Thespian Spanking
My sex life has never followed traditional lines or conformed to most people's expectations. That's from when it started, through losing my virginity, the early flings and adventures and continued as I ambled through my twenties with some proper grown-up stuff. I guess the simplest way of summing it up is to call it odd. Yes, my sex life has been and still is odd.
This oddness also extends to my sexuality and to my choice of age where I have always been more comfortable with people, including my lovers, who are much older than me.
This story takes place in the nineteen nineties which in my opinion is the most boring decade ever. Perhaps I tried to liven it up by my odd sexual behaviour.
*
I could hardly believe it. He was older than the lecturer I'd fucked at uni, older than my father's friend who I had a lengthy, well for me, nine months fling with and, in fact, he was also older than my dad. Yes, Jon was into his late 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 think. 'Now who's that, I know him?' 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 being called, unfashionable.
He did some lecturing at the acting school I was attending, after dipping out from uni in the second year, 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 and that led to us having a drink in a wine bar down the street, near to the British Museum in Bloomsbury, London.
"I know there's a vast age difference Jay," he was saying as we finished the bottle of red wine that evening. "But I would so like to take you out. Would you entertain the idea of having dinner with me one evening?" And that led to us agreeing to have dinner a few days later.
I smiled at the nice and rather proper, somewhat old-fashioned way he phrased the suggestion. It was clever for he was polite, he followed a traditional etiquette, that he knew appealed to me, because I'd told him so, but he made no pretence 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 young woman over thirty years his junior.
Yes, there was a degree of arrogance there, but then actors are like that, they have to be. 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.
"Well do I get an answer to that?" he asked very politely.
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 smiling as I 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. "Will 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. Even my body and look are more fifties than nineties. I am not the fashionably scrawny of the approaching twenty-first century with almost non-existent tits but an ample C cup with full hips and a rounded bum that men seem to like. As James, my last older man lover described me 'a young woman's face on a real woman's body.' I quite liked that. Oh yes and I have blonde, shoulder-length hair and I wear glasses that I am told, though I don't see it myself, are sexy. How the fuck can short-sightedness and glasses be sexy?
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 asking for a date. Again, a little old-fashioned perhaps, but nevertheless extremely intimate and alluring, I thought and, actually bloody sexy.
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 as for sure, he'd played it before; he was obviously quite used to dealing with stroppy little bitches like me but then, he was in the theatre wasn't he and there were loads like me in there? 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 what I was thinking. That always intrigued me in a man and 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, Jayne," he murmured staring deep into them.
I wasn't convinced he really meant that and that it wasn't just more flattery for as always, I was wearing my glasses. 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 that 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 calf.
Not only did the lovely old letch have a way with words and actions, he also knew just what to call me. None of this modern, near millennium chick or babe or calling me a girl. No, he called me what, as a twenty-three-year-old I wanted to be called, a woman!
It was quite heady stuff and I felt relieved that we were in a shielded 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. Other than by resorting to real force I doubt that he could have forced my knees apart. It 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 did he open mine 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 emotional, but I realised with a jolt, it was mainly sexual.
And that shocked me for I rarely felt such a strong feeling for someone. As I've mentioned I feel I'm 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, my thighs being rubbed by the leg of a man well old enough to be my father, possibly grandfather even. Here I was almost creaming myself as such intimate and romantic things were said to me by a man that was probably nearly sixty. Yes, here I was, beginning to want to be fucked by a man that was more than thirty years older than me; and one that was balding and a bit paunchy at that!
I think he realised what I was thinking? How? I have no idea but by some form of silent communication I'm sure he picked up my vibes; ESP perhaps. He took my hand in both of his and lifted it up to his lips. He kissed the back of my hand easing his knee further between mine as he did, thank God, I thought, for the red and white check table cloth! He leaned forward and kissed me softly on my cheek. I didn't demure or try to stop him. Why would I when I acknowledged to myself that was what I wanted?
