I could hardly believe it myself. He was even older than DD, much older; in fact he was also older than my dad. Yes, Jon was into his fifties. But that didn't stop him being an amazingly good fuck and probably the most interesting man I'd slept with and maybe had ever known.
He was an actor. Not tremendously successful but a face that when seen in a film or on TV, would make many people say, "I know him who is it?" Recently though, he hadn't had much work. His style was a little old fashioned and there were just too many actors around with his looks, so he had become known as, what all in the profession dread, unfashionable.
He did some lecturing at the college I was attending and we immediately hit it off. That was largely due to me having produced at university the Joe Orton classic play "What the Butler Saw." Jon had once starred in that and had a love for it as I did. So, after one of his, highly entertaining, very interesting and really quite motivational lectures, he asked me about my production.
That led to me staying behind chatting to him about it; that led to us having a drink in a wine bar down the street, near to the British Museum and that led to us agreeing to have dinner a few days later. It also led to; well you're going to find that out soon!
"I know there's a vast age difference Sammi," he was saying as we finished the bottle of red wine that evening. "But I would be so honoured if you would let me take you out. Would you entertain the idea of having dinner with me one evening?"
I smiled at the nice and rather proper way he phrased the suggestion. It was clever for he was polite, he followed an old fashioned etiquette, that he knew appealed to me, because I'd told him, but he made no pretense at all of hiding the fact that it was a date. Not just a dinner, not a chance to chat more about "What the Butler Saw", not a meeting to talk about "the business" and not an opportunity for him to teach me about the theatre. No it was going to be a date with all that implies. It was going to be a test as to whether we fancied each other; he was putting his aging self on the line with a girl thirty years his junior.
Yes there was a degree of arrogance there, but then actors are like that, they have to be. But then I had told him that I preferred the company of older people and, quite frankly, I was enjoying the drink with him far more than I'd enjoyed several recent dates with younger guys.
I was taking a sip of wine when he said that. I lifted my eyes up over the rim of the glass and caught his gaze. I smiled as I put the glass down. I couldn't help joshing him a bit for, although I quite liked the formality of his phrasing, it was a little pompous.
"I might entertain the idea Jon." I said and then paused, putting the ball back into his court.
He also smiled and reaching out across the small table he rested his fingers on the back of my hand.
"Ah, I see, entertain it you might, but agree to it still has to be confirmed does it?"
"Of course," I smiled holding his gaze rather flirtatiously as he rubbed his fingertips softly up the back of my hand, onto my wrist then under it to where my pulse was beating, rather fast in fact.
"And what, I wonder," he said, as if talking to himself. "Might persuade the young lady to confirm whether she will or not?"
I didn't say anything. I simply enjoyed the feelings as he held my hand running his fingertips slowly round and round my palm. It was lovely. I couldn't recall the last time a man had held my hand and done that. Maybe it was a rather old fashioned gesture; if so it made me hanker for the old fashioned times! But then I always have thought I was born in the wrong age and that I'm more suited to the fifties or before.
As we sat there staring and smiling at each other, my hand in his, so I felt his knee against mine under the table. At first it could, of course, have been an accident, but when it returned and went away and then returned again all suspicion of that was removed. It was being done on purpose as a signal, a sort of request, an emphasis of the request for the date. Again, a little old fashioned perhaps, but nevertheless extremely intimate and alluring, I thought.
It was down to me now. I could easily move away and all could be forgotten. I could remove my hand, say I was busy or had a boyfriend and no face would be lost. On the other hand I could press back implying 'yes' in a very clear way. Or I could be a bit of a cow and do nothing, leaving the problem completely with him. What do you reckon I did?
He knew the game, he'd played it before; he was obviously quite used to dealing with cows, but then he was in the theatre wasn't he? He realised exactly what I was doing and what I was playing at. He seemed to be able to read me, understand me and work out was I was thinking. That always intrigued me in a man and sometimes turned me on a little. I guess the sub in me respecting the domme in him, or something like that!
He continued gently rubbing the palm of my hand and pressing his knee firmly against mine as he looked right into my eyes.
"You have the most beguiling eyes, Samantha," he murmured staring deep into them. As if talking to himself again he went on. "It's as if I can see deep into your inner soul." As he was saying this he was still gently rubbing my fingers, hand and wrist and now, blatantly, pressing his leg against my knee. "I can see through your eyes, I can see you are a passionate woman, an intense woman. A woman that knows what she wants and how to get that. I can see so much about you." As he revved things up so his foot rested on mine then ran up the side of my calf.
With some men it would have been sleazy, but with him it was quite heady stuff for me. I felt relieved that we were in a sheltered corner where nobody would be able to see what we were doing. This became particularly relevant when his knee pressed against my closed knees, firstly quite firmly, then, after a moment or two, even firmer. I suppose I could have resisted, for it wouldn't have been physically difficult to stop him going further. I could I suppose have left things as they were and did nothing. Perhaps that would have been the more sensible and more demure action. But I wasn't thinking sensible and demure. So iIt wasn't a physical force, therefore, that made me slowly open them so his knee could slip between mine. No, he didn't force his way there nor open my kneews by his bodily strength alone. It was a completely different force that caused me to welcome his leg between mine, to invite it to examine my bare thighs and to let it slide between my legs until it found the hem of my, rather short, denim skirt. Yes it wasn't physical, it was part emotionally, but, I realised with a jolt, it was mainly sexual.
And that shocked me for I rarely felt such a strong feeling for someone. I am a little odd with regard to my attitude towards sex. This was just another example of that oddness. I've been chatted up by fantastic looking guys aged anywhere between my age and mid thirties and rarely if ever do I get a strong sexual yearning for them. Yet here I was sitting in a wine bar, my hand being held and caressed and my thighs being rubbed by the leg of a man well old enough to be my father, maybe even my grandfather. There I was almost creaming myself as such intimate and romantic things were said to mea twenty three year old by a man that was over fifty. Yes here I was, wanting to be fucked by a man that was more than thirty year older than me; and one that was balding and a bit paunchy at that!
