Recollections

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

WARNING:

If you are after wham bang, wankfest type of writing, stop reading now. This is not of that nature. It is more mind sex than bodily!

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 that wasn't it. I mean, an ego is such a fragile thing, isn't it? Life has taught me that.

No, it was much more than that.

I found that in the short time we'd spent together, I liked you more and more. Why the hell was that? 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.

Then there was the advertising. Okay, I didn't work in the creative department, like Barry. Didn't even work for the Agency. But as Marketing Director, I was the creative 'brains' for my company and as a result, I dealt with the successful London Agency who produced our 'above and below the line' advertising. The TV ads were particularly interesting, but so were the variety of magazine ads.

The one I loved more than any other –and something that seemed so appropriate now- was 'Growing Old Disgracefully'. Producing a series of magazine ads showing older people doing all the things that were had until then been thought of as the 'province' of the young was highly stimulating.

Was that what I was doing now, 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? 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 apart and seal my lips around those wonderfully hard nips.

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 handjob? Take the edge off my arousal? Drive sex from my mind, for a short while at least.

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 nipple.

As much as I tried, I couldn't quell the effect you were having.

My thoughts conjured up the Unfaithful movie, the one where Olivier Martinez 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, Sammi? 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 Sammi 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, Alan," 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' Sammi-look 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.......

"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...

+++

I don't drink red wine very much. That's not because I don't like it, for I do. I prefer the taste, generally 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 Barollos 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 slightly 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 very often it doesn't.

'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 granddaughter? Were you out of your fucking head asking me such a thing?

I didn't know the answers. Was 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 wiseguys in clubs had asked 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 you at least, was saying what you 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, 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 Bradlike face or body. Being told that someone wondered what it would be 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.

'Unbelieveable.'

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 hardened 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 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."

+++

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 Bogart-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 well being when you're with them? You did, and how long had I known you?

Yes, two lovers felt the same way, 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 were the same age, 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, all the same. 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, 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 granddad, 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 therafter 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 (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 Sammi-the-person. Not Sammi the sexy young bird. It was you I liked so much, your personality, what was inside as much as the exterior of Sammi.

"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 Sammi-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 Sammi-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?"

"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 Sammi-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.

"So," you continued, raising your eyebrows again, just as suddenly pulling your foot away and sitting forward again. "Being so intelligent, I take it that your body is immune to my charms?"

I nodded, feeling my skin tingle from the impromptu show of sexuality. My hand surreptitiously reached down under the tablecloth to adjust my 'reaction'.

"Absolutely! No reaction at all. It's your mind, I'm after," I weakly managed

The spontaneous burst of laughter from us both resulted in people glancing across at us. The 'father' was enjoying his conversation with his 'daughter'. If only they knew...

"But tell me," I said, "purely as a matter of interest. Have you ever made love in a plane?"

"Made love?" you mimicked, with a laugh. "You mean had sex? Joined the mile high club? No, well, not yet."

I nodded, for a moment imaging where and how you'd accomplish your membership. Then I jerked the thought out of my head. "What about on a ship?"

"Of course," you laughed. "Who hasn't?"

"But not one cruising the Thames," I said in what I hoped was a mysterious way.

"Cruising the Thames?"

"That's my thought," I added. "A romantic hour on the Symphony ship, with a glass of champagne while we check out the sights - the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye, Tower Bridge, the Tower of London, the Millennium Dome..."

"Alan," you interrupted, with a sigh. "You've got to be kidding! I'm a Londoner, I know what the sights are. And I've seen them all."

"Maybe," I said. "But this way? On board the Symphony? What do they call it, a floating glass palace? Where's your sense of adventure, Sammi?"

Actually, I realised that looking at London's sights from a ship, even one as impressive as I'd been told the Symphony was, was hardly exhibiting a sense of adventure. Though fucking one another on it would be! What the hell had made me preface my suggested rendezvous for the evening with questions about sex on a plane or a ship?

"It won't take much more than an hour, I shouldn't think," I hurriedly went on, before the same realisation hit you. "Then maybe we could go back to my hotel for a nightcap?"

+++++

So that confirmed it, I thought. He does want to fuck me. Tick that box and get that detail out of the way. But am I going to let him? Certainly not on a fucking, that made me smile, boat on the fucking Thames. Is it a fucking river, I wondered and, indeed is the Symphony a boat where you can arrange a fuck. I doubted that very much. Surely they don't have private fucking cabins or, even fucking private cabins; that would make it a floating brothel and dear old Boris, our mayor could never condone that.