Its Never Too Late 1

Prologue.

Let me introduce you to Anne and relate some of her history for you.

At the time of my writing she is fifty-six, and lives in her house in the hills. She has always had a predilection for men younger than herself, and in fact, "predilection" is a very good word to use, because with respect to young men she has been very "predatory" in her time.

She married at age thirty to a man ten years younger than herself, and when she was forty two he appraised her of the fact that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life with her, and departed her company for ever.

Phase 1.

Anne was shattered for about two weeks then, girding up her sexual loins, or whatever women do in such circumstances, had her hair dyed, her teeth fixed and her eyes laced with contact lenses (prior to this she wore spectacles with glass that looked like the bottom of coke bottles). This refurbished tigress then emerged from her lair to predate.

The newly "done over" Anne looked reasonably presentable. I shall not lead you astray by pretending she was a world-beater in looks with long legs, 40D bras and all that. She in fact had a slightly spidery look, which of course is a predator in it's own right.

Facially I would say she was pleasant enough, and as a male, I can say that when she gave you the "once over," you really knew it. It was the equivalent of the male to female look when the woman afterwards says, "He undressed me with his eyes."

And if you really must know, they are about 34C.

By profession she is a librarian and works in the library of "The City Mental Hospital." Many young doctors on their way to becoming psychiatrists train in this hospital, and this provided Huntress Anne with a fine jungle to stalk in.

I must be fair and point out that during her marriage to her youthful husband, she was ever faithful to him. She just amused herself by trying to inspire unsatisfied erections among the male hospital staff – especially the young ones.

During the fortnight of her post partnership bereavement, she made use of the hospital facilities to the extent that she got herself, shall we say, counseled? She chose for this purpose the youngest, and she hoped the horniest of the interns.

She gained their attention with a display of tears, hysterics and cries to the Creator, all of which related to her deprivation. The "Deprivations" at first concerned those matters of love, warmth and companionship, but fairly quickly came to centre on her female sensual needs.

By the end of the fortnight, a number of psychiatric couches had rocked to the tune of fornicatory therapy, and Anne was well on the road to recovery.

Phase 2.

In the following years Anne enjoyed many liaisons, some more successful than others. She was not overly concerned about penis sizes. Her main interest was, that the male organ was erect and active in her mouth, anus, vagina or on occasions spurting between her breasts. She did of course expect breasts to be squeezed and kissed, nipples to be sucked and the clitoris to be given its due, but she aimed to please as well as being pleased.

Her kindness and generosity to young males became a byword, and for years, she was kept busy introducing them to the more intricate aspects of female anatomy, for which, in the main, they were very grateful. No doubt, it was a psychiatric career advancing experience.

Not of course, that she limited her warmth to medicos. She was always prepared to step outside the bounds of the profession so long as the youth was ardent enough. It was just that the young docs were nice and handy.

Anne did however draw the line at one point. In her words, "I could never have sex with a man who hasn't got a university degree." Thus with Anne, coital victory was measured by academic success.

For many years, all went well. The post-connubial bed creaked nightly to the joyful fornication of Anne and her youthful Inamoratas. She did try playing doubles and on one occasion triples, but Anne is the sort of woman who likes to concentrate on what she is doing – or what is being done to her. Too many penises simultaneously penetrating vagina, anus and mouth, only confused her, so after experimenting, she reverted to one at a time.

All went merrily along until, entering her fifties, Anne noticed a gradual fall off in those offering to console her in her loneliness and need. It rather crept up gradually until at the end of one week she realised that no male genitalia had been active in any of her hemispheres.

This didn't trouble her at first, and she said to herself, "It's pure chance. Just worked out that way." The following week did not confirm her optimism. No further intimate relations came about. Now she began to feel troubled.

She attended her hairdresser and had the colour of her hair changed to a sort of purple. Her dentist went over her teeth and, much to her dismay, did so without once even brushing his hand across her breasts.

Panic began to set in. She went to her doctor for a thorough physical examination and not once did his hand even approach her sexual organ. Naked, she examined herself closely in the full-length mirror, then she went over her face with the magnifying small mirror she used to find and remove blackheads. She bought an exercise bicycle on which she pumped for hours to remove any superfluous avoirdupois.

She tried to enhance her devastatingly sensual "I'm available" glances, but there was no response. Youthful doctors who once lingered and lounged over her librarian's desk, made hasty enquiries about books and magazines and upon receiving the necessary information, hurried on.

Phase 3.

Now began the dark days for Anne. She could no longer avoid the truth of her wretched situation.

Pains began to twinge in sundry joints. Beneath the purple, red, green and yellow of her hair (she tried many varieties of colour), she knew her hair to be completely grey. Her once flashing white teeth (compliments of her dentist) were now darkened. Her eyes were often tearful with contact lens irritation. Most horrid of all, her once not over large, but proudly erect bosoms, began to succumb to the blandishments of gravity.

It came to pass in those days, that even men of middling years passed by on the other side. Anne realised that now had the dark night of the soul come upon her. She was alone in her isolated house in the hills. Shunned by her colleagues, she was even left unravished by the casual encounterer.

It was at this point in her now drear existence I chanced upon her in the City Art Gallery. She was gazing with longing at the picture of a naked male youth. It was many years since I had last seen her, and I barely recognised her. She had the look of a rather forlorn grandmother who had been deprived of grandmotherhood for the simple reason she had no grandchildren.

We exchanged salutations and went for a cup of coffee together. It was over the cup of coffee that I learned some of the details I have given above.

As we came to part, she said forlornly, "I've given up now. I don't think Mr.Right will ever come along." She left me, her back bowed and with shuffling gait.

Phase 4.

I kept in touch with Anne from time to time after our meeting, and so I can relate to you how things fell out for her.

One day as she surveyed the ruinous state of her household décor, she decided to have the place painted. She selected a contractor, and on the day arranged, the painter turned up. He was a lusty youth of some twenty-two years, and visible through his nicely snug shorts one could see his excellent endowment.

He set to on all the scraping and scrubbing that painters and decorators seem to engage in prior to the grand finale of applying paint. Mid morning, Anne invited him to partake with her in a cup of coffee. She found him open and friendly and given to talk about himself and ask impertinent personal questions.

Lunchtime he joined Anne again in eating and conviviality. Despite his lack of academic degrees, Anne found herself liking him, and over the following days they exchanged ever more intimate details of their lives, likes and dislikes.

The bells rang for Anne, when our hearty youth slyly let it be known that his sexual preference was for older women. This subject was expanded upon over several coffee meetings, until Anne resolved to act. As gamblers are wont to say, "You've got to be in it to win it."

Anne waited for an opportune moment, and that proved to be when the youth was halfway up a ladder wielding his brush. Anne approached him and undoing the belt of his shorts and pulling down the zip, she began to play gently on his organ.

The youth was surprised, or at least he feigned to be surprised. My own opinion is that this was what he had been working up to. Whether genuinely surprised or not, his ample penis rose in splendour, and in no time Anne was caressing it with flashing tongue.

Not to be outdone, the youth descended the ladder, picked up granny Anne, and carried her into the bedroom. Here he divested her and himself of garments, and commenced to flay her breasts, nipples and clitoris with his tongue.

Now followed a mighty battle between the two of them. On one side was years and experience, and on the other, youth and enthusiasm. I could not say who won the encounter, but I can tell you that for the first time since the departure of her erstwhile hubby, a non-academic sexual organ entered the flower of Anne's womanhood.

Epilogue.

I met with Anne again recently. Once more, I hardly recognised her. Ten years had been stripped away from her. She walked with grace and ease, and her hair is now its natural grey ("He likes me that way," she said).

It seems that Anne and the youth have established something of an ongoing relationship. He has moved into her house and occupies her bed. He pleasures her body (and his), eats her food, drinks her drinks and, spends her money. As Anne commented, "What's it for if not to enjoy."

Anne's summarising remark was, "It's like having a pleasant grandson, only more so."

I shall not point the moral of this story, ladies. If it is not obvious to you, then it is for you, "Too Late."