Gliding

I remember when my mother was 63, I was in my thirties at the time, and she was often quite lucid in those days and would surprise everyone with her insight and wisdom. She often surprised them with her lewdness and suggestive invitations to the doctors and male nurses (and a female nurse or two). But of the many things she told me I remember this one with most fondness. She said "Helen, do you know what I miss most Helen? Gliding."

I looked at her and thought 'Here we go. She's never even been in an aeroplane'

"Silk." she said, "silk across my shoulders. Gliding. My hair. Can you remember how my hair used to be?" And she closed her eyes. "Down to my bum. Gliding down my back." She shivered but brushed my hand away when I leaned forward to pull up the bedclothes. "Skin, sweat slick on skin, gliding." A trace of warm memory drew her lips into a faint smile. "Not long, not as wide as some, but when he pushed it in, it fair glided." She raised her knees and pushed her head back, deeper into the pillow. "And after, he made me wear just a dress, no stockings, no bra, and you remember how big they were? Just hanging down under the loose linen with a few buttons undone, gliding across my ribs with the sweat and his mess." Now her hips were in motion beneath the thin sheet of the bed. "And we'd walk all the way through town, with me naked underneath, and the insides of my thighs gliding. And I'd get wet again just walking and feeling the material gliding over everywhere it touched. There was nothing like it Helen."

It was difficult for me to keep my eyes on her face as she spoke, knowing what her hand under the bedclothes was doing. But she was my mother, it would be rude of me to leave whilst she was talking and I couldn't very well chide her for this, that would mean I knew what she was doing. So I sat and listened.

So this is me. And this is gliding. My mother's 'confession' must have affected me more deeply than I thought, or is it that I'll be 63 next week? Whatever the reason, this is me, gliding and there really is nothing like it. I'm wearing a thin linen dress, a pair of leather sandals and nothing else and it is delicious.

When I turn the corner, the late afternoon drinkers will be crowding the pavement, under the big brolly stuck through the middle of the table. It will be surrounded by glasses and bottles, half emptied and half full, patiently waiting for the press of lips to give their existence some meaning, to drain them of their reason.

Some of the men will look up and smile and their lips will say "hello", their eyes will ask "Can I?" or "Won't you?" I'll just smile in return and my lips will respond with "hello" but my eyes will play the coquette with "Not for you, perhaps someday." Or "maybe, but not today." Then we'll sigh inwardly and our wishes and promises will fade into the day.

The few girls there who bother to look, but then look again, will see immediately how much less I'm wearing than any of their mini skirts or belly shirts. They'll look away and dismiss me with a flick of the hair or glance at their watch or sip of their fizzy vodka in a bottle. Then I'll be 'mutton dressed as lamb' or 'saggy old bitch' or maybe, just maybe I could be someone's pupil, to be taught a thing or two.

Then I'll have walked past, smiling my wicked smile, and glancing down; I'll notice the slight protrusion of heated nipples, wondering just what those lessons might be from a woman a third of my age.

But I've yet to reach that corner and my nipples are already taut from the gliding of linen across them and my sandaled feet have slowed in wonder at these lascivious thoughts.

Now that I've stopped, I can feel the panic rising. The very slight breeze is still ruffling the folds of material across wherever it touches my body: My drooping tits, my saggy arse, my orange peel thighs, my cross-stitched, stretch-marked, 2 caesarean belly. I'm nearly 63 years old. I'm stupid. Stupid, stupid. Then just as I've made up my mind to turn and run for home my last thought "What do I think I'm doing?" is answered by the warm air dancing up my calf, an invisible hand sliding across my naked pussy: "Gliding Helen, there's nothing like it." I realise, if I don't do it now, it will never be done, and I'll lock it away with every other regret.

As I approach the corner I notice a couple, hand in hand, walking towards the front of the pub. One thing I hadn't counted on makes itself apparent. The girl is wearing a summer dress (no bra either) and the breeze and her gait have conspired to redesign it into a pair of culottes. The middle of the skirt is between her legs as she walks and the weight and fall of the material is outlining her crotch and thighs. If I turn that corner now, the exact same thing is going to happen to the pale green, cascading from my hips, for every lecher's eye, each inwardly crumbled, old man's gaze to fall upon and devour. And isn't that exactly what this is all about? The pulse-pounding thrill of being caught naked by strangers. The life affirming, gratifying sensation of being thought naked by strangers.

So I turn the corner to confront my first test while waves of anticipation break across my throat and chest in a reddening tide of conflict. Embarrassment, elation, disappointment and relief take turns about on my trembling skin as I become aware of the absence of my unexpecting audience. The tables and chairs are there: empty. The parti-coloured brolly is there, lending its friendly shade to no one. The half-filled, half-empty glasses and bottles have been drained and abandoned to sit and wait through another afternoon of eternity alone.

The late afternoon sun takes refuge behind a single early arriving cloud, to darken the scene momentarily as a sudden gust freshens my skin, robbing the sweet sweat of its warmth, to instantly harden my softening nipples and bathe my hard won show of reddened embarrassment with its cooling balm.

The finger linked couple make their cheery way into the welcoming cool of the tap-room and are instantly replaced by a teenage youth, come to survey the wreckage of the now defunct alfresco afternoon session. The rat-tailed hair, loose fitting shirt, black trousers and cherry-red boots give me no clue as to the sex of this slightly built, extraordinarily plain featured person, but still I stop and stare, attracted.

He (I've concluded it's a he) sighs with day-weary experience at the leavings and then glances at me. I smile, and his thin lips quirk faintly as he rakes his gaze down my thinly clad body, pausing twice on its journey, taking full note of my hardened, old woman, nipples capping my down pointing breasts. A flicker of his tongue signals that his eyes have reached my wind framed mons.

He looks again into my eyes, seeming to seek invitation, and now my play goes on, albeit for an audience of one. A thin 'one'. A young 'one'. A plain 'one', but a somehow plainly attractive 'one'. I raise my right eyebrow the barest fraction then face forward and saunter away. He must be watching my backside. He has to be. I can't look back to find out, but he must be looking. After several seconds (aeons) and about seven or eight paces, the clinking sound of collected glasses confirms my hopes, he was watching before he started tidying. A closed lips grin sketches itself on my face and slowly fades.

Borne on the wings of admiration, I glide.

As I reach my destination, without knowing that it was my destination: my heart begins to flutter, realising what the next step is. Naked beneath a dress in public is one thing; completely naked in a public building, even without visitors is something else entirely.

This is what I'm going to do. This must be what I was going to do from the outset, else why would I bring the keys? And why would my timing be such, that the setting sun would be glaring from the full wall of windows, allowing me an illusion of privacy in which to flaunt my nakedness before the world?

Did you ever have the chance to do this mother? When dad proudly showed you off to the town in your secret nudity. Did you wish you could be brazen enough? Did you go to the countryside and step out of your dress entirely; secretly wishing you were in a crowded place providing a feast for the starving, straight-laced eyes of your friends and neighbours? Did it burn you inside with longing? Or was the gliding enough? The thin covering hiding all your skin yet revealing everything to those who cared to see. Was that sufficient?

So here I am. And now my hand is shaking so much I can't put the key in the lock. When I step through this door I will be obligated to remove my dress and step out of my sandals and walk naked through the empty building, to the dance floor at the end of the corridor. To stand naked in front of the windows, hoping to be seen, wishing I wasn't there. To whom do I owe this obligation? You may ask. Only to myself.

The man with the dogs will be in the park outside those windows. This is his day and his time of day to walk his dogs. He'll be throwing the stick, always the same stick, for his dogs to chase and he will look and see my bare breasts, my naked thighs, my unhidden self. Then the lady that he meets will arrive. The old lady with the cane she uses for walking, because her left side is still weak from the stroke she suffered last year. She will smile her half smile when she spies him standing, looking in. Then she will walk up behind him and kiss the back of his head and his hand will reach for hers. Then she will see me, and she'll share that half smile and her drooping eyelid will flicker as she takes in my nakedness.

The woman with the cane will lean on the man, because she's walked quite a long a way to get there and needs the rest and the man will support her while they gaze at my nudity. They will be my audience. I will feel safe and sluttish at the same time because even though I don't know the man, I do know the three-quarter woman that rests on his shoulder. She is my neighbour, Eileen. The man is her lover and the park outside is where they tryst.

Seeing me this way, Eileen will know that I will never say a word about her young man and my payment for that small service will be to have her look and tender me her half-smile.

So I finally step through the door and fumble the lock closed, leaving the key in its place. I step out of my sandals and begin to undo the ten buttons confining my nakedness. I stop at 5, suddenly unsure. The sunless corridor gifts me two sensations: A tingling chill as the film of perspiration cools on my body and, as I take a step away, a tiny rivulet from my hot sex sliding down my sticky thigh, to the back of my knee and slowing, stopping, drying, midway down my calf. And now I'm gliding, alternating my stride to feel the full effect of the slickness, lubricating each step. My pace quickens to rustle the linen about my legs, to encompass my pussy in its folds and to sway my hanging breasts, in opposition, slitherly across my ribs and back to slap the silence of the vacant hallway.

I stop at the doors to the dance floor, savouring the sensation of my stiffened nipples pressed now tight to the material. I look down to witness the sheen I know will be there, marking the divide of the valley between my breasts. I smile to see that my left nipple, reddened and hard, is caught in the doubled seam of the bodice. As I push through the doors to the hall I see a figure at the window and my plan falls apart. My determination flees, as do I, on fat, chunky old woman legs, feet slapping the parquet in sharp counterpoint to flabby white tits slapping my age distended belly. I burst through the office door at the end of the hall, slamming it shut to hide my shame and regret. As the thunder of my pulse slows along with gasping, rasping breath I take stock and find that a broad grin has affixed itself firmly to my face and, try as I might, I cannot make it leave.

As I'm about to do up my buttons with wavering fingers I pause and my smile broadens.

That was so good. It felt wonderful. Even amongst the shame and revulsion, which overtook me as I ran, there was elation and delight mixed in. I was ashamed of my fat flabby tits and at the same time energised, knowing that a stranger might see them. Was it the man with his dogs? It must be, no one else uses the park, but why was he looking in before I got there?

Peering from behind closed curtains, I strain to catch a glimpse of the stranger. What will I do if Eileen doesn't come today? What won't I do? I'll wait a few minutes and then go back out and re-arrange some of the chairs and tables around the hall. I'll leave the buttons as they are. I undo another button. Perhaps he'll beckon me over when he sees me and ask me to let him in.

I'll say "There's no one here except me, why do you want to come in?" And he will say "Because I've seen you many times before today, Eileen has spoken about you and your sexiness, the way you walk and the generous proportions of your body. I'd like to see more." And I would say "And what will Eileen say when she finds you in here, alone, with me?" Then he will say "When she finds us together she will ask if she may come in also to join us."

As I re-adjust my position at the curtain I'm amazed at the soft, sliding wetness of my thighs. I pull up my skirt and look down to see old woman, flesh liberally coated with sex juice, glistening from crotch to knee. How many years has it been? Eight? Ten? I cannot remember the last time I felt a male hand on my parts. I'm mesmerised by the shimmering of dense pussy hair. I draw a finger lightly across the lower fringe and bring it before my eyes to wonder at my still apparent need after all these years.

Without thought or volition I find my fingers returning to that place between my legs. A separate part of me stands back with disgust and horror. "I'm going to be a bad girl. I'm going to do it to myself. I'm going to do that naughty girl thing with my own hand and fingers inside." The separate part of me imagines the position my body holds. A small step back and my bottom touches the edge of the desk which stands against the wall. The cheeks of my large bottom spread across that edge as I settle my weight and crook my back further to see what it is I will do.

With the outside edges of my feet flat to the floor I spread my knees. My left hand holds my skirt bunched under the weight of my now freed breasts. Amazingly, my left wrist begins a sinuous movement of its own accord to graze and scratch across the distended, rose red nipple it has encountered. Seeing that I'm wearing my watch my bunched fist, between my breasts begins a slow sawing motion, to bring the strap of the watch back and forth along the very edge of the wanting bud.

A string of saliva drips from my open lips onto my naked thigh and right wrist.

I push a lock of hair from my face and leave a quickly warm to cold and drying trail of pussy juice along my temple. As my hand falls back towards my hidden place (now available to view for anyone that should open the door) my fingernails strike an arpeggio of lighting chords through me. My body dances in time. I play the chord again: andante. Again: adagio. Again, this time larhgetto. And each action brings a voiceless accompaniment of gasps rising from pianissimo to forte. As the music swells within bringing me to an inevitable, veritable "Hallelujah Chorus" I pause at the height of crescendo, waiting for the long forgotten, easily recalled, finale, but find only a coda.

It seems I must play a different instrument if I want to live the whole solo concert.

So I push away from the desk and unbutton the rest of my dress. Now my glance takes in the long mirror attached to the back of the door, which I stand in front of to watch myself remove the linen and reveal the old flesh, the sagging, wrinkling breasts, the thickly haired mons, the jutting, criss-crossed belly and I see that it's still mine. It's what I have. And if these down drooping tits with their brown, spotted areolae can give me this pleasure (yes, I admit it, pleasure, however naughty and dirty it is) then what will this grey streaked mons, with its now puffy distended lips offer me, given the chance? Well now I'm going to find out. And, wonder of wonders, I'm going to watch too. So I let the short sleeves of the dress fall from my arms so that I'm standing in a puddle of green linen.

Bending my right knee, I lift my foot to rest it at hip height on the back of the chair by the door, I push my hips forward and arch my back. Not once am I distracted by the cracked nail on my middle toe, nor tempted to pull at the jagged edge of it to cause that very slight, very interesting pain which would inevitably draw iridescent carmine to mesmerise me with its slow ooze.

This time my concentration is on that secret, rude place. That, now glistening, actually throbbing, place. I reach a tentative index finger towards the hidden slit and the first brushed hair sends a tremor from my slack belly, across my groin and down my rigid left leg to tingle my curling toes. I remember my good fingernail on my little finger and scrape it lightly downwards at the juncture of my lips and thigh. Can I tease myself like this? What the hell am I waiting for? Isn't 48 years enough?

When I reach the gap at the top of my legs I switch fingers for the upward journey. Now my middle finger is moving slowly, tantalisingly, perhaps guiltily, up and between my labia, those unkissed lips. Now I can relax and just watch, my fingers have their own secret knowledge of this. The very tip of my finger, not even to the first knuckle, dips inside and then out. Again, in and then out. The sight is as pleasurable as the touch, as my eyes follow the automatic movement; in then out, in then out. I bring up my left hand, which has been tracing idle circles about my hip, and press the tips of three fingers into the topmost fringe of pussy hair, to press hard at my mons and begin again their circular motion to accompany the quickening pace of that single finger below.

This is where it will be. This is where it will start. Somewhere beneath those three fingers at the top of my quimmy. Here is pleasure. Here is abandon. As the tingling becomes a pulsing beneath those fingers I press inside, to the middle knuckle with the finger below. Deeper into the wetness, into the slick purse.

Now two, fat covered fingers, deep into the hot. The pulsing grows and makes my vision thrum in time, in and out of focus. I look into the mirror to witness this, bystanding. Hypnotised. I press the middle finger of my left hand downward to meet the upthrusting two below, to join them inside and am suddenly struck a magnificent electric blow to my whole body. My leg buckles at the knee and I throw myself into the chair, gasping at this onslaught of ecstasy.

Shocked and dazed at this totally new sensation I close my eyes, and leaving guilt 'til later I let my fingers search once again for this place, palace, of tactile wonder. I lean forward on still shaking legs to crook my wrist and point two, no three, fingers at my willing pussy and then gently, ever so gently, lower myself to be impaled with joy. Oh.

As I writhe on my fingers, with juices greasing my palms and the wooden seat I snake my free hand to my belly, between my loose flopping breast and the skin on my ribs. I lift my wrist to bring my breast upwards and let the stiff nipple slide quickly across the buckle of my watchstrap. Oh God.

I take the nipple between my thumb and fingers and begin to pull outwards, extending my tit away from my body, excruciating in the conflict of pain and untold pleasure. Lifting the hard nub before my face I let it slap back down into my belly and then take hold of it in a claw of fingers to press bitten nails deeply into the folds. Gasping. Jesus, God.