Birgit is waiting for me when I get in from work. A blonde Swedish beauty, wearing a long black silk robe. She has made me a whiskey and dry ginger, and serves it to me as I sit down in my favourite armchair. Then she takes out a little blue lozenge, places it on her tongue. Looking me in the eyes, challenging, alluring, she advances on me. She climbs deftly up on me, straddling me, grinding her wet pussy against my growing erection, and feeds me the Viagra with her tongue, kissing me long and lovingly, squirming sexily, after I swallow it down. I reach to undo her robe, but the little minx evades me and slips away.
"Not yet," she breathes. "Not yet, Daddy. Wait and get hard for me while I prepare myself for you."
She slips into the bathroom, closes the door. I strip naked, then sit in my armchair and sip my drink as the Viagra works its magic. I can hear her singing in the shower, humming to herself as she prepares for another night of fucking. I still marvel that she is my lover. She is beautiful, with a perfect body. She possesses the flexibility of a ballerina and the strength and stamina of an athlete. She is erotically skilled, insatiable, and knows no sexual inhibitions. And she is eighteen.
*
We met at an arthouse cinema double bill. I noticed the young woman in the queue ahead of me in a vintage velvet dress, struggling to find enough small change to pay for her coffee.
"Let me get this," I offered. She smiled in thanks -- then impishly added a chocolate cake to her order too. We started talking about the film we had seen, the director. I should say that at fifty, a respectable, married, investment banker, I am not in the habit of chatting up young women in cinemas. But there was something so compelling about those icy blue eyes, that gorgeous narrow face, with its habitual sulky pout that could suddenly transform into the most dazzling smile. I was enjoying her company, and it was -- I quite admit -- flattering being seen with such an enchanting young girl. Her outfit was modest, but still showed off her slender frame and the hint of the curve of breasts and hips. Her hair was in tight bunches that evening, and her clear, youthful, flawless complexion shone against the dark green dress.
We made small talk. Her name was Birgit. She was from Sweden, a fashion student at the start of her course. She was enjoying being in a new city. She thanked me for my suggestions of museums and galleries to visit. Yes, she would like another coffee and cake! "Thank you very much, Mr?"
"Charles. Call me Charles, please, Birgit."
The next film was due to start. I thanked her for her company, she thanked me for the coffee. I went into the auditorium, sat down. Then as the credits began to roll, I heard the rustle of velvet, smelled her perfumed body spray, and Birgit sat down next to me.
After the film ended, she looked expectantly at me, those blue eyes wide and questioningly.
"Would you like to go somewhere and have a chat about this film too, Birgit?"
She nodded eagerly.
And so we found ourselves at a nice bar and bistro, drinking wine over a late supper and talking about cinema. Again, I was surprised -- I really do not do this sort of thing. Yet there I was, a lovely young girl hanging on my every word and gazing deep into my eyes. And then -- I felt a teasing, tickling sensation along my shin as she had slipped out of her shoe and was running her toes up my leg beneath my trousers. She looked unblinking into my eyes as she worked me, a provocation, a challenge.
I had never though before of being unfaithful to my beloved wife Jennifer, but this was a temptation too far. I reached my hand under the table, slipped it beneath the hem of that velvet dress, then slid it up her leg. I felt the delicious buzz of nylon over firm flesh, then lace and bare skin --
"Stockings?" I said out loud.
Birgit nodded.
"I like to wear them when I wear vintage. They feel good on my legs, don't they Charles? I like how they feel. You do too, don't you?"
I nodded, as we caressed each other beneath the table. I ran my hand over the firm thigh, palm stroking the nylon and fingertips teasing bare flesh, as she rubbed stocking-clad toes up my shin.
"Sometimes, men tell me to keep my stockings on. And I always obey!" she breathed. Men? She was eighteen. How many men had this teasing little minx had? Enough to turn her into a skilled seductress. I was putty in her hands. When she said simply, "Get a hotel!", I at once took out my phone and booked a room and a taxi to take us there.
In the taxi, she sat demurely, occasionally slipping me a lascivious glance. Once in the hotel room, she flung herself into my arms, kissing me passionately open-mouthed, that nimble tongue I was to come to know intimately entering my mouth for the first time. I kissed her back, teasing her tongue with mine, exploring her mouth gently at first then more voraciously.
"God! Older guys kiss so well!" she gasped when we broke for air.
"Champagne?" She suggested. I called room service as she proceeded to undress me, undoing my tie, taking my jacket off, unbuttoning my shirt and pulling it from my trousers, then kneeling to remove my shoes and socks, staying on her knees and unbuckling my belt and slipping my trousers and shorts down,
I was erect, hungry for her. She smiled at my hard cock -- I know I am well-endowed, but she reinforced this with her surprised gasp and cry -- "Oh! So big!" She opened her mouth wide, ready to begin to fellate me, when a knock came at the door.
"Room service!"
She jumped up, answered it -- I was naked, so had to let her. She thanked the waiter, came back with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with two glasses.
I opened the bottle and poured our drinks. She seemed to approve of my familiarity with handling expensive drinks. We drank, then kissed some more, with me caressing her body through the lovely old dress, then she broke away and stepped back.
