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Ode to and Older Woman

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All the time we’d been chatting on messenger I’d insisted there would be nothing more. Despite the incredible intimacy of our chats I stressed that I’d never go further. Although we had the most amazing electronic sex where you would sometimes make me cum three and even four times I’d told you I would never meet you.

At first you’d tried to persuade me to see you but gradually you came to accept that having a bird like me in the hand was better than several in the bush. You realised that it was more exciting to fuck me down the line than to lose me all together.

For me it was the perfect antidote to the incredible frustration I suffered from my job. An MD in an international investment bank and EMEA Head of Mergers and Acquisitions left me no time for such frivolous activities as love; I worked six or seven days a week averaging over sixty hours a week. It also left me little time for sex although I had found a way round that. Simply I bought it. I travelled a great deal and in most cities I had managed to find a trusted escort agency; there’s a strong network amongst female executives so we help each other with such crucial aspects of life!

I’d tried before to overcome the frustration. I’d had a couple of affairs. Brief ones with two men I thought I had real feelings for and who I thought had them for me. One was married the other divorced. As I looked back on them I realised they came about because of my frustration and the feelings were lust not love although the married one claimed to be in love with me; that was the death knell of the relationship. The affairs had been fantastic and terrible at the same time. I hated the married one cheating on his wife, but he was such a good fuck I overcame that. What I couldn’t handle was the emotional entanglement; I just didn’t want that in my life any more.

Although still married I was amicably separated from my Danish husband. He lived in Copenhagen, I was in London, but on the move somewhere practically every week. That’s why we parted, he didn’t want to be my house husband and he wanted children. I still see him most months when I pop home to Copenhagen where I was born. The we fuck like rabbits for a while and follow up with a big row.

So, after resolving to have no further affairs masturbation became my great ally. But then I found messenger, microphones, cams and eventually you. You were in your early twenties with the sexual stamina and vigour of youth you had an understated enthusiasm, a laid back attitude, a polite and considerate nature and an amazing cock. I fell in love with it. It was beautiful, it was big, it had a great shape and the way you were able to make it grow almost by command thrilled me so much.

You complimented me on my ‘full’ figure; told me I had ‘a great body for my age;’ said you were in love with my D cup tits, my full, rounded thirty seven inch hips and were not at all concerned about the swell of my stomach and the excess flesh on my hips and bum. You always seemed to say the right thing and that attracted me to you and made me fancy you like hell. I told you that and you told me you had a big thing about older women especially blondes with glasses; what a smooth sod you were!

We got on well, very well both socially and especially sexually. You were the first man I’d met on messenger to whom I could say. “Pease fuck me” without feeling cheap. We had wonderful sex.

Then my husband and I had a trial separation. Our first in over twenty years of marriage. It had all become too much for us. The continual bickering. “If you don’t work less hours and pay more attention to me then we’ll have to part” he’d told me. I was not quite sure whether he was completely serious so I kept working and travelling and accepted the post of EMEA Head of Mergers and Acquisition. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back of my marriage. So we parted and went to live in London. He stayed in our apartment near the Tivoli in Copenhagen and used the cabin in the country on a lake that we owned. My job provided me with a lovely apartment in London Docklands, a five minute walk from the bank.

Both of us being Danish we had pretty liberal ideas on sex and throughout our marriage we had been with other partners; in Copenhagen professional circles it’s almost mandatory to do so! Now though we had time to see if it was what we wanted. Time to try things. Time when there would be no need for lies or excuses. Time when I could do as I wanted.

I told you what had happened and that we were having a trial separation.

“God Michy” you said one evening when we were on messenger with me in Frankfurt. “I so want to feel you and touch you” you groaned as I watched you pumping your lovely cock.

What made me say it I have no idea, but it simply slid out of my mouth. It seemed to be the right thing to do at the time.

“Would you like to meet Jon?” I typed a few days later.

We agreed to meet at a Marriott hotel just outside Canterbury.

“In halkalı escort the bar at 1.00,” I said. “We’ll have a drink, just to make sure we like each other in the flesh and then Jon, well we’ll see” I’d gone on smiling to myself.

I hardly slept the night before we were due to meet. I tossed and turned my mind whirring with wonderfully conflicting thoughts. It was the same the next morning when I was getting ready. I had a long bath slowly putting more and more water in until I noticed with a grin that just my face and neck and my two nipples were above the soapy water.

Like many women with forty approaching rather too quickly I had a fantasy of going with a young man. You had become the focal point of that fantasy. You certainly had the looks and sexual stamina to give me what I fantasised about; almost endless fucking. You also had a few other major things going for you. You didn’t know me, you had no idea where I lived, the only phone number you had was a mobile I had bought specifically for my online adventures and you had no idea what I did for a living or the bank for who I worked. I was completely anonymous to you.

Naked, I dried my hair and painted my finger and toe nails with a vivid crimson varnish. I winced a bit when I saw myself in the full length mirror so I took a deep breath pulling my stomach in perking up my tits. I made a mental note to myself that when you undressed me I should remember to breath in and take care when lying on my backs for my boobs flopped to the sides a bit.

I found myself becoming more and more excited at the prospect of what lie ahead. Of meeting you, of spending the afternoon and maybe the evening with you. Of being with a younger man. A younger man whose nakedness and cock I had looked at in awe. The tight, firm body and muscles. The flat belly and the lithe thighs and legs. The hardness of your erection. The way you could get hard again so soon and how you could cum many times. I hadn’t had sex twice with a man in one session for some time and the prospect of you possibly making love to me three four or even five times filled me with such excitement. The vision of you spurting the huge amount of semen that I’d seen on your cam, of the way that, as if by magic, you made your penis hard again and the sheer beauty and size of it all went through my mind as I started to dress. The feelings and sensations were so strong I found myself stroking my breasts and they seemed so big and full. I contemplated masturbating, but rejected that smiling as I opened the packages I’d bought specially for meeting you ‘why take second best when the real thing was waiting for me?’ I asked myself.

I slid into the black, lacy tops hold-ups and admired myself in the mirror. They made my legs look slimmer and longer. I had bought the black underwear you had requested. It was pure silk, smooth and lustrous. The panties clung to me like a second skin, but regrettably that did bring an emphasis to my slightly bloated tummy and the small excesses on my hips and bum. Saying fuck and then c’est la vie to myself I rationalised that you had already seen the goods on cam so my body would not come as a surprise to you when you saw it in the skin as it were. The real plus point with the panties was that the thin, smooth silk moulded itself to my mound accentuating that. Pulling the bra on with the clasp at the front I did that up and yanked it round my body and eased each boob into the cup. It was tight and more flesh than fashion suggests was spilling out of the bra that could well have been half a size too small; or I’d grown, for my boobs seemed to burst out of the sheer silk and lace.

Slipping into the thin, black, typical cocktail party dress and pulling the white jacket on I was ready. The dress was high at the neck at the front and the material clung to my body emphasising my breasts but regrettably I noticed looking in the mirror also showing the slight bulge of my tummy. It was lower at the back of the neck and had a zip all the way up the back that I struggled to do up. The hem ended fashionably a few inches above my knee and I noted, as I sat down to put on the strappy, black high heeled sandles, that it slid way up my thighs to almost my stocking tops. That excited me as I knew it would you.

I was wearing lipstick and a little eye make, but nothing else. My streaky, blonde hair fairly spiky hair cut short at the sides and left long on top looked good, but then it should at the price I paid twice a week merely to have it blown and dried; alright I also had the colour touched up, but I don’t admit to that! Inspecting my face in the mirror I looked closely at the few wrinkles round my eyes and the lines from my nose to my upper lip and down my chin from my lower lip. I had sent you a few photos, both dressed and not so dressed and had told you many times that being old enough to be your mother I did look my age. You, courteously, taksim escort had rebuffed that saying ‘You look in your early thirties at the latest.’ I just hoped that actually seeing me wouldn’t change your mind and that you would still ‘Fancy older women like hell.’ Ready, I went down to the car and set off for what I guessed would be a fifty minute journey maybe to sexual paradise I smiled gunning the engine of the Mercedes.

The traffic was welcomingly light down the M11 to the M25 where it got heavier, but not too bad so quite quickly I was bombing towards the Dartford Crossing. My mind was buzzing with the various emotions I was feeling so I kept my speed down for my concentration on the road and driving was continually being diverted.

Glancing down at myself and seeing my slightly parted stockinged legs, the hint of the stocking tops and the strappy shoes. Looking at the emphasised fullness of my breasts from the thin tight material and knowing that underneath I was wearing, what one of best friends called ‘underwear to be undressed and fucked in’ made me feel excited and desired.

Thinking of the sights I’d had of you on your cam, your tight youthful body and wonderful penis made me frequently shudder with sexual expectancy of such a level that even as I drove I found that my fingers were roaming over the mounds of my boobs and the smoothness of my stockinged thighs that I’d opened a little wider than the driving position required.

But accompanying those wickedly arousing thoughts of what I imagined you’d be doing to me in just a couple of hours time, were other thoughts. More serious considerations. Different and certainly contradictory to those of excitement and adventure. Yes thoughts of my husband, our families and friends. Although parted this was only a trial, I was still married. I would still be cheating on him, committing adultery with you and being unfaithful both to my marriage vows and the typical Danish partnership agreement that is ‘if you do it then you must tell your partner.’

Throughout our marriage we had been typically Danish. We had both had other partners, been involved in swinging sessions and had visited sex clubs. We each had the normal Scandinavian attitude towards sex, which was very open and liberated and totally unlike that held in most of Europe and the States. But whatever was done was within the ‘cloak of trust and mutual agreement.’ I was now stepping away from the protection of that cloak for I had no intention of telling him or anyone of what I was about to do with you.

*

But as I got nearer to our assignation I began having doubts. As I passed through Essex and into Kent over the QE2 Bridge I was thinking, ‘I’ll stop and turn round, this is madness.’

But I didn’t, I couldn’t, something was driving me on, in many ways against my better judgement, I continued down the M2. Turning off I followed the instructions on the satnav and soon I was pulling into the car park of the Marriott. Smiling as I walked across the lobby thinking about the scene from The Graduate when Dustin Hoffman was booking a room for him and Missus Robinson I thanked the ease of the Internet and looked around for the signs to the bar.

Although I was purposefully fifteen minutes late I was still very nervous as I approached the bar for I couldn’t help thinking that you might not be there either, through lateness or, a sudden change of mind. To be alone in a bar is something I hate and something, thankfully, I’m rarely forced to do.

I scanned the bar ignoring the stares of the mostly business men clientele many of whom ran their gaze up and down my body in a rather vulgar and suggestive manner. Men out of sight of their wife, especially on business, often become such lechers that it makes life difficult for women and could put us off men altogether.

You looked even younger than I remembered. Younger but better looking. Younger but leaner and fitter. Younger but more fanciable and certainly younger, but so much sexier in the flesh as it were. We smiled at each other as I walked to the vacant stool beside you at the bar.

“At last Jon” I smiled leaning forward as you pecked me a little embarrassedly on the cheeks.

“Hi Michy, or should I say Sarah” you replied, referring to the false name I’d used until I had got to know and trust you.

Resting my hand on yours I looked you right in the eye with the rest of the room looking on as I smiled.

“Well you could use darling if you like.”

It’s always difficult sitting demurely and ladylike on a high stool when wearing a skirt. When the skirt is rather short and loose and made of a thin, clingy material like crepe it becomes even more of a challenge. And when under that skirt there are lacy topped hold up stockings it becomes as good as impossible to retain one’s modesty. And in that bar in which I was one of a very small number of women and a large number of men I didn’t retain it.

As soon şişli escort as I’d walked in I’d felt their eyes on me mentally undressing, leering and ogling me. In part that can be flattering and, believe me, as a woman roars into her forties some of that is good for the ego. Too much and too obvious, though, becomes simply tiresome. And that’s what it was as I felt so pleased that I was with you, a young, virile and attractive guy and not with the forty and fifty, balding and greying, paunchy businessmen in the bar who looked as if they would have loved to rip your heart out.

“Did you have a good trip?” You asked getting the conversation off in a very neutral manner.

“Yes fine thanks although I was a little nervous all the way.”

“So was I, I was almost frightened” you said with the honesty and openness of the well-adjusted guy I’d come to know on the net. You didn’t seem to feel the need to boast as so many your age do. You’d never boasted about your, what I thought were, remarkable recovery powers, your output or your virility. And certainly you’d let the pictures of your cam paint a thousand words about your delicious penis.

“How long did it take you?” I asked

I could see that you were nervous. Your hand was shaking a little as you held the glass and you spoke in short, sharp bursts not making complete sense at times. That was nice. I liked it. I was pleased that you weren’t acting as if you were about to make another conquest, as I was becoming quite sure you were going to do. I liked your modesty and the way everything was understated with you. I was feeling very warm and tender about us. Partly because you were the only one, or so it seemed in the room, that wasn’t staring at either, my stockinged legs and the hem of my skirt or at the swell of my breasts. The irony amused me for it was you that would almost certainly, shortly be slipping your hand up that hem or removing the material from those breasts. And all those leering middle aged businessmen would be left out. And that for some reason made me want to make them feel that.

“Oh only twenty minutes, I got the bus.”

Forgetting that you didn’t have a car, I smiled. “I could have picked you up.”

“Well not really could you as you wanted to check me out didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, but I guess after all we’ve said in messenger and emails that probably wasn’t really necessary. Were you excited?”

“Yes the idea of meeting my older woman thrilled yet at the same time scared me. Not sure my mum would have been too pleased though!”

I leaned forward and resting my hand on your leg some three to four inches above your knee, kissed you on the cheek as I whispered. “My Missus Robinson to your Dustin Hoffman eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like the film, The Graduate.”

“Oh yes. Yes I see what you mean now” you breathed quickly as I gave the inside of your thigh a little squeeze.

I was very aware, as women nearly always are when they show a little too much of a part of their body, that by leaning forward my skirt would have risen further. I guessed that at least the darker hue of the bottoms of the lacy tops would now be on show confirming the likely hopes of ‘my audience’ that I was indeed wearing stockings.

And that made me wonder just what they were thinking about us. Older women with younger men, though more common nowadays, are still not seen that often. And a couple so obviously into themselves to the exclusion of those around them generally suggests just one thing and that certainly wasn’t mum and son. The sight of my stocking tops probably confirmed what they were all thinking. That excited me. I wanted to be alone with you. I wanted us to be able to talk and smile, kiss and touch each other. So, leaning even further forward, running my hand even further up your thigh so that it was about half way I whispered into your ear.

“You can guess what they’re all thinking can’t you” as I nodded towards the men in the bar.

Smiling you replied. “Yes I think I can.”

“Well we’d better not disappoint them” I went on sliding off the stool and flashing all of one stocking top and maybe a touch of skin above it as well. “Had we?” I continued casually pushing the skirt back in place as I put your arm through mine, held your hand, beamed a big smile at you and said, quietly so just you and I heard it. “No we’d better not darling so you’d better take me upstairs and fuck me hadn’t you

“God Michy this is incredible” you breathed as we stood hand in hand waiting for the lift. “I’ve never been with a girl in a hotel before.”

Smiling, I responded. “Well you’re hardly with a girl now are you? Am I the first older woman though?”

“Yes of course. What is happening about the room?”

“Don’t worry I have sorted that.”

“Let me pay” you said being chivalrous probably not realising that the de luxe room cost one hundred and fifty pounds.

“Don’t be daft, I can [ut it through my company so no more about that. Ok?”

Two people walking past prevented you answering and then the lift arrived. Going up to the eighth floor you tried to take me in your arms and kiss me.

“No Jon, not here,” I said quite sharply. I was far too old and, in some ways well behaved I guess, to do such things in a public lift. Well at least sober that is!

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