Jayne's World

An older man and a younger woman examine the age difference to find out if it really matters.

As those of you who have read Part 1 and 2 will know this is not a wham bang thank you ma'am sort of story. It's a slow burner, with regard to describing physical sex between Jayne, a 23-year-old 'adchick' and James a 55-year-old retired banker.

For some, age is a barrier, a huge one, a non-starter. Many cannot handle age differences and won't even try. James and Jayne wondered whether they could? This series of impressions and observations examines what happened when they tried.

Reading the previous parts might add to your appreciation of the couple's situation, but it's not essential as I hope this stands alone as an erotic story.

Him,

For whatever reason, I was enjoying myself immensely. Yes, of course my 'ability' to pick up an attractive, sexy, young woman was doing wonderful things for my ego, but it wasn't just that. I mean, an ego is such a fragile thing, isn't it? There was more, much more.

I was realising that in the short time we'd spent together, I was liking you more and more. Not just liking in a 'I fancied you and wanted to fuck you sort of way' but as a person, a woman and a human being. You were than sex on legs, though you were that alright. Why the hell was it? We had nothing in common, did we? Well, there was the odd thing that kept entwining our pasts. Silly little things, perhaps, but they were there. Like Lejaby. I didn't tell you, of course, but it was the only brand of lingerie that a former girlfriend of mine would ever buy. She was a classy woman too, very classy in fact, just like the lingerie. So classy that she introduced me to the Lejaby brochure, a real, soft-porn' production and from that the TV and print media ads. I remembered the brand very well and had bought it as presents for subsequent girl-friends. It was so incredibly ironic that you had worked on that brand, perhaps something to discuss in the future, maybe even presents for you, I thought my imagination going into overdrive!

Then there was the advertising. Okay, I didn't work in the creative department, like Barry. Didn't even work for an ad agency. But as a Marketing Director, I was the creative 'brains' for my company and as a result, I dealt with several major London agencies who produced our above and below the line promotional material and TV ads. Hence, I avidly read Campaign each week and kept a very close eye on trends and movements in advertising.

The TV and radio commercials were particularly interesting, but so were the variety of online and print media ads. The one I recalled more than any other and which had stuck in my mind and something that seemed so appropriate now used the tagline. 'Growing Old Disgracefully'. Producing a series of magazine ads showing older people doing all the things that had until then been thought of as the 'province' of the young was highly stimulating. I wondered if you had written that, but doubted it as it seemed to be a message that would flow from an older person, Barry perhaps?

That headline seemed so apposite to now. Was that what I was doing, I wondered? Was that the attraction here? The fact that, at my age, I was actually pulling a hot, young bird? Pulling? Is that what I was doing? Indeed, is it still called that as it was in my day? Or, at least, trying to pull? The thing was, I wasn't really sure. I mean, it was ridiculous, wasn't it? Our age difference meant everything about this unlikely alliance was ridiculous.

And yet?

I glanced across the table at you again. Your eyes looked dreamy. There was definitely a hint of intoxication there. And a tinge of arousal too, no doubt about that. Why? What was it you found sufficiently attractive about me that made your wonderfully erect nipples push against the material of your blouse in such a provocative way?

One part of me felt ashamed of myself. So blatantly asking if you were a natural blonde. I mean, that wasn't paying you any respect, and I hated that lack of class in other men. Despised it. Yet at the same time, I wanted to take you towards the restrooms and as soon as we were out of sight of the other diners, rip that fucking blouse open and seal my lips around those wonderfully hard, so enticing nipples.

Fuck, here we go again; my erection was attempting to burst its way through the material of my trousers again. How many times was that? Perhaps I should pay a visit to the restrooms and give myself a quick hand job? Take the edge off my arousal? Drive sex from my mind, for a short while at least. But I knew that wouldn't last so I didn't go.

Looking over at you again, I realised I didn't stand a chance. Was that stroke of your hair deliberate? Or the way you idly stroked your bare arm? And that forward and backward motion as you crossed and uncrossed your legs. The look in your eyes with each movement as you stared me down? Geez, when you leant to the side like that, I could see half your right breast and nearly that enticing, strawberry areola.

As much as I tried, I couldn't quell the effect you were having on me, something I had not experienced before, well by a young chick that is, I almost laughed at how cool I could be when I tried! Yeah right, in your dreams grandad, I though bumping back to earth with a large jolt.

My thoughts conjured up the Unfaithful movie, the one where Richard Gere fucks Diane Lane in a cubicle in the toilet. Then it jumped to the scene where he takes her doggy style, at the top of the stairs leading to his flat. If anything, I grew another couple of inches at the thought.

'Want to fuck me, Jayne? Want to go through the back of this restaurant and fuck my brains out? Just like that?'

"Excuse me?" you asked, smiling sweetly.

FUCK! I hadn't actually said that, had I? "Wh... what?" I mumbled.

"You looked at me as if you were about to ask a question," you explained, running your fingers through those blonde locks again.

Thank God. The words had run through my brain, not my mouth.

But the way you gave me that Jayne look, your blue eyes staring directly into mine, that twinkling, sexual gaze boring inside me, reaching parts that longed to be reached, I was sure you knew exactly what you were doing. It was a mind fuck, pure and simple.

"Hey, James," you said, bringing me out of my reverie again.

If anything, those blue eyes upped the pace, promising everything. My cock twitched, reacting to those eyes, in just the same way as it would if you had those soft lips wrapped around it, as it would if it was slowly pushing inside you, your long legs spread wide as you welcomed me inside your buttery sex.

"Hey," you repeated.

I swallowed deeply as you leant forward. "Sorry," I mumbled again, trying to regain control of my senses for a moment.

"That's okay," you smiled, while the look in your eyes kept up the pressure. "Something's on your mind. Want to share those thoughts?"

"Want me to?" I asked, looking for a way out.

There wasn't any. The way you nodded and said, "Of course," told me that.

I swallowed again. "I was thinking how it would feel to fuck you," I simply said.

I wasn't sure what reaction I'd get. A look of shock? A burst of laughter? An embarrassed smile? It was none of those things. That same 'come-to-bed' Jaynielook continued to search inside my soul as you nodded, just as if I'd asked if you'd enjoyed the meal.

"Unbelievable," you replied, a smile breaking out across your lips. It wasn't just the answer that sent a shiver of excitement through me. Not even the matter-of-fact response, as if fucking you would blow my mind. No, it was the way those eyes said, you never know.

The spell was broken, albeit temporarily, as the waiter brought our coffees. Waiting until he left us alone, you leant across the table again. "Well?"

"Well, what?" I stupidly responded. My erection twitched again. Surely you weren't suggesting I did?

"You haven't told me what we're going to do after dinner!"

Oh, yes. That! Not an easy question to answer. After all, we'd just eaten. You'd made it clear you didn't enjoy shows. And a nightclub was a naff idea. Shit! That's when the idea hit me.

"How about?" I began, smiling at you.

Her

I don't drink red wine very much. That's not because I don't like it, for I do. I prefer the taste and the texture as it slips down my throat is usually lovely. No, I tend to choose white for two reasons. Firstly, it doesn't stain your teeth as red wine and strong coffee can. So, I take the strong coffee, espresso usually, and pass on the red stuff. As white wine seems to me to be weaker, generally, that creates the other reason why I stay away from the Clarets, the Barolo's and Chiantis; I don't get pissed as quickly on the Chardonnay, Chablis or white Burgundies as I do on them.

I had forgotten about those reasons today. I often do that with promises, vows or New Year resolutions; it can very useful having a selective memory, not to mention natural, blonde hair as well. I had no idea about my teeth as I sat listening to you and wondering where this almost Kafkaesque, certainly surreal and definitely Freudian encounter was leading. I was, though, quite aware of the second reason regarding my avoidance of red wine. Yes, I felt slightly pissed. And as those woozy feelings somewhat befuddled my head, I wondered if what some say about people being at their most natural when inebriated was true. I wondered that particularly, because I felt so unusually, almost unbelievably and certainly hugely horny. And that just doesn't happen to me, well not often.

'He didn't did he?'

'Did he say that, are my ears working properly?'

'He couldn't have done, but I think he did.'

I was saying those things to myself as we seemed to be staring at each other like two starry eyed teenagers, not like a mature man and a young bird.

I tried using my mind like a computer. Going into storage and retrieving some data so that it may be reviewed again. 'Yep, that's what he said,' the hard drive confirmed.

"I was thinking how it would feel to fuck you,"

Was I annoyed, hurt, ashamed or pleased? Did I feel insulted, worried, concerned, or scared? Had you abused, demeaned or degraded me? Were you pushing your luck, did you have unattainable aspirations, was it a bloody cheek to try to pull a grand daughter? Were you out of your fucking head asking me such a thing?

I didn't know the answers. Were there any? How does a girl handle such a situation? It was so far outside of anything that had ever happened to me that I had no previous to call upon.

All I was sure about was that, and I could hardly believe it was the paramount emotion, I was impressed. Yes, fucking impressed because an old guy had told me he was wondering what it would be like to fuck me. No one had ever said that to me before, not surprisingly really. Alright wise guys in clubs had asked smartarse questions out of the blue, like 'Do you fuck strangers?' But they didn't count. This did though. This counted a lot.

I had only once, and that was with an older guy as well, had such a conversation. One where the 'nitty gritty' was, mixing metaphors so easily, 'on the table.' Where we, well he at least, was saying what he meant and felt. It takes experience, confidence and a certain amount of gravitas to be able to wonder to a young bird what it would feel like to fuck her. It didn't, as it could so easily have, come across as sounding pervy or sleezy, assumptive or pushy. No, to my, perhaps overly impressionable ears, for I am such a sucker for intelligence, a cogently posed argument employing good English is far more likely to get my knickers down than is a Brad Pittlike face or body. Being told that someone wondered what it would feel like to fuck me, came across as being erotically intellectual, or was intellectually erotic more apt? Fuck knows.

Maybe splitting hairs somewhat, you hadn't said that you would like to fuck me, or that you had been thinking about fucking me, or how much you would like to fuck me, or how excited the idea of fucking me made you. No, you said that you were wondering how it would FEEL to fuck me. I took that to mean, not the feelings you might get from my tight young cunt muscles grabbing your cock, not the feel of my tits on your chest and not the feel on your hand and fingers from caressing my 'tits and ass.' No, I took it to mean how you would feel, really feel. How you would feel emotionally, deep down inside? You could go and buy from a hooker or massage girl the other sexually physical feelings, but not the inner feeling that only you could experience from pulling a young bird, chatting her up and impressing her, me, into letting you fuck her. Or more to the point, and probably more what you wanted, for her to fuck you as you fucked her. Isn't that what all men really want, to be fucked as they fuck?

Despite the age gap, which certainly earlier in the meal had seemed to vanish, only to come back when you mentioned about what we should do after dinner, was diminishing again now you had broached the topic that is always there when 'boy meets girl.'

'How would it feel to fuck me?' I wondered suddenly thinking 'How would it feel to be fucked by you? How would your body feel? Would you get fully hard? Would you need help, would you be able to keep it up, and stay hard for how long and when would you be able to do it again? What would your skin feel like to my touch?'

Bloody hell my slightly pissed mind was whirling fast. So fast I couldn't multi-task sufficiently to think and talk and that's why I came up with such a pants reply as.

'Unbelievable.'

I was surprised you didn't say 'What the fuck does that mean?'

Instead, as I felt the cotton of my blouse rubbing against what I knew without looking were, my straining nipples, you said. "How about?" And then paused.

It was like those stupid shows on TV when they are eliminating people and they feel that by saying 'And the couple going home this week are..............................." and then wait almost a week before announcing it, that they are building the tension. I never feel it when watching Celebrity Get Me Out of Here, but by Christ I did as I looked into your eyes searching for a sign of what might be coming next.

I half felt that you would suggest 'A nightcap at my hotel' or maybe going to a bar. A little bit of me thought you would suggest a club and some felt you would continue from 'How about' with 'Us going outside and me fucking you up against a wall in a quiet alleyway.'

With the impatience that at times makes me appear to be childlike as I try to find out what my parents have bought me for a birthday or Christmas present, I couldn't stop myself. Bending even further forward, forgetting completely that most of my tits might be on view, I grabbed your wrist. Looking right into your eyes I said in, what was probably a, pathetic American accent.

"Okay, blue eyes, spill the beans."

Him.

I laughed. Not because what you had said was funny. Actually, it was a pretty good Humphrey Bogart impression, especially for someone who hadn't seen, or even heard of the iconic figure. And the way you said it, through clenched teeth, was so Bogie-like.

In that brief instant, I found myself realising that part of your attraction was your penchant for saying little things that made me smile inside. The sort of internal smile that kept a person warm, banished the blues, made life worthwhile. Not that you were aware of that indefinable quality of yours, and that made it even more special. I mean, how many people do you know who give you that inner sense of wellbeing when you're with them? You did, and how long had I known you?

Yes, lovers probably felt like that, but that was different. There was love involved. With us, the age difference meant that we wouldn't be proceeding down that route. And even if we had been similar ages we'd only met one another a few short hours ago. No, this was a different feeling. Definitely some sort of chemistry but it was indefinable. One that said, despite the short time we'd spent together, despite the difference in ages, despite the strong probability that our interests would be different, that we were or were becoming soul mates or was I kidding myself again? Probably, but nevertheless I was immensely enjoying your company and really didn't want it to end.

Okay, I accept there was a physical attraction, on my part at least. It would be unlikely that you'd be sexually attracted to your grandad, wouldn't it? But sexual magnetism is a transient thing. Or, it is to anyone who has a modicum of intelligence. You can fancy someone, but often, most of their attributes thereafter leave you for dead.

If attraction doesn't start in my mind, then I walk away from it. Always have. Okay, there has been the odd exception, but they've only served as exceptions that prove the rule. With you, I was definitely attracted but then who wouldn't be? First, by those seductress eyes and then by all your various physical charms, in any order you wanted.

But this was more than that.

I wasn't enjoying your company because you were attractive. Without sounding boastful, I'd been in the company of so many beautiful women over the years. No, I was enjoying being with Jayne-the-person. Not Jayne the sexy young bird. It was you I liked so much, your personality, what was inside as much as the exterior of Jayne.

Then it hit me with a jolt. It was more a feeling akin to that I felt for my daughter who, I suddenly realised, could well be older than you, than with my older woman conquests. With her I had a great, easy and relaxed relationship, almost a flirty one. We laughed and joked, had little in jokes, we enjoyed being together and apart from the sexual aspect which was so very much stronger and continuous with you than with her where it only occurred occasionally, very rarely in fact, the mood and emotions were frighteningly similar.

"Still with us, are we?" I heard you ask. The question, and the mischievous look on your face, made me smile again. That internal smile.

"You seem wrapped up in your thoughts again," you continued. "Though after your last answer, I think it would be better if I didn't ask what they are, don't you?"

This time we both laughed. For a few moments, we leant forward across the table, not speaking, but smiling contentedly into one another's eyes. For a second, yours seemed --what, I don't know, innocent? -- but then that bedroom look appeared just as quickly and bingo my pride and joy slowly unfurled and stood to attention again.

If there was some way of bottling that look, I suddenly realised, the world could do without viagra, or any other sexual stimulant. Having problems with your libido, sir, the doctor would comment, not a problem, take this bottle of Jayne-potion and the old pecker will never be an issue again!

"Come on," you encouraged, your slim young hand sliding across the short distance to allow a finger to run down the back of my hand, drawing a little circle on my skin. "You haven't stopped talking since we met, surely the cat hasn't got your tongue now?"

"Never did understand that expression," I grinned. "But no, I was simply pondering on why it is we get on so well."

Your eyebrows went up in a perfect arch, even if your Jaynie-expression remained in those wonderful blue eyes. "Really? And the answer is?"

"Well..." I slowly replied, attempting to disguise my attempt at a joke with a serious look on my face. "I think that you probably go for sex appeal, whereas I go for intelligence. So, it's a perfect fulfillment match."

For a second -- a very brief second -- your face changed, but almost immediately, the humour registered. "Cheeky bugger," you laughed, throwing your head back.

Suddenly, your foot was running up my shin, your hands were pulling your top tight against your breasts, allowing me to see your twin delights with their hard bullets. How I stopped myself reaching out and fondling them I have no idea.