Jayne's World

The 23-year-old gives the 55-year-old a BJ.

Her.

As if from afar, I heard you say, "What did I do wrong this time?"

"You fucking well raped me," I gasped, still out of breath from the energetic fuck.

"That wasn't rape, my dear."

"What the fuck was it then?"

"Maybe near rape, possibly slightly forced, but certainly instinctive sex," you replied, sounding slightly smug to me as you continued. "At no time did you say no James and I had you, I would have stopped immediately?"

I did actually believe that and sort of little loved you for it, for above all else you were a gentleman, with both the good and the not so good, that brings.

"I guess so," I sighed turning onto my side facing away from you. I glanced at the clock, it was just two thirty, about three hours since you had arrived at Kings Cross, just over an hour and a half since you had entered my home, and less then that since you had started to undo the buttons on my waistcoat. It seemed amazing that we had fluffed around for so long with me playing hard to get by not contacting you, yet within a couple of hours or so of us being alone you had fucked me twice and made me cum several times.

"And you did tell me to go with the flow and trust my instincts, didn't you?"

"Yes," I mumbled, feeling quite confused at my feelings.

"So, I did, I felt some aggression was needed, you needed a hard fuck and I gave you that, didn't I?"

I realised that you were a bit pissed off at me. Nothing new in that, lots of blokes go that way with me, especially during sex. I get funny after a climax, probably some bloody hormonal thing, who knows?

I realised also that you were venting your 'pissed off at me feelings' by basically saying 'fuck you I'll do what I want and in the process, I'll take control.' Oddly, I liked that. It doesn't happen often. Most blokes sort of pay homage to me, probably the blonde hair, blue eyes, pert tits and open legs, I guess.

As I lay there on my side, my body bent at the waist my bum just touching you, somewhere, I felt you stroking my hair and then running your fingers up and down my back. That felt nice.

"Mmmmm, I like that James."

"Did you enjoy the sex better that time?"

"Yes, much better, it was fantastic."

"Good, but now perhaps we should have a little rest," you suggested.

Smiling and turning onto my back and looking at you I said, as I held my hands above my head stretching my boobs. "Yes, at my age I need to take things slowly."

You laughed at that.

"Maybe now it is just some food or a drink and not me on the menu. What would you care for?" I asked, running the back of my fingertips across my breasts.

Him

After two energetic fucks, I wasn't going to get hard again, not for a while. But I swear the sight of you running your fingertips across your breasts made me twitch.

There's something about a woman's breasts that are so fucking attractive. I love them. I love the sight, the feel, the shape and the touch. I love the way the move, the jiggle and wobble. I love the taste and how they feel on my tongue and lips. Your breasts were pretty near what I consider to be perfect. Not too big, but large enough. Beautifully round areola. Delightfully thick nipples.

As I gave some thought to your question, I reached across and covered your hands, pushing them down so they more or less cupped your tits. Slowly, I rotated your hands across your breasts, pushing them down, pulling them sideways, and rotating them in circles.

Your eyes looked down at my hands, watching them as I manipulated yours, then glanced back into mine. Your mouth was open slightly, and I was sure your breathing had increased a little. Mine certainly had. I forced your hands into a rougher movement, pushing down hard, mashing them into your tits, wondering if your nipples were hardening into your palms.

I leant forward and hardened my tongue, stroking it up one side of your neck, then across and around to the other. We kissed for a moment, gently, breathlessly, and then I pulled my face a few inches away so that I could stare down into those blue eyes.

"Pizza," I said, feeling my cock twitch again at the way you looked back at me. Even at rest, it seemed my pride and joy was unable to resist that Jayney look. "And wine," I added thinking, 'for fucks sake never let her know you call it your pride and joy!'

I pulled your left hand away from your right breast and held it down at your side, my prisoner, while I lowered my head to that wonderfully erect nipple. I took the hard bud between my lips, slowly suckling it, delighting in the shape, the hardness, the feel, the taste.

I sucked harder, but this time I took more of your breast into my mouth, sucking in as much as I could before allowing it to escape with a pop.

Then I was pulling your right hand away from your left breast, gently twisting your arm so that the affect of being my captive was emphasised. My mouth plunged to that newly freed breast, taking as much as I could between my lips again and sucking hard.

I was sure I heard a moan, and transferred my attention to your nipples only. God, they were wonderfully hard. I sucked like a baby, or what I assumed a baby would do, attempting to draw any taste I could from your swells. When I heard you groan again, I let go of your hands, gratifyingly feeling them go straight to my hair, digging in, pulling me tighter to your tits.

I glanced up at your face. Your eyes were closed.

"Hey," I said, reluctantly leaving your tits and running my tongue upwards, across your freckles, to your lips. I kissed you again, before asking, "Where's my fucking wine and pizza?"

Her

I giggled. "Come on let's have some naked dining," I said as I got out of bed.

You followed me downstairs and once in the kitchen I was able to have a good look at your body. I chuckled to myself as I thought of what you had said earlier about wearing a bag over your head. In reality the only meaningful difference between you and a thirty or so old were the wrinkles on your face, so yes, a bag would have removed that age indicator, I suppose: a better action, though, was to ignore the wrinkles.

Your body was fine and other than it thinning a little you had a fine head of hair. Unlike some of the even quite young guys I had been with you didn't have a beer belly and there was hardly a spare ounce of flesh anywhere. And as to the flesh, which genuinely I'd had reservations about, there was hardly a wrinkle and it felt just as smooth to my touch as the others had who had welcomed my touch.

As I was beginning to find out, however, it was not the physical side of life that creates difficulties between people of different ages. Ok, I thought you tried a little too hard, you were a little too 'text book' in your way of making love and at first it was a bit one way; you fucking me, not us fucking each other. But you had made me cum to varying levels at least half a dozen times in a short space of time, you had made oral love to me in quite a spectacular way and you'd shagged me twice. So much for older men lacking stamina, I thought.

There were emotional differences though, generational ones, language, honeybunch, vino, your pride and joy, fucking hell what bilge, and did you use TTFN in one of your texts or phone calls? There was also 'what this was all about differences;' you wanted to 'experience' me, I wanted you to fuck me and fuck the experiencing each other. Clothing and style too: rimless glasses and short sleeved shirts were not exactly cool, even for a fifty something year old, I thought, but then what was I after, I asked myself? Why had I invited you here? It wasn't as if I was that short of invites that I had to crawl to you; it's not that hard for blondes, with pert tits to get themselves laid when they need to. Unanswered questions really, for I had no specific answers, even though some vague notion was forming in the back of my mind.

As I opened the big American fridge mum had recently installed, the blast of cold hair on my nakedness immediately hardened my nipples and brought my chest and tits out in goose bumps.

"You open the Chilean Shiraz," I said, a little harshly, "I'll do the pizza and salad."

"You can manage to cook that can you?" You asked rather sarcastically, but more in the spirit I was used to and felt comfortable with than the more 'lovey dovey' way you seemed to prefer.

"Yes, I'm ace at cooking salad," I said over my shoulder as I chopped up a few tomatoes, some cucumber and other stuff.

Cooking, well defrosting and microwaving actually, which is more my style, making a salad and laying the table in the kitchen, naked, was hardly romantic, but it was quite sexy.

That said though, we soon seemed to forget both our nudity, the fact that we'd had sex several times and would surely continue later and became, in effect, nudists. I almost forgot to look at your face, let alone cock as we finished the Chilean Shiraz, the wine loosening both our tongues and our verbal inhibitions.

"What are you after Jayne?" You asked.

"How do you mean?"

"Well sexually and with me. I'm under no illusions, I know you don't need me, I know you could pull almost any man and I'm not really as big an adventure for you as you are for me."

"Am I James?" I asked leaning forward my breasts almost dangling down like mum's big D or even DD cup mounds do. I stroked your wrist.

"Yes of course. Unless you're a Rolling Stone or an Eric Clapton or Bernie Ecclestone few men my age get to have girls of yours."

"Yes, I see."

"So, what's the appeal of an old fart like me?"

"Truthfully James, there was little appeal at first. I didn't even think you were interested, but we did have a fun day and what we did in the alley was cool."

"So, was that why I got the Jaynie command?" You asked slightly moving your chair so you could run your foot up my lower leg.

"I'm not sure," I replied getting up and moving over to your side of the table. I sat on the edge, facing you, my legs slightly parted, our knees touching.

"When do you think you might know more?" You asked your eyes focusing on the lips of my pussy which I knew would be on view.

"Come and sit here," I said, patting the edge of the table. "Well prop yourself, don't sit."

You did as I asked. I stood up and again faced you. I felt aroused once more and I guessed that probably showed with my nipples and by the amount my lips would be glistening. I put my hands on your legs, each just above your knees. I looked you right in the eye as I slowly bent down, almost as If I was curtseying. Lower and lower until I was kneeling; now my posture was not looking as if I was genuflecting, but praying. I was kneeling between your opened legs. Your naturally, still flaccid cock was right in front of my face. I took hold of it and lifted it. It was warm, not cool as I expected. My eyes raised and my face lowered I slowly brought it to my lips. Holding your gaze, I muttered. "And for dessert James, I think you know what's on my menu?" Just before I licked the length of your cock and slipped it into my mouth.

Him.

I swear, at that moment I felt like I was in sexual heaven. Because of what I'd seen, what was happening, and what was about to happen.

By 'what I'd seen', I mean the way you'd gone down on me. With me, sex is in the mind as well as the body, it's an emotional as well as physical experience. Fuck there's that word again, experience; it seems to crop up so often If my mind isn't turned on, then my body won't be either. That doesn't mean I can't/won't fuck of course. It usually makes no difference to my abilities in that respect. But if my mind is turned on too, it enhances the whole thing, raises the sex onto another plane. At least for me an old fogey, I don't know about young bucks but then really, I don't care about them.

That's what I mean by experiencing as against just fucking, I guess. But let's not go there. I was never going to be able to explain that, and even if I did, I'd get the Jaynee scathing scepticism.

It seems that for the youth of today, one fuck is the same as the next, one blowjob is the same as the next. For the older generation, good sex, really good sex is something to be savoured. Experience has shown us that sex no matter who it's with is not always good sex. Sometimes it's just sex, ordinary sex, getting rid of frustration or dutiful sex.

So, returning to 'what I'd seen', let me explain. Only one previous lover had ever gone down on me with anything like the sexiness you had, and that was a long time ago. What was so sexy? Well, okay, it was this:

Your eyes.

Yes, your eyes. Not just your eyes, of course, but that's where the feeling started. The way you looked at me with that sexy, Jayne-like gaze. It kind of homed in on my sexual psyche, hitting parts that other gazes can't reach. I can't really explain, except that the Jayne-look intensifies the feeling of excitement, brings it alive, even before the physical contact takes place.

If that wasn't enough, you kept your gaze on me throughout. From the moment you put your hands on my legs, and slowly bent down, lower and lower, until you were on your knees between my open legs. The sight of you there was intoxicating, and yes, it was enhanced by the way you looked at me throughout.

As for 'what was happening', your fucking lips were on me of course. Not on my hard dick. But on my l flaccid cock, which was still recovering from our two bouts of lovemaking upstairs.

Other than one instance in my life, cock sucking has taken place when I was already aroused, or half aroused. So, that's why the way when you took my still recovering cock, cradled it, and licked the length before slipping it into your mouth was so special. Okay, okay, these are probably things that mean very little to a twenty-three- year-old siren, but to someone sitting on the other side of the generation gap, they had quite an effect.

As for 'what was about to come', my imagination was alive and dancing a jig of joy (no, don't quote that to her). I looked down into those Jayne-blue eyes and my body jerked at the sight. I watched your lips cover my cock as your hand cradled my balls and I grunted my approval. I felt my cock start to react and I dropped my hand down to your blonde hair, slowly gathering it between my fingers.

Oh fuck, Jayne. Every part of my body was throbbing at 'what was about to come'.

Her.

Feeling a cock grow from its soft and quite useless, sexually, state into a powerfully hard fucking machine is always an incredible sensation for a girl. In your hand it's wonderful, against your body, especially your stomach, it's great, but when it happens in your mouth it's absolutely fucking marvellous. And it's not just the feeling of power, the cockiness of thinking 'I did that, I caused his excitement', it's the emotions and sensations, the pleasure you give him and the mutuality of doing something so wonderful together; it's also real sex, I think.

Now and then, it happens quickly. Hardly has my hand, tummy or tongue touched the silky softness of a soft dick then it's ballooning into its full majesty. That's generally the second time, the time after we have shagged and are about to have the other half. That's nice, well actually it's bloody marvellous, but the sensation is insignificant to when it happens slowly; it's nowhere near as sensational as when I have to work at making it happen and when my lover has to try hard. That can be, say the third or fourth time in an evening, or for an encore in the middle of the night, but don't get me wrong, it is nowhere near the frequent an occurrence I seem to be making it sound.

DD, my only real mature lover is in his forties. A good age for men, but a rotten one, I imagine, for women. For men, though, or so I have read and been led to believe, it can be an awkward time. Physically, and mentally, so the books, and Marie Clare and Cosmo say, and they are such bibles of feminine sexuality, it can be a difficulty age. To cut to the quick, it is the time when a man's 'essential equipment' their 'prides and joys' can start to go on the blink; the time when some of his juices dry up and when his eventual deterioration into a pretty useless 'fucking machine' begins. Not for all, by all means, but for some for sure. And from his forties, most men know that their essential equipment will never perform as well again. It is with men of that age, and up, even though until you I'd had no experience of the 'and up,' that women have to try hardest, and that means slowest and that means sensational. Perhaps that is the reason some of us, an increasing number too, I read, are attracted to old farts!

Taking a cock into your mouth is quite some adventure. There's the smell and taste to enjoy or occasionally overcome, and there is the sheer intimacy of both, being so close and having a man in a non-traditional part of your body. There's also the 'problem' of how far you will go and the situation of ''what should she do?' When I go down on a man, I tend to think it's my show, my party piece, my action. Ok let him stroke my hair, maybe tug it a bit, caress my breasts or pinch my nipples, even rub my body anywhere and, perhaps, just perhaps, touch my pussy. But he should not have full involvement. I don't want to be finger fucked, I don't want my tits sucked or my bum invaded. I'm doing it for him no, for us through him, and it's a gesture where he really should 'lay back and think of England' (not playing bloody cricket though!). There are other times and probably places too, where we can both oral each other in the almost gymnastics of 69, but this was not one of those.

Staring, not too intently, but hopefully beguilingly into your eyes I licked you. You tasted nice and you smelt muskily perfect, you reeked of sex and that was fine by me. With my mouth wide open, I put my tongue on the bottom of the bulbous tip holding the slightly thinner tube between that and your balls and stomach. I could see the desire, the want, the pleasure and yes, probably, the thanks as well in your eyes as you stroked my hair. I closed my mouth so that your cock was wrapped between my tongue and my upper lip. I ran the fingers on one hand up your thigh until I reached your scrotum. Turning them so the tips were upwards I lifted your balls and then, slowly I closed my fingers round them. Then I rolled a pair of balls in my hand; they felt wonderful. The feel of a man's balls to a woman is nearing, I think, to the feel of a girl's tits to a man. Having felt both though, I can say for sure there's not much in it!

My heart leaped a little when I felt you twitch, I looked back into your eyes and saw a sparkle there, a sparkle of triumph or relief perhaps?

I removed it from my mouth. Sucking was not what was required, well so I thought, but then I am by no means an expert on the art of sucking a guy's cock, I work by hope and instinct! Licking was what I felt was needed to get it hard then sucking to keep it that way until we worked out how to finish it off.

Holding your, slightly firmer I thought, dick in my hands vertically up your, belying your age, flat stomach I looked right into your eyes. I squeezed it, gave it a little kiss right on the tip, smiled at you, maybe slightly closed my eyes and whispered.

"Would you like me to suck your cock now James?"

Him.

Would I? Are you fucking kidding? Yes pleeeeeaaase!!

I wondered what it was like for a woman? Did she get the same pleasure from the feeling of a cock beginning to grow in her mouth as a man does? I mean, the man can feel it, but the woman caused it. Which pleasure is greater??

Not only did I begin to lengthen and harden, just the fact that this was your mouth sent a surge of my arousal from my brain to my cock. That only helped the process. Process? Fuck me! Not the right word at all in the circumstances. Far too clinical.