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Some time ago I was sent an email with a file, an article that could appear in Literotica that I would have a passing interest in. An old friend, writing under the name El Dumbo, was sharing his journeys into stupidity, at least according to his accounts. That required this old lady, a seventy-five year old lady, to sit down and come to some rational conclusions.
I cannot say I was particularly pleased to see my laundry was going to be aired on this site. There were mixed emotions. I was grateful real names were not used, I am not named Marsha. I was upset though, well aware anyone who could have known the situation will know exactly who the principles involved are. Not that I would expect any of them to be reading a site like this, but if they should….. Perhaps there is too much else on my mind to have many concerns about that.
This story that I read was informative, I can honestly say that, as informative as it was filled with certain recollection. I had no idea the writer had “hit” on my beloved daughter. Eighty percent of me is outraged, infuriated, and would have never let “it” happen should I have even suspected. Twenty percent of me recalls my daughter’s exploits before she matured and married, suitable subjects for someone else to consider to titillate a readership. None of me would ever admit I found myself grinning at the concept of an old lady’s triumph. All of me, all one hundred fifty percent, avoiding the fact “it” did.
No explanations, no excuses, that is the way I have looked at it all these years. It was 1987, twenty-seven years ago. Back in the days where every one of my friends had something on the side, even the minister’s wife, and none of us worried about AIDS. No one we knew would ever have an STD, least of all me, the pure one. The one coming to a mid-life crisis, so ready to be something other than the average housewife. So wanting to be a kid I never was.
Actually to be the kid none of us was, my circle of friends that I kept through the years no different than I was back then. Boys did not get the grand prize as we called our virginity until wedding bells rang. At least our definition of virginity, the way a girl got pregnant. Sue was first to explore the alternatives, her account of his “stuff” clumped in her rear for three days insuring none of us performed anal sex. We all chose the other route, the Riverside Drive-In on Friday nights the scene for most of us to discover the choice of gag or swallow. We were good girls, bordering on the edge, pushed on by curiosity. The same curiosity that led me on when I was forty-eight. I had read the magazines, I had read the books, but that was all fantasy. Then it was reality when I went on a field trip to the land of the plain people.
Yes, he was a flirt but he was a flirt to all the other women on that marvelous field trip in Amish country. Harmless, or so he claimed. I am not a flirt, never before and never after. I was fascinated though, a charming, handsome man without a wife and in his mid-30’s. A gay boy? Quite possible but I did not know any gay boys. That is why I called him for a date. I wanted to find out. I am totally serious, I thought him of the other preference and I got seduced.
I am lying. Yes, I was seduced but I had little if any doubt about his sexuality. A woman does not go on a date wearing her sexy things if she thinks casino siteleri there is no chance of finding another world. I was lonely, I was so alone, even though I had a loving husband sleeping in another bedroom at home. I was totally foolish. I was hopeful but I was not begging. I was not throwing myself at him. This was not something I had experience at and I did not have a chance.
He played me perfectly. I came to talk about a field trip. About him. He made me talk about me. Me, the most important thing on earth. It was insane, I knew better and I had to have it. I had to have him.
Yes, I followed him home. Yes, I followed him into the house. Yes, we kissed. Kissed like no man ever kissed me, knockouts with every sweet taste of his tongue. I do not recall that “free them from captivity” line but it is good even now, I am a big woman there. My husband called them sweet honey dews, so good for him. Good for a lover too. Just not as good as what he was doing to me.
A rational woman would have shut it all down right there. I was married, I was the mother of two grown children and I had a reputation to maintain. A woman of the 1980’s would have recalled every one of her friends had another man beyond the husband. We all had sons and daughters who had done things we did not discuss. One woman, me, had no idea whatsoever of what I was doing but I was loving the journey this beautiful man was taking me on a path I simply could not get enough of.
I was in heaven when I felt a hungry mouth at my breasts that afternoon, me standing with my back against the wall by his back door. My bare back. My husband used to do that to me. The key word, used. There was something sweeter now though, a man younger worshipping my body. Worshipping me. Savoring my breasts, my skin, my flat tummy I was so proud of. Hell yes, bed me, darling. I was on fire, I admit it. I was going to take whatever I could get and worry about it later.
An antique walnut bed that sat way up off the floor, I remember that. Freshly laundered sheets, I remember thinking he must have expected me. God, he had muscles and a flat tummy too. I do not know how his shirt came off but I liked the view. I liked the view a lot, almost as I loved his kisses.
I could neck for days bare breasted, feeling a man’s chest against me as we make out, that is a fact. I learned that on my mother’s couch. Me, a girl who never gave up the grand prize until my wedding night but it is true, it is an erotic thing for me, doing that. Especially one who kisses like he did, completely knocking me out. It could have lasted for hours but I do know what a man wants when he is with a woman. I do have two children that did not arrive by catalog. I just did not expect what I got that day.
Give credit to El Dumbo, he remains a modest man and I was not well-versed. I had no idea of what I was dealing with when it came to equipment other than what was pressing against my thigh through trousers. I was distracted in the play, grateful for the attention and overwhelmed by the heat to notice anything until the sensation hit. I had not seen it, this thing now pressing into me. This thing that was not my husband’s and I was definitely in trouble.
It was big, it was bare, I was coming instantly, he was thrusting, he was grunting, I was moaning and no woman could have had that many orgasms the first slot oyna time she was with a man, it is a physical impossibility. Eight, nine, ten, I kept on going and finally I felt the beautiful flower, a body going rigid and the explosion of scalding wetness. Yes, I knew I was pregnant instantly, I had always know when that happened and I did not care. I could take care of that situation, I had a friend who knew who to talk to. Taking care of this man was going to be the issue.
Not that I knew what that would entail. Kids today have every how-to guide the human mind can create. We old ladies were expected to have our husbands teach it to us once we surrendered the prize. He would know, we would provide and most of us were a disaster that left us too embarrassed to talk about. My husband’s first try left my tummy and thighs a sticky mess. He got the blood on the second and I was convinced I was a failure as a woman. It was a month before the first orgasm came to me and let us be honest, it scared me. Ignorance was not bliss but we figured it out, at least how a good wife should provide. The good wife who just wanted one day to be a tramp.
Yes, for thirty days I was that little tramp, at least for one man. I had forgotten about the kitchen table, that was brutally sweet, all man having loving with his woman. I forgot that and he must have forgotten how me popping his upright cherry came to be. A man should be proud of that conquest, especially that conquest. Such a modest boy but I just have to show all our laundry.
Trust me, I love missionary sex but I also truly do love giving my man pleasure. It kept me from getting pregnant when I was single and relieved my husband to be those six months, long, torturous months we were engaged. It was also his only pleasure those endless days of my period, back when I had those cursed things. Yes, I like but giving my lover joy proved to be more difficult than I expected.
Three times I had been in position, my top and bra off, kneeling in subservience to my idol. Three times I set to work, each time seeing his beautiful member respond. Three times feeling his tender hands reach down, cupping my breasts and drawing me up. Up so he could bed me, making me climax, making me enjoy love too. The fourth attempt would prove this old lady could get lucky.
A little pink blouse but no bra, he liked that when he arrived, my nipples standing like searchlights in expectation. Gray plaid skirt, royal blue panty. I did not waste time, I was going to suck him off. My goal. The door shut, no wasted motion, I was instantly on my knees. We had barely kissed but he was so ready, I had felt the wonderful swelling that was mine against my thigh. I was so ready and I never knew a cherry was so ripe.
He was in my mouth, his hands fumbling, me wanting. I was not bare, his fingers caught the fabric of my shirt. He was drawing me up, I was determined and then I felt it. Something never done to me, something incredible. Fingers catching my lapels. Fabric tearing, buttons flying off, the shirt torn completely off, my breasts heaving forward, it was the biggest turn on I ever felt in foreplay. I know my badges stood erect for him, I know I was climbing up, my panties were gone, the skirt tossed aside and God, he was in.
It would be the first and only time he came fast. That is all that saved me, him longer and canlı casino siteleri thicker than my husband anyway. Standing and he was huge. I knew by his face he was a virgin. I was so proud I could have shouted. I shrieked instead. I came and was twenty-two all over again, my husband making our son in me in the first apartment hallway. We called it the “rag doll” back then, upright sex knocking the strength out of us. This time it just knocked all my senses away.
For thirty days I was somebody else, just like some of my friends but I never bragged on the man I kept. The prudish little housewife was such a tart even I could not believe myself at times. He remembers earning his way to the master bed, I remember the night he whammed me and all I took off were my panties. Came to his house, right to bed, dress up around my breasts, he went full length, I shrieked, we came and I was out the door and on to the church meeting ten minutes later. The next day I finally got a mouthful and yes, for that one man, I swallowed. I was lover to a man who punished me for being sweet, his organ a weapon of absolute joy. Joy that had to end.
There never was any question an abortion was the logical choice. I do admit I gave about ten seconds of thought to putting a couple of drinks in my husband, hand-jobbing him and claiming he took advantage of me. Make that five seconds, it never was an option for a number of reasons. He is decent. I was willing to go it alone to the clinic, the fact my lover read my mind and had me before I went to get rid of the package in me a surprise. It was done though and I had to go back to that woman I was supposed to be.
So I did for ten years, me the good housewife all over again, patiently listening to my friends’ claims and silently wondering so much. Knowing my beautiful lover was on to other women, probably everything in a skirt. Maybe it is true, the stories will tell, I have no idea. I managed ten years of sainthood before I was lonely again, before I made one last grab at youth and fell again. I admit it, a friend, it happened, me made me feel pretty, he made me feel whole and I was safe, no baby for me by then. Two years, another life and then he died. Perhaps I thought I did too.
With that I sit here, a twice fallen woman, seventy-five years old and over that hill, my husband in a home, my life nothing but the routine. Routine that ceased when an email file came and a story is to be printed on something called Literotica. I opened the site, I read the stories and let my mind try to blank. A blind girl broke him. She was a whore. A fellow traveler blew him. She was an idiot to let him go. I must have been the first from the field trips, I do not know. For all I know there were thirty of us in this sorority. Maybe he has AIDS now, that is why the stories. Maybe children were not aborted. It does not matter, it was only 30 days, not a life.
I am a 75 year old woman. A woman who thought about all this as I stood staring at her reflection in the hall mirror. An honest woman in the end, El Dumbo. I unbuttoned my blouse and let it fall. The tummy is still flat. I dropped my bra, I flop but I am still nice. I am a big woman, my ends still such soft pink badges of need. I am insane.
I took the cell phone and aimed it to the image. My first selfie. I punched in the number from the email. It is crazy. Stop. I pushed Send. One minute later the phone rang.
I do not know what will happen, if anything. I am an old lady. Perhaps it will be a story he will write. This is crazy.
“No, once again, this is me.”
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