Gourmet Gourmand Glutton 3 Gs

Lois was either totally crazy, or completely, utterly sane and in full control of this incredible moment: she was not at all certain which, and had some time ago abandoned the debate.

Bare-footed, she padded silently down the dim, carpeted hallway. She wore only the short terry robe borrowed from her hostess and oldest friend, Jeannie. Its texture generated the most delicious sensations in her nipples as her breasts swayed back and forth. If only she were at home she'd have her nice silk robe instead – the thought was utterly inane: were she at home she'd certainly not be off on this clandestine nocturnal expedition!

Harold's bedroom door was wide open, streaming moonlight into the hall. He was Jeannie's nephew. Lois halted in the darkness just short of the door, leaned against the wall, her heart thumping. The basics were simple enough – she and he were Jeannie's house- and party-guests, theirs just an accidental meeting.

Which helped not at all with the question, What to do next?

Self-doubt swooshed through her again and she took inventory for the Nth time this evening: the overriding concern was a pair of small numbers - him thirty-one to her seventy-four. But more detail - first, things physical ––- five-five, 121 pounds, quite reasonably distributed, all her own teeth and them attractive; all her own hair (silver-gray but short, cute, and it still pretty thick); able to run (slowly) five miles nonstop. A good couple of sets of tennis in her, any day. The only thing in excess, really, was years. Far too many of those – but of course, the alternative wasn't very enticing, was it?

Second – and perhaps more important, came things mental, especially emotional. Too many years and, perhaps, inhibitions? Too many utterly dry years, that was certain. She carried twice his plus a handful to spare! What the hell did she have to offer him? Certainly society at large would (at least "officially") find this whole rendezvous patently ridiculous! But very clearly not so to him, for she could read it in his face, mirabel dictu! How hard was THAT to believe?

So how had they come to this? How the devil had she gotten here?

They had hit it off extremely well, true kindred souls. In their first ten minutes they ascended (or descended, whichever!) into the third and fourth-order puns that both were addicted to, interlarded with layer after layer of innuendo, mostly sexual and all buried within the context of very interesting conversations about 'serious' (whatever that meant) topics. They volleyed converstion back and forth at a speed that left others completely out of their private loop. It had been decades since she'd stretched her mind that way, she was delighted – and the fact he was so unafraid, even willing (almost eager!) to be physically attracted to her despite their different ages was mind-bogglingly gratifying. As were the occasional envious glances she'd intercepted from other singleton women party-guests as she monopolized him.

Maybe thirty years in the gym was going to pay off after all?

At any rate, Lois found Harold fascinating intellectually, and attractive (very!) physically – a runner's body, scientist's mind. Attractive, too, in the way he studied her face as she spoke, the way he actually listened and heard – as if he had a woman's ability to read faces and body nuances - most disconcerting in a male although nice once she got accustomed to it.

So – answering her own question yet again, certainly she had something to offer him between the ears. But physically, what? With him in the prime of male life and her with this antique body? What she really needed was one of those sci-fi temporal dislocations! Gravity had won about 80% of the battle with her boobs – no possible attraction there, was there? At least she could find one plus, although even it had to be expressed as a negative - she had no real pot-belly (having avoided childbirth helped), and no droopy-drawers butt, no turkey-wattles flapping about.

And physical lovemaking? Rusty was an understatement. No partnered sex-life since her husband died – and they'd been celibate (his decision, not hers!) for years before that. How long ago, her last actual lovemaking session? Or, if not lovemaking, at least a good solid fuck? She hated to think of it, but the dry spell was longer now than Harold had been alive! Good GOD! No love-life – but then, it had been far easier to surrender to that condition than fight it. When young she had been powerfully sensuous, quickly dried up by her unfortunate marriage.

Since about her fiftieth birthday her solace had been a strange thing – well out of menopause, she noticed with dismay and distaste the way her pubic thatch was thinning and spreading sideways, and in a fit of some un-recallable emotion she shaved her crotch completely. The whole slippery process, razor-steel slithering so close to clit, fingers grabbing and tugging and slipping, turned out to be incredibly erotic and brought her off in a most unexpected but delightful fashion. Ever since, twice or thrice weekly she would discover stubble, and indulge herself. Some sex-life, she berated herself mercilessly in the few seconds left to her before the assigned time.

Getting from the party to the present, the here-and-now? Ninety minutes ago: eleven thirty, party going full-tilt, maybe twenty people in the house. She and Harold had dropped into one of those momentary lacunae in any party's conversation and turmoil, alone and out of earshot. In that private moment, he had seriously rattled her with a look – from very close – that seemed to go in through her eyes and finished embedded in her lower abdomen. His hand on her wrist was indulging in anything but casual contact, the touch almost incandescent.

Quietly but clearly, leaving no possibility for misunderstanding, he said "If you'd care to join me in my room I'll be up for you. Exactly zero one hundred. My door will be open. If you wish. I'd like it very much."

Without waiting for her answer, his expression almost but not quite presuming acquiescence, he turned and vanished, leaving behind something akin to a vacuum, a wake that sucked her breath away and left her speechless. And down in her pussy a great surge, a literal jet of moisture, the sensations exactly the same, and every bit as intense, as if she'd bitten into a lemon and her salivary glands had exploded. Such a thing had never, ever occurred before. Never! And besides that, women her age weren't supposed to be capable of self-lubrication – much less of soaking their panties with it!

She had known instantly, watching Harold's legs disappear up the stairs, that she would debate with herself at some considerable length the rationality of taking him up on that invite... and she'd known equally well that regardless of the debate, and equally regardless of her swarming self-doubts and qualms and worries, she was going to be there at one o'clock, as invited. Rationality be damned, doubly and triply damned, the only real question was how to live through the next ninety minutes!

One thing she could do – prep herself. What did that mean? Busy-work mostly, age had removed most need to shave pits and legs, but she did a quick dry once-over anyhow. Tooth-brushing. Probably he wouldn't mind her close-cropped undecorated nails, too late anyhow. Add the tiniest touch of a delicate perfume into the deep creases beneath her breasts and all the usual pulse-points. Makeup? What for? She'd worn none all evening, Harold hadn't complained, it was dark (sort of – such a MOON!). Who would she be trying to fool and into believing what? All-over body lotion was a good idea, quickly accomplished. Deep breaths were good, too – and why did time seem to be stuck?

Butterflies? Hell, pterodactyls maybe!

The big grandfather clock downstairs chimed its deep, lonely single stroke: zero one hundred. The appointed time. Her belly was a swirling fury, the inside of her skull seemed lined with sparklers. A final slow, deep breath. She took one step forward, out of the concealing darkness into the moonlight, and turned through the doorway.

She stopped, transfixed: Harold sat propped up on the bed, facing her squarely, the moonlight streaming over him. He was covered only with a sheet – a sheet with a huge raised protuberance over his crotch. She almost giggled when she realized –finally – what he'd said in his invitation – that he "...would be up..." for her. How had she missed that, after a whole evening of innuendo? They stared at one another for several seconds, and her crotch reacted with another glandular gush that almost took her breath away. It was as if her body had grabbed her pussy and wrung it like a washcloth.

"Perhaps you should shut the door?"

A reasonable request: Lois turned, shut the door silently, then as an afterthought, a sort of seal on her decision, she flipped the deadbolt home. Weirdly, the solid 'thunk' of the bolt sounded rather like a starter's gun. She turned back around: the sheet was now on the floor, and Harold lay there nude, one hand behind his head, the thumb of the other holding his beautiful solid erection vertical like a stout curved flagpole. A pole of purest silver. In the near-horizontal moonlight it cast a startling inky shadow across his hips. Even from eight feet away she could see that the tip was naked, circumcised, a very different color from the shaft.

And he was shaved, too – not a pubic hair in sight! Would wonders never cease?

She wanted to proceed, but felt as if the moonlight were congealed around her molasses-like and preventing movement regardless of her will. Again he whispered, a suggestion: perhaps she should be naked, too? This, too, was perfectly reasonable – she'd now seen him unadorned, time to reciprocate. A moment of truth, indeed. She bit her tongue: nothing was going to remain hidden in this incredible moonlight! Whatever would he think of her in the full-blown buff, about the actuality of all her well-used glory?

She shrugged: the robe slid down to pool at her feet. His beckoning hand magically dissolved the molasses and freed her to move. She stepped forward, watching his face, his eyes, in the bright moonlight. The delight in them was brilliantly obvious. Delight and pure lust – she wondered how a man could communicate such intense desire and need with just his eyes and in such dim light?

The square-knot of self-doubt in her abdomen loosened several notches. But not completely - what, she wondered yet again, could he now be thinking, as he drank in the view of her well-worn body, her soft-hanging boobs? Could he even possibly be interested in kissing her? Kissing solidly, romantically, with the urgency she could feel in her own chest? Wasn't she too damned old for such thoughts?

Again, watching him watch her, she had the eerie feeling that behind that purely male face there resided a woman's ability to read her. It was disconcerting, very male-atypical, something she'd only encountered in 100%-gay men, in which set Harold most certainly did not belong! It made her more vulnerable yet... as if some ultimate protective layer had evaporated, a shield she could usually avail herself of, but not here.

Stopped with her shins against the edge of the mattress, she watched his eyes and arm simultaneously as his hand reached out. His middle and index finger together touched her navel, slid south, raising goose-bumps. His eyes never left hers, but obviously he had already seen her perfectly. He smiled at her, whispered "Lovely!"

Lois's eyes flicked to his cock – it seemed larger than moments ago. That must mean he really DID like what he was seeing! Relief flooded through her. His fingertips reached the upper rise of her mons and stopped, he grinned widely, stroked it like a cat's head, and whispered "Shaved, are you!? Lovely! A naked pussy is one of my top erotic stimuli... not required, but such a delight!"

The fingertips spread wide apart, settled one per side of her vee, dipping gently into the creases where mons meets thighs, and slid farther southwards in converging parallel. At the tip of her lips, they pressed gently into the drooling slipperiness of her salivary-squirts. She almost fainted with lust, pure unadulterated need, as they slipped alongside her clit, pinching ever so gently in a random timing that she couldn't quite get a handle on. Exquisite. She could tell from the touch, he knew exactly what he was doing, he'd opted intentionally not to go up and over the clit, knowing that would be too sudden, too intense for starters, but instead ranged more delicately alongside it, now a long slow slithering scissoring movement that yielded a soaring crescendo of tingles.

His fingers simultaneously cradled her clit and found her forward opening, curled into it and up behind her pubis as if they'd been there before, had a right to presume to such entry, were prepared to take command if and when necessary. He pulled her towards him gently, the buried fingers pressed joyously on the back-side of her pubic bone, finding some never-exercised nerve plexus, making her gasp at the lightening flashing steadily between her crotch and brain.

His grin faded, replaced by a vaguely serious expression: "You're as snug as a pre-teen virgin, and as slippery as a thirteen-year-old in her first heavy petting session! I take that as a personal compliment of the highest order. Thank you!"

She felt herself blush – what a strange thing to do just now! She leaned forward as he tugged, settled her hand lightly on his upper thigh just missing his cock-root.

"May I?" she asked. Why was she feeling so shy? Just the long drought, probably. A special nervousness associated with a second "first time"?

His grin returned. "Oh, yes, I should think so! Permission granted. Unrestricted absolute permission for anything your heart desires, no further permissions required. But first, bring those boobs over here so I can nurse a bit."

She shifted to accomplish both objectives, her hand slipping around his cock, her tits hanging above his face. Still worried, she muttered "They're pretty well used, you know. Antiques! Not the prettiest set you've ever seen, I'm sure!" Her fingers were busy investigating the lovely complexities of his crotch, but stopped completely when he put his hand on the small of her back to press her chest down closer to his face. "Hush! Gravity always wins, so what? The only important things are the mind, and that the nerves work right. The mind I know about – the nerves I suspect may be a bit corroded but I'll bet they still fire. Let's find out." He inhaled almost the whole of her left tit, caught the hard nipple between the back of his tongue and palate, and began.

Her brain nearly exploded... he'd said "nurse" and by god he knew what that entailed. No mere sucking and licking and nibbling for this man, his entire being went into the process, it was as if he were extracting a thin stream of her very soul, flowing out through her nipple, drawing from deep reserves evenly split between brain and belly.

Then and there, in that odd position, all bent forward, arms akimbo, with his mouth around her tit and his fingers dancing a slow tango deep inside her, she came.

Abruptly, powerfully, prolonged wave upon wave, until she shook continuously, a whole body shiver. He slowed, then paused, let her return to the living, to the conscious universe.

Her grip on his cock was nearly tetanic. She realized it, slackened slightly, giggled as she stroked him: "Wow! Hope I didn't hurt you. I guess I got a little carried away, didn't I?"

He just smiled at her and nodded: with his connivance her boob escaped from its captor. Yes, he said, "...and if you hadn't, then it'd be proof that I wasn't doing my job right! And, Lois, just FYI, you can quit worrying about your boobs and gravity and me! Care to know a little secret? My attraction to any set of boobs has nothing whatever to do with their age. Truly! If my very first girlfriend – age nineteen – were here with us, the only way I could tell your boobs from hers with my eyes shut is that yours are a hell of a lot more responsive. So I'd certainly vote for yours."

Lois's insides glowed: she shifted again, leaned down over his flagpole, bent lower, and gently inhaled it. The ultimate bicycle-riding analog, a technique impossible to forget once mastered. Nearly forty years with no practice, and it all came back perfectly, the ability she had been so secretly proud of, catching the cockhead and softly vacuuming it into perfect fit in the vault of her palate, quickly finding the proper tongue and mouth pressures, the wave of relaxation in her throat, the sudden sliding of the thick, flexible tube past the over-ridden gag spot. The old movie Deep Throat (seen several times with a few selected girlfriends) had been her inspiration, the process had come to her quite easily, and for several years it had been her husband's primary fetish and relief.

Harold's reaction didn't hurt her ego a bit – a long, ecstatic groan and a muttered "Jeez... almost nobody has ever done that to me!"

She bobbed, with long, slow strokes, not vigorous, feeling for the right rhythm and pressures. In the midst of this lovely experimentation, Harold's hands shifted to cup her buttocks, he guided her into a perfect sixty-nine, spread her knees wide to bring her crotch down to his face. The warm air from his breathing generated its own special tingles as she waited, dangling, twisting, hoping. Then his hands cupped her buttocks, spread them wide: she could feel, almost hear her outer lips pull apart. In this awesome moonlight, absolutely everything, every wrinkle and untrimmed hair and glisten of her almost insane wetness must be perfectly visible! Through her uninterrupted throating she found herself vaguely embarrassed at this total exposure, flooded with a sense of willing helplessness – nobody had ever seen her private parts from such proximity. Not even Hubby.

His hot breath flowed over her, filled the depths of her wide-spread split. Then, an unexpected first contact, his tongue-tip circled her anus, lapped across it, pressed forward, dived inside until his nose was buried in her buttcleft so deeply she wondered that he could still breathe.

Up inside that most private and unexpected of places, his tongue danced to and fro like a solid, small living flame. More goosebumps, then his face shifting between her shaking upper thighs, the tongue catching the backside of her pussy-opening, circling, delving. And then came the almost unendurable ecstasy of his mouth finally, FINALLY settling over her whole clit, his tongue gently taking it by storm from the rear.

An irreverent thought tickled her as she sank into the intense sensations, about Hubby's oral demands and how they had never been reciprocated – the term "lip service" came to mind, but sounded too positive. Perhaps "lick and a promise" was more accurate, with the promise never fulfilled? Now, in just a few moments, she could understand her women-friends' universal addiction to receiving oral. An addiction she could see taking firm hold of her second by second.

Lois bucked her pelvis hard against his face, and came again. Seconds later, a more prolonged and deeper cycle. Then came his fingertip pressing on her anus, but before she could protest, before she could even formulate the idea of protesting or decide whether protest was in order, it was full-depth into her bottom, pouring gasoline on her belly-fire until she was lost in another round of coming.

He played her, she thought, like a fine musical instrument, one that to her great pleasure hardly needed tuning. Several minutes later after countless mini, mid and major orgasms, he graciously allowed her to surface and catch her breath.

Good GOD, what had she missed all these years? Hubby? A gone and forgotten memory. Harold's concentration on her pleasure had been total, her abandonment to his mouth and fingers and enthusiasm equally total, and the combination had shattered her lifelong inhibitions and self-doubts like frozen soap-bubbles before a hurricane. When she tried to thank him, he insisted – she could tell he meant it – that most of the pleasure had been his – he simply loved what he was doing, they would continue at her best pace, not to worry about him, his own orgasms would follow, no hurry.