a little.
“Could I ask where you are answering the questions from?”
“My home in Yorkshire.”
“A-ha. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
I’m sure I heard an almost imperceptible sigh of appreciation. What did that mean? “Good. First question. Have you had sex lately?”
I gave a soft grunt as my hardening erection hardened further. I moved the mobile phone from my right to left ear, so that I could stroke myself through my jeans while I answered. “No, not for some time.”
“Good.”
Did you say good? Was it? Why say that?
“Are you keeping yourself for one particular person?” you continued.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I answered.
“But right now, talking to me, you have an image of someone you’d like to fuck?”
Damn, Jayne! I was so hard now, that I nearly had to yank down my zip to ease the ache.
“Yes.”
“Is she from London?”
You know she is, I thought. But this was your game and I was going to play along with it. “Yes.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-three.”
“How old are you?”
For God’s sake, Jayne! Stop teasing. “Mid-fifties.”
“You can still get hard at that age?”
“Hard enough,” I grunted.
“Hard enough? Hard enough to fuck a twenty-three-year-old blonde?”
“Absolutely,” I said through gritted teeth. “If you were here right now, I’d fuck your brains out. On the couch, the floor, or anywhere.”
“Impressive,” you said, and I felt a little better. “For a grandad,” you added, deflating my bubble, though not my erection.
“Do you get hard when you talk to her?”
“Yes,” I replied, my hand softly running up and down my shaft.
“Do you masturbate when you talk to her?”
This is our first real conversation other than face to face, so I only had this experience to go by. And I was ready to masturbate and we both knew it.
“Are you hard now?” you continued, without waiting for my answer.
“Yes,” I conceded, though my voice was little more than a grunt.
“How hard?”
“Very hard,” I replied squeezing it through my jeans.
“Hard enough to fuck?”
“Oh yes well hard enough for that.”
“Good. Are you masturbating right now?”
Geez, you knew how to turn the screw. “Why ask!”
“Thinking about your young blonde?”
“Yes!”
“Thinking about fucking her?”
“Yes,”
Oh, God. I wasn’t going to last much longer. How long was it since I’d previously masturbated? Too long! All that pent up emotion was gathering in my balls, threatening to make this a ‘personal best’ for spilling my juice.
“You’re thinking about fucking her while you wank?” you continued, your words as effective as my heavily stroking hand.
“Yes.”
“Do you know whether she’s wanked thinking about you finger fucking her in that doorway near the Savoy?”
God, your words were threatening to suck my seed from me just as effectively as if it was your soft mouth wrapped around my cock. That image filled my mind. Your soft blonde hair dancing on your shoulders and my stomach and thighs as your head bobbed up and down on my cock, your flicking tongue running up and down my hardness, then your pink lips sucking me deep inside your mouth.
“She may be wanking now,” you continued, “Thinking about you stroking yourself.”
“Jayne,” I grunted, feeling my creamy manjuice beginning to gather for its upwards journey.
“Legs apart,” you continued, and from the way your voice had become harsher, more of a growl, I actually believed you were wanking along with me. “Thumb on her clit, two fingers inside, wanting to cum.”
Sweat formed on my brow, my imagination went into overdrive, just like you wanted. I saw you in my mind, wantonly spreaded legs, eyes closed, masturbating. Oh, fuck. My balls were tightening.
“She’s thinking about you cumming,” you continued, leaving me wondering how and at what point we’d changed from the pretence of a survey to outright telephone sex. “You are going to cum, aren’t you, James?”
“Yes,” I grunted, only seconds away from that most exquisite of moments.
“Good. I’ll be in Covent Garden at five on Saturday afternoon. Don’t be late. Now, baby. Imagine Jayne’s mouth on that old cock, sucking hard. Imagine it James, and give me that cum!”
I ‘saw’ you between my legs, your pink nipples gently brushing my knees, your soft lips teasing the very tip of my shaft before plunging down. It was too much. My hand movements were a blur.
“Cum, grandad,” you almost shouted. “Cum with me!”
Oh God, that was it! I came like a beast, roaring into the phone at the same time as my Jayne-tribute launched itself high into the air.
I made no attempt to stop the fountain, after all, this was your mouth, your throat, I was firing into, but the line had gone dead, you had gone.
Her.
I had only meant to have a bit of a joke.
I had been thinking about contacting you for some time. Well really almost from when we parted the first time. But then things happen, things come up, there are things to do, places to go, stuff to get on with and men to fuck us. Adchicks are so in demand by our account directors, media planners, creative dickheads et al we sometimes have no time to phone grandads to arrange experiences! And as with most things interest slips a little though absence does make the heart grow fonder.
At last, though, I found the time. And fuck me look what happened. We wanked together, can you believe it, I can’t? And it was bloody good. As I cut the call I thought if he fucks me half as well as we wank together then I will be a very happy adchick indeed.
I left it a bit, long enough for my knickers to dry out and called you back.
“Er James, Covent Garden is big you know, any particular place or shall I just wander round until I find you, or someone?”
Perhaps I should pretend to be a hooker? Maybe not pretend, but be one. Get myself pulled by a punter and then let him fuck me somewhere for money. Shit what a turn on, being fucked by a stranger, someone I will never see again and doing it for money. Talk about Christine Deneuve in Belle de Jour, fuck Bogey you watch her, one of the most beautiful female film stars of all time. Check her in that and Hunger with Susan Sarandon, yet another horny female star. Not that I am into vampires, but the seduction scene blows me away. I watch it all the time, SS has the most exquisite tits!
“You decide,” you languidly reply.
“Are you coming down on Saturday?”
“Yes, by train.”
“Why Covent Garden?”
“Why not?”
“Why not indeed?”
“Are you staying the night?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Not sure.”
“My mum’s away.”
“Does that mean the little girl can stay out late then?”
“Oooooo, sarcy, I thought that was my part.”
“Even us oldies have our moments.”
“Yes so, I just witnessed, you did cum didn’t you? You weren’t acting, were you?”
“No Jayne, I wasn’t acting at all, were you?”
I looked down at the tee shirt I had pulled up round my neck, my tits that I had yanked out from the bra, which I had kept on, my sludgy coloured, elastic waisted combat pants pushed down to my knees and the black lacy, fashionable shorts that were half way down my thighs.
“No James, it was for real for me too and yes it means that and other things too.”
“What does?”
“My mum being in Spain trying for reconciliation with my dad, or a fuck with the guy who runs the local health club.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that I will be in a big, five bedroomed, three reception, massive fitted kitchen, snooker room, large conservatory, secluded grounds and a heated pool all by myself.”
“Lucky girl.”
“James stop being a fuckhead.”
“What?”
“Daft expression I know, but at the moment it sums you up.”
“How?”
“Never mind.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“In easy-to-understand words, James, why not come to my house,” I said, giggling as I added. “Or even cum in my house?”
Him.
What was the feeling running through me at that precise moment?
Unbridled lust? That would explain the almost permanent erection throughout most of the train journey so far.
Almost shitting myself with fear in case I couldn’t perform in the presence of such a sexy, young woman went some way to explaining the trembling in my chest. Excitement at the thought of what lay in store? That would explain why the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck. Apprehension at the ‘cumming’ together of the old versus young generation. That would explain the nervousness affecting my mind and my body.
Was this a granddad thing I wondered, trying to come to terms with the mixture of emotions playing inside my head?
Stop it!
Where was the cockiness I’d felt at the start of the journey, I wondered? Well, actually, ‘cockiness’ was the least of my problems right then. If I didn’t put thoughts of Jayne out of my mind, I’d have to take my ‘cockiness’ out and stroke it into submission.
Mind you, the middle-aged couple, sitting across from me might object. Their conversation seemed to be primarily focussed on Arsenal’s chances of ever winning the Premiership again so, the thought of someone wanking in the train seat across from them might not go down too well.
Middle-aged couple? Hell, what did I mean? I was actually as old as either of them, probably older! That was one of the craziest things about growing older, I thought. You still saw life out of young eyes. But then they weren’t going to a fucking big house, to fuck a fucking horny young chick, were they?
In an attempt to somehow resist the temptation of sliding my hand underneath the table and onto my hardness, I closed those ‘young’ eyes.
It wasn’t a good move.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, a young figure emerged. It was you, somehow underneath the table separating me from the couple discussing football. Behind my eyelids, you were unfastening my black jeans, somehow opening them in the confined space and reaching inside. My tented boxers were being fumbled with, your hands searching for the opening so you could drag out my cock.
I groaned.
“Are you okay?” a voice came. My eyes flickered open, to see that the couple were sending me a concerned look. “You groaned. Are you okay?” the man asked again.
“Fine,” I grunted, my body jerking slightly as the woman in my mind dragged my cock free and jammed her mouth down on it. Oh, God, Jayne.
“Migraine,” I mumbled, closing my eyes again.
“Poor thing!” This time it was the woman’s voice, sympathising with my condition, but I wasn’t listening. You were easing me out from between those pink lips and were running your tongue around the head of my cock.
“I have some tablets,” the female voice continued.
I didn’t answer. How could I when you’d just tilted your head to the side and were licking up one side of my hardness and then down the other?
“I said, I have some tablets,” the woman repeated.
“Thank you,” my voice said while my mind said fuck off.
They gave me a sympathetic look as I smiled at them. Except it wasn’t a smile. It was a gritting of my teeth as you took me deep inside again, my cock twitching in my jeans in the same way as it did in your imaginary mouth. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to explode in my fucking trousers. Without being touched!
How the hell would I explain that?
“I’m getting off in a minute,” I told the couple, instantly realising the unintentional double entendre. “Not long now.”
The woman sucking my cock smiled up at me with that Jayne-gaze. I know what you’re doing, the mischievous blue eyes said. You think by talking to them you’ll get rid of this image. Not a chance, your twinkling upward gaze told me.
“Travelling far afterwards?” the man asked.
“No,” I croaked as you deep throated me. “No,” I said again as your cheeks bulged. “No,” I repeated, parrot fashion, as I touched the back of your throat.
Oh, God!
“Good,” the woman’s soft voice murmured. “You get to bed as soon as you get there. I know what it’s like, when you’re feeling like that. You need some relief.”
I need some fucking relief all right, I thought, as your blonde hair began to bounce in line with the bobbing of your head. You were going for broke now, and my cock was reacting. Control, I screamed at myself. Where was my control?
I knew the answer, of course. I had none! A woman has all the control when she uses her mouth like you were doing.
Oh, fuck, this was too much!
Oh, fuck, Jayne, please stop!
Oh fuck, I was on the edge!
Oh fuck, I was going to cum in my fucking jeans!
My eyes scrunched, attempting to stave off the inevitable.
The hand tugging my arm temporarily interrupted the moment. It was touch and go. Then another tug, harder this time. Then another. My eyes shot open to see the woman across from me holding out two tablets and a white train cup, half filled with water.
“I can see from your face how much you’re struggling,” she said. “Poor thing. Take these, please. They’ll help. I swear by them, they don’t come any stronger.
I gave a weak smile, now she was into unintentional double entendres!
I realised I was panting heavily as the feeling in my cock gently subsided, taking one pace and then a second back from the brink. That’s it, I gratefully thought, swallowing the unnecessary tablets as my erection returned to more acceptable proportions.
Under the table, your amused eyes stared up at me. Got away with it that time, they were saying. But don’t worry, I’ve only just started.
A station announcement over the tannoy interrupted the thought. The beating in my heart that had begun to gently subside, immediately started up again. I had arrived at where I was going to meet you again
Geez, that fucking erection was back again!!
Her.
You had told me that your train was arriving at Kings Cross at 11.20 and that you would get a cab. I had explained that my mum’s house was some fifteen miles or so outside London and that it would not only cost fifty quid or so, but would take ages. I had said for you to call me when you were an hour so out from Kings Cross.
“Hi it’s me James,” you had said by way of introduction when you called my mobile at 10.20, on the dot.
“Hello James, it’s me Jayne,” I retorted. “Where are you?”
“Opposite a middle-aged couple,” you said very quietly.
“How middle aged?”
“Fuck I don’t know,” you whispered.”
“Why are you whispering? Can they hear you?”
“Yes.”
“Well move then silly so you can talk freely.”
“Oh, right yes, good idea.”
“OK now, the old couple out of earshot?”
“Yes, I’m between coaches.”
“Splendid. You do realize James that my station is not on the main line from the north to London.”
“Er, yes, I guess so.”
“Well then, where I live in Essex is miles from Kings Cross, you have to come into London then go out again.”
“Oh.”
“Never mind. I’ll meet you off your train, we’ll have lunch somewhere then get the tube, the Central Line out to Essex, ok?”
“Yes, see you soon then.”
“Yes, hopefully at eleven twenty at Kings Cross.”
It was a daft thing to do really. All things being equal, I would have been better off, just letting it go, not bothering to contact you. No good could really come from it, could it? But then you never know and my instinct told me to go for it. To check it out, to see where we might go, to run with the buzz. Hence, the phone call, hence, you travelling down and hence, me on the tube to Kings Cross.
Usually with men, I am fairly decisive. I seem to know what I want when I meet one and usually, I get that. I am generally able to work out why I like the guy and can then have a relationship making best use of that. It might be friendship, intrigue, his intelligent mind (rarely), the dates he takes me on, his romantic nature, adventure or him being great in bed (also rarely). The common theme is that I usually know why I am seeing him. With you, though, I had no clear idea as to why I felt that I wanted to see you again. Sure, I liked you, but near pensioners are a whole new field to me! Nevertheless, during the few weeks after that quite extraordinary day in Covent Garden I gradually found myself thinking of you and that then developed into this screwy plan. I mean how fucking crazy was it to invite you to come and stay with me in mum’s house? And not just come there, have sex and piss off, but to stay a few days, like a bloody holiday.
I dressed in a rush, no don’t tell lies, I dressed young, very young and trendy. I guess I was making a statement, but of what, I had no idea? Who knows?
A blue and white hooped, long sleeved, but low-cut tee shirt, very French, like an onion seller with, of course no bra or, beret come to that. Dark blue, quite thick tights. The tee came down to just beneath my waist and just that and the blue tights looked good in the mirror. Maybe I should go like this I thought, turning, looking over my shoulder and gazing at my bum in the almost sheer tights. Perhaps not? I slipped into the raggedy, denim hot pants I had earmarked for the meet and greet and did the zip and brass button up. I put the denim waistcoat on and slid my feet into the silver, high heeled, strappy, tart’s pumps. Did I look daft, tarty or what? I didn’t know and frankly my dear I didn’t give a damn as I waited by the gate at platform twelve. But I was pretty sure I looked cool and more importantly young and trendy they were the most important things.
Him.
I was out of my seat even before the train pulled into the station. Partly due to my eagerness to catch up with you, but also to escape the couple sitting opposite. For a moment, I thought they were going to offer to accompany the ‘invalid’ until I reached my destination.
Once off the train, I paused and dropped my overnight bag at my feet. Steady on! Don’t get there flustered! You’d be waiting near the exit barrier and I wanted, needed, to look cool and in control. Pulling my light grey jacket tighter around my shoulders and straightening the open collar of my casual shirt, I double checked the zip of my black jeans and picked up my bag. Time!
The sexy vision that had remained in my mind all these weeks had grown sexier with each passing day. But not quite like what was waiting for me. Those denim hot pants!! And your legs! I’d always had a fantasy of fucking a young bird wearing thigh high, thick stockings, though the lack of any naked skin suggested they were tights.
That did nothing to destroy the fantasy!
The few men who weren’t staring at your pert ass in those hot pants had their eyes glued to your tits. The cleavage on show above the low-cut tee shirt and denim waistcoat was almost as mouth-watering. As for silver, high heeled, strappy pumps, simply sex on legs. But not just sex on legs, young sex, very young sex making me wonder if you really were twenty-three. But did I care? Naturally I would if I had any thought that you were under age, but I wasn’t thinking that and you didn’t look that young. Just fucking young.
But it wasn’t just the way you were dressed. Nor was it the way you threw your arms around me, pulling me into a hug that seemed to last forever. And that perfume it danced around us like some sort of expensive aphrodisiac. But even that wasn’t just it either. The real drug was your eyes. The way they twinkled mischievously, that undeniable ‘Jayne-look’ that promised so much. A few weeks ago, that look had suggested nothing was impossible. Now it implied that everything was probable. Though, after the way we’d parted last time, I still had my reservations.
Jayne the temptress or Jayne the cocktease? The jury was still out.
“Okay,” you grinned at me, taking my arm. “First things first, we can catch up over lunch.”
I smiled warmly, though couldn’t help glancing around. It seemed everybody’s eyes were on us. Or was that, every man’s eyes were on you. They were thinking one of two things. You were a young daughter meeting her dad; I refused to contemplate the grandad possibility! Or we were a rich, older man, with his bit of young stuff.
It made no difference to me. Eat your hearts out, boys.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as we walked outside the station into blazing sunlight.
“You’re the man, you decide.”
I laughed. It was a typical Jayne response. “There’s only one place around here,” I responded remembering that the immediate vicinity of Kings Cross was always depressing. “Konstam at the King Albert.”
Your eyes flashed that cheeky smile. “Fancy you knowing about that. It’s an old pub they’ve tarted up. Very nice.”
Thank goodness for Google!
“You hungry?” I asked, heading for a taxi. It wasn’t far, but I had no idea in which direction.
“Oh, yes. Starving,” you smiled. “I never like to fuck on an empty stomach. What about you, gramps? Need to build up your strength?”
Her.
It was a funny old tube journey up to town to meet you. Luckily, the hated Central Line was behaving itself so we whizzed from Loughton to Liverpool Street where I changed onto the Circle Line, having to remember that’s the yellow one on the underground map.
It was after the rush hour, which is the time I usually travel, so I had a seat all the way although as usual they were a few guys standing eyeing up the crumpet. I felt relieved I was wearing the thickish tights, seats on the tube and upper leg and panty decorum are not natural bedfellows, as I have learned over the years. Still, it was preferable to standing pressed up against the sweaty hordes with all the crotch and bum squashing that entails. I am sure that every morning during the rush hour there must be hundreds of minor sexual assaults.
I was struck by the profiles of my fellow travellers and how different they were to the earlier crowd. The main difference being age, for most on the train seemed to be retirees; in my mind, with a little smile, I saw numerous James’s taking their, grey permed haired wives shopping!
I still wasn’t quite sure why I was doing this. I still wasn’t sure why I had invited you to my home and I still wasn’t sure whether I would fuck you or not. More to the point, for your generation still cling to the clear differentiation between the genders than mine, whether I would let you fuck me. On balance, as I walked from the Central to the Circle at Liverpool Street, I thought I probably would, after all I am not a PT as the boys call it, am I? But why the fuck was I even contemplating sex with an OAP, or nearly? That I couldn’t answer now, but I did wonder if I would find out over the next day or so.
At Kings Cross I felt better. There were more young people, more of a buzz and hussle, it always seems to be like that in town, I like it. That’s why, when I can afford it, I’ll rent a flat there and not live in the dull, no that’s not quite fair, Essex suburbs where I have grown up.
Mum was away. She had gone to visit dad in Spain for a few days. Ostensibly to talk about finance, maybe work out a divorce settlement and see how he was coping with his business falling apart, I suspected that she also wanted to get laid. By dad for sure and by the tennis coach at the nearby country club and the physical trainer at the gym and any other youngish guy she could attract, I suspected. Last time I was there with her, both coaches had been all over both us, putting my nose out of joint a bit by seeming to fancy her more, but then she has got better tits than me.
“Now, now Jayne, no ageist stuff so soon,” you said as we looked crestfallen at the massive queue.
“Sod it let’s walk,” I said unthinkingly grabbing your hand.
“Where? To the restaurant?”
“It’s not far, come on I’m sure you can manage it,” I laughed thinking about the way I had, without thinking, welcomed you. I had flung my arms round your neck, and that wasn’t posed. When a woman opens her arms like that to a man, or another girl come to that, she is exposing the fullness of her breasts to the other party and inviting them to squash their chest against them: I am sure there is some subliminal, Freudian message in that gesture. What may be even more Freudian was that I had made the gesture to you at platform twelve, with loads of onlookers, and possibly what’s more so, was that I liked my breasts being squashed against you.
“I’ll get there, I’ll make it,” you muttered, putting your right arm round my shoulders and adding, “But I may need some help,” as we turned down a quiet passageway leading from the station
Laughing, I reached up and grabbed your hand which was dangling down my chest from my shoulder. I looked up at you and said, “What like this?” As I rubbed your fingertips across my breast; just quickly and lightly more as a joke than anything else.
“Oh yes,” you said pushing me back against a wall, wrapping one arm round my shoulders and cupping my breast with the other as you kissed me.
‘”Fuck, it’s supposed to me who’s daring and up for anything not you,’ I thought as your tongue probed nicely into my mouth. We kissed for a moment or two almost, but not quite oblivious to our surroundings.
Three things happened during that kiss: I enjoyed it; I realised how hard you were and you discovered, if you hadn’t worked it out already, that I was not wearing a bra. Actually, I lie, four things happened and my response to the fourth was to whisper in your ear.
“Shall we forget the Konstam?”
“Huh. What do you mean?” You asked reluctantly it seemed, breaking the kiss and taking your hand away from my breast, which did, though, continue tingling with arousal.
“I can make a salad or even run to heating up a pizza, why not come to my home for lunch, right now?”
Him.
“Sounds good,” I answered, smiling at your eagerness and hoping that meant what I thought it did.
Though for me, this wasn’t all about fucking. I enjoyed your company, enjoyed our verbal sparring, and actually wanted to learn more about you. But even I had to admit that, right there and then, fucking you dominated my mind. Maybe you hadn’t expected the aggressive reaction to you lightly rubbing my fingertips against your breast, but it seemed that every sexual tease, words or actions, that you shot in my direction, had an effect that was unfamiliar. They inflamed the feeling of horniness inside me, like someone setting a match to a fire.
One suggestion or gesture resulted in a throbbing that brought an overreaction, it seemed. I’d turn a peck on the lips into a passionate kiss, a brushing of your breast into a full-blown grope and had we not been in public, hell only knew what I’d turn a brief, clothed, grinding into! The feeling of your braless breast against my hand, your hard nipple against my palm, burned itself into my mind. I think I love a woman’s breast more than any other part of her, though there are so many delightful alternatives to consider.
The erection that had briefly subsided was back again with a vengeance. The image of your lips around me that had brought me so close to a disaster on the train, returned. The thought of taking you, aggressively, in your bed, on the carpet, or even on top of a fucking wardrobe, jumped around inside my head.
“Sounds good,” I repeated, hoping the look in my eyes didn’t give the game away, that the bulge in my jeans wasn’t too obvious and that the slight breathlessness as I said the words didn’t tell you what I was thinking.
Then, images of you walking away from me after finger fucking you in the doorway returned, God knows where from. They made me nervous, uncertain. Part of you did, too. A glorious uncertainty, yes, but they created a hesitancy nevertheless.
You couldn’t be the ultimate pricktease, could you?
I’d walk into your house with you, and your mum would be there, with her friends, your friends, and my friends, all shouting, “Surprise!”
Or maybe there’d be a guy there with a big red book. “Today, James Taylor, you thought you were visiting London to fuck a young bird’s brains out. But today,” he continued as the audience of family and friends were to reveal “Today, this is your Life!” And in an Irish accent.
“You okay?” I heard you ask. “Depriving you of your lunch, am I? Don’t deny it, I can see it in your eyes. Here I am offering you a salad, when all you can think of is something more substantial, much juicier, that you want to devour. Is that it?”
Those Jayne eyes twinkled at me again. They were saying, why don’t you fuck me now, right here, in front of the world. That would be a new experience for you, wouldn’t it?
For me, yes, though it wouldn’t be the first time I’d had sex out in the open of course. For you, I wasn’t so sure. With Jayne, anything was possible! And anyway, I’m sure that wasn’t precisely what your eyes were telling me. It was just my horny brain that was suggesting it.
Wasn’t it?
“Back to the station?” I asked, attempting to get a grip on reality. “Head for the Underground?”
“Better than heading for the hills,” you joked, taking my arm again. “Circle Line, that’s where we’re headed. Circle Line to Liverpool Street, then we’ll change. But don’t worry, daddy-o. You won’t get lost. I’ll look after you.”
“Ever fucked on the Underground?” I asked, instantly wondering where the words had come from, and wishing they hadn’t. “Sorry, forget that,” I mumbled, feeling myself blush. Think of something intelligent to ask instead – some fascinating subject that would impress you with my man-of-the-world knowledge. “Er, what do you think of Boris Johnson?”
Shit! Was I really that stupid??
You gave me that other Jayne look, the one that says, don’t be a prick. “What everyone else thinks,” you told me. “As for your first question, it might be easier to ask me where I haven’t been fucked.”
No, I didn’t ask the question, though the way my libido was at boiling point, it was a subject I’d have loved to explore.
“We’ll be at my house before you know it,” you added, as we headed back into the station and down the steps to the Circle Line. “You can get settled first while I whip up something to eat. You’ll like your bedroom.”
Fuck, there you went again. My bedroom? What about your bedroom, Jayne? Or, our bedroom? What did you mean, my bedroom?
The laugh you gave as you saw my puzzled expression sent another shiver down to my toes. Fuck, Jayne, you couldn’t help it, could you? Teasing this previously respectable, well regarded, ex blue chip company Director, pillar of the community and turning him into a frothing at the mouth, out of control, lascivious, sleezy, pervy what? Dirty old man?
Or a young man inside a George Clooney look-alike body (okay, my imagination was running wild) desperate to taste the delights of the young woman who’d gradually invaded my psyche?
One of the things I realised there and then was that I didn’t care. More basically, I was an animal circling its prey, heading for the younger females in the herd, not just because they were younger, but because this particular one stood out from the rest.
She could have been much older. She could have been less attractive. But she would still have stood out in the same way.
Okay, you had already dismissed such thoughts as bollocksville. I could accept that. Different generations thought differently. And I was only too aware I was invading the territory of the younger generation. But…….., who knows?
Invading your territory, I might be, but this animal had separated out a potential female mate from the rest of the herd, and given the opportunity, he was going to take her on a sensual journey to places her fucking younger generation rarely visited.
Her
“Would you mind if we got a cab from Loughton Station I asked?”
“No not at all, why?”
“Well, it’s only a few minutes’ walk, but we would have to walk past the neighbour’s houses and they are very nosy.”
“You mean you don’t want to be seen with an old man,” you said as we whizzed through Buckhurst Hill station.
“Age has nothing to do with it, I don’t want to be seen taking a man of any age into mum’s house.”
“Ok I was only joking.”
“Wow, this is impressive,” you said as we pulled into the in gate of the front garden.
“The ill-gotten gains of a now defunct and probably bankrupt property developer,” I said as you paid the scandalous four pounds fifty fare.
“And this is even more so,” you continued as you followed me up the steps to the porch of the unnecessarily large, very Essex, posh suburb almost, but not quite, footballers’ wives’ type of house. I saw the cabbie who I am sure had dropped me off before staring at us. I smiled and waved.
“Yes, ripping off unsuspecting souls by buying property at lower than proper prices, messing it around a bit then selling at a hugely inflated price, brings its rewards. Five or six bedrooms, study, bloody great dining and two other downstairs rooms plus a snooker room, gym, pool complex and a tennis court.”
“I take it you don’t full approve of your parent’s having such a place. It must be worth a fortune in this area.”
“Guess so, but dad’s finances are all fucked up, so who knows? Who knows really who even owns it? Anyway, sod all that?”
“I’m sorry,” you said considerately as you slid your arm round me.
“Thank you,” I replied letting you pull me into your arms.”
You held my face as our bodies moulded together. We kissed for the second time today. It felt good, but I didn’t think I was ready yet to go further, even though the sensation I felt pressed against my stomach indicated that you were.
“Come on” I said, “Let me show you your room.”
The look on your face as I said that for the second time was hilarious. ‘He really is beginning to think I’m a PT,” I thought as I wiggled out of your embrace.
I showed you the formal dining room overlooking the gardens to the side, the lounge, the conservatory and study and then the pool.
Holding your hand, I said. “Shit I should have told you to bring your cossy, you won’t be able to have a swim now.”
“No?” You replied in a tone that suggested you would. “I’m all for skinny dipping,” you went on.”
“Ooooo at your age as well,” I replied laughing.
We walked round the garden and looked at the tennis court. “Won’t be able to use that either, and we can’t do skinny tennis.” Here’s our little gym,” I said showing you into the room at the back of the double garage complete with a couple of machines, weights, a big exercise mat, a bike and rowing machine and a massage table.
“That’s interesting,” you said.
“Yes, where mum gets her relief, I reckon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she has a PT, personal trainer not what you were thinking, who is also a masseur, who I reckon is giving her one.”
We wandered through the garage and back into the house.
“Come on, upstairs,” I said leading the way to the staircase.
“Best invitation I’ve had all day,” you said, brushing your hand across my bum.
“Well play your cards right and you may get an even better one later,” I said, giggling as we got to the top of the stairs, your hand still on my bum. I showed you mum’s room which was quite spectacular with a massive bed, all white carpet and fittings, a bank of mirrored wardrobes down one side, and floor to ceiling patio doors leading to a balcony on the other.
“And this is where I live,” I told you as walked down a corridor to the granny flat built over the garage.
“It’s just like a flat you said,” as I showed you the small kitchen, a study cum sitting room and of course the bedroom with the ensuite wetroom and the double bed.
Mum and dad had had the place done up for me when I took my A levels to give me more privacy.
“So, where is my room?” You asked.
“We’ll see, it just depends how well you behave yourself,” I said smiling.
“And how will I know how to behave?” You asked coming over to me and putting your hands on my shoulder.
“Use your instincts,” I replied, not moving but looking you right in the eye as you let one hand run down my arm to my elbow, your wrist brushing against my breast.
“How’s this?” You asked, gently cupping my boob.
“Not bad, you’re learning,” I replied gently pressing against your hand.
Still staring into each other eyes I felt your finger and thumb find my nipple and then pinch it.
“And this?”
“Yes, that’s good,” I breathed feeling a strong rush of arousal. “What’s the time?” I asked.
“What?”
“I asked if you had the time?”
You looked at your watch. “Ten past one.”
“Thanks.”
“Why did you want to know?”
“I was wondering whether it was time for lunch.”
“I see, and is it?”
“Maybe,” I replied putting my hand on the back of yours, which was still on my breast. I pulled it tighter as I said softly. “It could be James.”
“Really?” You said looking totally confused.
I made my mind up.
“So, what would you like, a drink, a cup of tea, a pizza lunch or……” I paused before adding in a croaky whisper. “Me?”