It was the kissing and cuddling, really, that made it all so special – that and the fact that he was her first extramural lover in over forty years. Kissing and cuddling were sufficient unto themselves so far as she was concerned – and if they led to other interesting things, or if such things came as an aftermath, that was just extra.
Lying there in the incredible afterglow, Sarah buried her face in Loren's armpit, returning the favor he had paid to her pussy, a favor completely unmatched in intensity and length anytime in her entire life. Into his side she murmured "I like the way you smell." She found the mixture of exercise-sweat, sex pheromones and deodorant unexpectedly, and extraordinarily, exciting. Then she lifted up on one elbow and leaned forward to resume their kissing – Loren had the most delicious mouth she had ever encountered. As she leaned in against him, she muttered "I can smell myself on you, you know. My pussy." She licked his chin and nose and lips. "I kind of like it. Never thought I'd say that!"
He couldn't reply: his mouth was suddenly full of her tongue.
She had come, as best she could recall, literally without stopping for the first fifteen minutes or so of this, their very first tryst. He had pretty much taken her clit and the rest of her crotch by storm with his mouth – he told her forcefully that it was her turn to enjoy without interruption, and she didn't object. She knew for a certainty that never in her entire life had she come so many times, so nearly non-stop, or so readily. Not through all three of her lovers. A whole quarter-dozen, in forty-six years of love-life, in her sixty-four total years! She had certainly not been profligate or wanton, had she?
He was doing that cuddling thing now, which he did so unexpectedly well – a skill extremely rare in men generally, she understood - cradling her against his side as they kissed, one hand stroking her flank. The hand paused, slid to cup the inner edges of both of her buttocks, squeezed nicely, then slid its middle finger down the greasy cleft, all slippery with a stew of her juices, his come, lube, spit, sweat. He found her pucker, slid the finger adroitly deep into her bottom. It had just spent a lot of time in there, among other things driving her frantic when he showed her where her special spot was – the initial finger, plus two of its fellows, followed by his cock.
That was yet another first for her today – she was astounded at the ease with which they'd gotten his non-trivial hardon into her bottom – full depth, too! With him in her butt she felt simultaneously infinitely vulnerable and utterly possessed in the most absolutely physical way, a flaming, explosive turn-on. But blended, too, as well as possessed: as if by his being inside her that way she was equally inside him – a most odd and complex suite of sensations, very hard to think through, much less describe in words.
Sarah wriggled against the intrusion, welcoming, not objecting. His finger up her ass? What was the proper term, anyhow? Ass – butt – bottom – anus – rectum? No, not anus, an anus was just an opening – a cock isn't "in" an anus, rather it goes
through
an anus to enter a rectum, which is an actual physical THING found deep inside an ass. She almost giggled at the silly analysis. Whatever! His finger was inside her butt, having passed through the anus and deep into her rectum, where it was waggling back and forth, right where his cock had just spent so much time. Why wasn't there a sexy, or at least pretty, term for rectum? It was, after all, an unexpectedly sensual part of her anatomy – certainly it deserved better than a purely clinical moniker?
Forty-six years ago she had begun lovemaking, at age eighteen, and she had never tried this before. Loren hadn't been the least bit insistent, either – it just seemed to sort of happen in a natural progression of more and more intense sensations, of greater and greater physical intimacy. They had gone from his face buried in her crotch with fingers in both openings, to her on her hands and knees, to her on her back with her slender legs wrapped tightly around him.
Him smiling, fondling, managing somehow to be inside her bottom and pussy and mouth and throat and to be sucking wonderfully on her nipples, pretty much all at once. And his stamina and control! Not a hurry in the world about his coming, or about hers either. So he had warned: she thought at first it was probably just male braggadocio but no, it was true enough. He claimed it was the lead-up activity that was his pleasure, that and giving her pleasure, not just his own "piddly-dink" climax. He said that climaxing was entirely too easy, too fast, not satisfying without the long run-up.
And HOW this man had come when at last she pleaded with him to do so! Explosively, incredibly hard and long-drawn-out, filling her – terminology again? – Bottom? Rectum... Maybe just ass would do? He shot gush after gush of sperm. Deep up inside her ass. She had actually, seriously, felt it flowing into her, it could NOT have been her imagination! She giggled to herself at the idea of lost sperm swimming about briskly, then frantically, deep inside her ass, doubly-damned, not only deposited in the wrong place, but definitely about thirty years too late!
Loren responded to the giggle, asked "What?"
She told, flushing red against him, rubbing her nipples on his side, asking for and receiving continued cat-strokings, then continued "It's really not very romantic, is it, when you take the spermatic point of view!? Do sperm even HAVE a point of view, do you think?"
Loren kissed her – his mouth again, exquisite. How many hours did they have left on the timer? Could they put more money in the meter if needed?
Loren finally broke and sighed – "Well, if imaginary sperm-level romanticizing is what you need, let's compare those poor lost sperm to the charge of the Light Brigade... that bit of colossal military idiocy got made into a romantic thing, even though disastrous for the men involved. Would that do for romance, or would you prefer this?" He dipped his head to nurse for a long time on her soft, sideways-hanging breast.
She purred, pressed his head against her.
Eventually, she just lay there alongside him, totally comfortable, cradled in his arm like a long cat, feeling his heart throb, strong and very slowly. It had been going a bit faster just moments ago, hadn't it! And that was HER fault, how nice. A runner's heart, she thought – it went along with the legs and the butt.
He placed her free hand on his balls: she cupped them, fondling gently, felt the renewed stirring of his damp cock against her wrist. Interesting! She could do with another round – she presumed that since her body was definitely interested, then it could withstand the gaff, even if her practice had been so limited for so long. Like a bicycle, she thought – can't forget how, and one can always learn new tricks.
Sarah drifted, hooked one leg over his, clamped his thigh between her own, rubbed her clit against the little stiff hairs on his skin, making tingles. So – what in the HELL had happened to her to put her incredibly-staid, solidly conservative and utterly monogamous little self, this sixty-four-year-old self, into this insane (but very NICE!) position?
Forty-two years of marriage to the same man, with never a hint of a lapse or an interest in generating one. Now here she was in bed – and not really in BED either, rather in a pay-by-the-hour hot-tubbing trysting spot just off-campus – and not just WITH him, but physically responsive to him beyond her wildest dreams. Perhaps his legs and butt were the causal factor? Male legs and butts - they were supposed to be major primitive-brain turn-on points for females of the human species, weren't they? Mysterious, though – she'd seen plenty of nice male asses and calves in her life, but had never gotten this reaction. Pheromones? That plus a sudden gut-wrenching realization of the sterile lack of sensuality in her marriage? Who could say?!
Her mind continued to critique her thought process, edited it severely for accuracy. It wasn't fair was it, to say that this "... had happened to her...", or that something outside of herself had "... put her into this situation." Nonsense! She had free-will, she hadn't been hit by a meteorite or had her mouth and wrists and ankles duct-taped and then been dragged in here by the hair, had she?
So – could it really be true that she'd met this man only yesterday afternoon? And at WORK, yet? It had been an amazing encounter, in its own low-key, belly-churning way. There at her own desk, in the corner of the library office, where she had worked now for several years as a volunteer – now that she'd sold her company, she had nothing to do except what she truly liked doing – books and information had always been her passions. It was hot, no AC in the old building, and she was wearing the simplest clothing she owned, sandals, no hose of course, a flowing soft short dress (she still had what she thought were rather nice calves and men had always said she had pretty feet). Sleeveless, it was, and with a good, deep (but not risqué) scoop neckline. Plain, pretty, not even a belt. Her hair, heavily laced with grey but long and still thick had been pulled up into a librarian-bun, complete with lacquered chopstick. Lipstick only, and no jewelry – she didn't think the flood of tiny wrinkles that proved she had survived sixty-four winters were amenable to being hidden, and couldn't have cared less anyhow.
She had of course noticed Loren as he entered – he was the only thing moving in the big library office. She noticed even more the unexpected twang deep in her belly. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened, but she could certainly identify it, and it flustered her mightily, even as it pleased her to still be responsive. As he came over and introduced himself, he moved confidently but carefully into the outermost fringes of her personal space, and the twang factor went up exponentially.
He was the new 50%-time person on staff to help with finding money, here to pick her brains about ideas, needs, problems. Just as he had warned in his email a few days earlier.
Amongst the social niceties of that first few minutes each had mentioned spouses, and in establishing their personas the topic of dying parents had somehow arisen. He had lost both of his, and she hers. Now it was her husband's turn, and he was off to Florida for an indefinite stay, probably weeks, with his dying father. He wouldn't return until that was over. Loren's wife was out of the country professionally for three weeks, so both he and Sarah were home-alones for the time being.
