I met Lydia on a "dating" website that had a reputation of being a place to meet people who are more often looking for casual sexual encounters rather than for long-term relationships. I had seen online references to the website and had joined it on a whim to see what "compatibility" matches might show up. As it turned out, Lydia had done the same thing at about the same time, and we found each other a week or two after joining.
During the first few months after our online conversations, Lydia and I confessed most everything about ourselves to each other. We were both "mature" (don't say "old"!). I had divorced some years earlier and was more recently out of a long-term relationship. Lydia was married, though separated, living and working about a three-hour drive north from her husband who lived in the house the two of them co-owned. One or two weekends a month she'd drive from her apartment near her job to her home to see her husband and sleep under the same roof, though in separate bedrooms as they'd done for more than a decade, and to see their two thirty-something sons and their families who lived close by.
My sex life had been infrequent during the final months of my recent relationship, and Lydia's had been even less frequent for many years. She told me of two affairs she'd had, 5 and 10 years earlier. Sex with her husband was once or twice a year when she got horny enough to overcome her annoyance at his drinking and when his drinking cut back enough for him to get an erection. She'd joined the website, as had I, to see what it was all about, and perhaps to see if she could find an occasional no-strings-attached bed partner.
Yes, I said "mature", not asexual. We were both in our 50s.
Online messages through the website soon became direct emails, and those eventually intermixed with the occasional phone call. Before long, the subject of meeting face to face was broached. Lydia's apartment was two and a half hours from me, about halfway between me and her home town. She picked a town halfway between her apartment and me where we would rendezvous for lunch and gauge whether we wanted things to go farther.
Our meet-up was a success. We met at the Mexican restaurant she suggested. She greeted me with a big smile and flashing blue eyes. Her thinning brown hair was graced with a hint of red tint. She was medium height and her body was, to use a cliché, was pleasingly plump with big breasts and wide hips. By the time our plates were empty, our conversation had lulled and we held hands. It was time to ask. "This was nice. Shall we do this again?"
Lydia smiled. "Oh sure! Mexican again?" She paused and squeezed my hand. "Or something else?" She leaned toward my ear and whispered, "Maybe more private?" She pulled back, seemingly surprised at her boldness, and blushed. I grinned at her and nodded.
A month later we passed on burritos, and I drove to her apartment. We both knew why I was there. She greeted me at the door and gave me the short tour of her apartment, ending with us sitting on the living room couch for a few minutes of casual conversation, the "how was the drive?" and "did you take the afternoon off work?" chatting that seemed to make both of us feel a bit less nervous about what was going to happen.
And then there was silence for a moment, and we looked at each other. "So...?" she said with a hint of a question.
"So..." I replied.
Lydia held out her hand, I grasped it. It was warm. I stood up. She stood up, then she led me to the bedroom. There we stood at the foot of the bed, undressing each other, exposing both my flesh -- a particular part of which was upthrusting and very firm -- and her flesh -- soft and curvy. We were both mature enough and comfortable enough with our bodies that the jump to naked intimacy didn't seem particularly awkward.
Standing toe to toe, we kissed continually while our hands did the customary mutual explorations. Her breasts were large, heavy handfuls. Her nipples were small and pink and erect. Her pale skin was dotted with freckles and was smooth and warm to my touch. She was a fun kisser with an active mouth and playful tongue. Her left hand played in my chest hair, while her right hand wandered downward to gently fist my erection. My hand found her pussy, smoothly shaved down to a goatee of hair above her cleft.
The bedsheets were white, crisp, and cool, but not for long. In bed we pressed against each other, face to face, chest to chest. Lydia slid down to engulf my shaft, humming little noises as she alternated between taking most of my length in her mouth and licking my precum. "Lie on your back," I told her, and she complied wearing a big smile. Her thighs spread open with a welcome for me.
I moved down and my mouth found her vulva. Lydia's climb to orgasm was a hockey stick. For ten minutes she laid there, her thick legs spread wide, caressing my head and shoulders and murmuring soft moans and groans and whimpers in response to my feasting of her Pretty Little Pink Parts which blossomed with a mild fragrance and taste.
I held her hips with my hands as they did only the slightest of undulations to acknowledge my tongue and lips. Her inner lips started small and swelled only a little. Her outer lips did the same, and her pussy soon yawned open and juicy. Her modest hooded clit was a stiff little nubbin, and my steady licks seemed to have only a gradual effect on her state of arousal, advertised by her soft moans and gasps and a steady increase in her lubrication adding to my saliva contribution.
Then it was as though Lydia flipped an internal switch and decided to allow herself to climax. Her clitoral shaft swelled noticeably thicker and jutted out another notch. Her breathing shifted into a higher gear with quick, shallow pants. It was time.
My tongue accelerated its pace, matched by an increase of her breathy moans, and she went from 25 to 100 in ten seconds. My eyes glanced upward to see her head tilted back into the mattress, her face now blushing a deep red and scrunching into that beautiful female agony of pleasure. Her hips lifted up and pressed against my busy mouth, her body shuddered, and she exhaled several loud guttural groans. I hoped her neighbor in the adjoining apartment was at work.
"Come up," Lydia managed to gasp, and I moved on top of her. She lifted her knees to accommodate my hips, and she wrapped her arms around me. My lips and tongue found hers. My cockhead played with her pussylips. Her hips rocked up and down, brushing herself against me. We'd already talked about protection. She was postmenopausal, I'd had a vasectomy 15 years earlier, and both of us were selective about other partners.
It was now the time for the Big Discovery. My two fingers, even side by side, could only get hints of the mystery of her vagina. I knew she was warm and wet. I knew that her G-spot was subtle, that her entrance didn't have a distinct muscle ring, that she wasn't -- unsurprisingly -- snug. My cockhead found her opening, and our eyes locked together. "Okay?" I asked.
Her eyes glistened. "Yes," she whispered, spreading her legs another notch farther apart. I smiled and nodded, and I nudged my glans inside her, pausing momentarily. Lydia rocked her hips up to capture more of my shaft, and I slowly pushed deeper. In a single long, tantalizing stroke, I buried myself inside her, thrilled to slide my rigid flesh into her slick velvety, almost frictionless sheath, listening to her quick breaths and throaty grunts, until my pubic bone pressed against her vulva, my cock twitched, and we both exhaled a simultaneous "Ohhhh".
