Older women aren't necessarily wiser or more experienced, or any of those things you read about in magazine articles. The truth is a clueless idiot is the same at any age. Ah, but when that woman IS wiser and experienced, when a beautiful brain has had a little more time to perfect its character, look out. I learned the secret of what really makes an older woman beautiful.
When I was 29, I landed an interview at a major corporate headquarters in a Chicago skyscraper nearly as broad as it was tall. The position, data analyst, was a bit of a step back for me, but the market was scarce, and the job promised quick advancement opportunities.
I showed up a quarter-hour early, only to hear how my interviewer had gotten stuck in a meeting and would himself be 20 to 30 minutes late. So much for professionalism.
Almost immediately, she entered and checked in with the receptionist and sat down across from me. It was a surprisingly small lobby for such a big office. Her interviewer having gotten pulled into the same emergency meeting as my own, we were therefore survivors of the same ordeal. I took it upon myself to find out if we were competing for the same job.
We weren't. She was in tech and web. That was a relief, because looking at her, you'd think I'd custom-ordered her from her parents. Her hair was neither auburn nor chestnut, but some dark crimson in between. Her face was heart-shaped, with blue Irish eyes. Most of all, she had that soft, rounded figure of a real woman, past the fables of the 20s and 30s. Now that we could see the direction the road took to the sea, we were assured of scenic mountains and valleys along the way. She was, in short, as beautiful as she would ever be, and she would indeed be beautiful.
"I'm Elizabeth." She took my hand in hers and I was surprised by how warm her touch was.
"Charmed. I'm Dan," I replied, trying to stop myself from ogling her, but my eyes layered the pleasantry with a tour of her body that was anything but polite.
"Dan, could you..." She stopped. Chewed the end of her pencil thoughtfully. Then she returned my look to me.
And that was all it really took. We talked for another 15 minutes, but I couldn't tell you a word of it. I had an idea, but it was a dangerous one. Now it was my turn to look thoughtful, which she caught. Wordlessly, I told her to watch me because I was about to do something.
"Excuse me," I asked the receptionist. "Where is the men's room?"
She pointed back toward the entrance and the common lobby shared by the businesses leasing the floor. "Just round the corner."
I thanked her and sustained eye contact with Elizabeth on my way. Before three seconds were up, she had gone from questioning what I was up to, to gauging my sincerity, to an urgent agreement. As I pushed open the door, I heard her ask, "Is the ladies' down that way as well?"
"It's unisex," came the reply. So much the better. That would mean locks.
In such moments, the unbelievable becomes the inevitable, and it seems that it was always the way this was, that things have proceeded to their lone possible conclusion. No sooner had the door swung shut then our lips fell to each other with their own gravity. The heat of our bodies was stultifying. I would have gasped, but she had my breath. It was a fair trade.
Her fingers ran through my hair and gripped my head with a mad passion. Almost before I knew it, I had her bra off. My fervent hands melted down her breasts. She pushed her body into my caress. I had clutched her to me, and her thigh sealed the contract behind my back.
With a resolute gentleness, she pulled my face from hers, guiding my lips to an expectant nipple. I tried to stand my ground, teeth nipping her neck for purchase, but my own lust conspired against me. It was useless to try. My tongue dipped and swirled over the tender swell of her breast, exulting in the palpable taste of her arousal. Skin has its own language.
She dipped her hand into my trousers, eliciting a groan I didn't know I had down there. Desire contains its own agonies, and their compulsions are great. Her dancing eyes unleashed their resplendence. It had to be. I kissed my way down to her navel, then up her side as my hands liberated her belt . She hopped off the counter, hiked up her skirt, and made the buckle a moot point. A wink that could have leveled a city told me to take whatever I wanted.
What I wanted was her dancing an orgasm around my tongue. I didn't fall to my knees so much as crash-land, in my heated need to taste her. A pair of girl-next-door cotton panties made it as far as one ankle before they were forgotten. I rained a hot hail of kisses up her thighs, each one pulling an escalating sigh out of her. By the time I reached hallowed ground, the sighs had turned to gasps, and the gasps were massing at the border of moans. I paused to savor the heat and scent of true passion, and began our kiss.
That first salty taste told me everything I needed to know. Elizabeth's convulsions crested, the longing became so much there was nothing to do but give up and let it wash over her. As her body relaxed against the sink again, my tongue took the long way. I kissed her secret lips deeply, and they opened themselves to me. An ecstatic moan hummed through my mouth at the unbridled joy we had created. There is something incredible about sharing such your truest and most vulnerable self with an utter stranger. It defies all logic, and so intensifies itself.
They say every woman is a goddess, but that's only half the story. We're human beings, and we can, if we choose, and to great effect, rut like animals. Yet even therein lies a sublime elation that transmutes an everyday person into something divine. When you go down on a woman, you worship at her temple. The offering may change, but the communion stays the same.
My mouth circled around her clitoris, finally daring to approach its engorged beauty. Briefly, I curled my tongue around it, commending it reverently into my pursed lips. Lightly did I suck on her engorged pearl, and lightly did I squeeze it before leaving it with that brief taste of things to come. I massaged her vagina with my wavering tongue, and then extended it, rigid, as my head bobbed lightly, in and out, in and out. Elizabeth groaned, and clutched my head deeper between her thighs. I slid a finger lightly into her, and my tongue returned irrepressibly to her expectant clit.
It was the right thing to do. She hunched over, hissing into my ear, "Oh, God, Dan, that is so ffff—URGH!" A groan abbreviated her confidences. Frankly, I couldn't find half a damn to give if anyone else heard. We were perfecting the art of sex; let them listen and learn how it's done.
