Bette and I had different travel schedules, so I couldn’t see her again for a couple of months. We both had booths at that last big fair of the season, though, and planned to get together then. “And this time,” she told me, “I’ll get us a real room.” My camper-van is fine for just me but not the best for entertaining a lady, even if it had given us a magical first time together.
Later during that call, she asked, “Do you dance?”
No. Never. Not in a million years. “Well, I could give it a shot.” Bette had that kind of effect on me.
I could tell that made her happy. “It will be fun! I’m looking forward to it.” She made a kissing noise into the phone. “Bye.”
I’d make it fun if it killed me. “Bye.”
We didn’t see much of each other during the fair, since our booths weren’t together. It had just been a fluke that they were next to each other that first time. In fact, I didn’t see her at all until the fair closed and I had put my cases away. She told me where her booth was, and we had arranged to meet there.
Bette’s silvery hair practically glowed under the artificial lights, against the dark sky. She was looking away as I approached, going over some papers. She looked great in that outfit, a linen jacket and matching slacks. Nothing fussy, but neat, businesslike, and easy to move in.
“Hey pretty lady,” I called out. She turned then, with a huge smile. She has one of those faces that smiles all over, with lots of laugh lines. I could see the low scoop neck of her dark blouse, and decolletage that bobbed as she ran over to me.
She leaned into a big hug, and I felt her deep, soft breasts against me for a moment. “Give me one more minute, I’m almost done here.” She turned back to her paperwork. I sat on one of the empty display tables and enjoyed the view from behind. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could see a dark panty line under the light slacks. It might have been my imagination, though, or wishful thinking.
Finally, she zipped her notebook shut. She came over, took my arm, and said, “I’m exhausted.” It was almost ten o’clock, and neither of us had had dinner. “Let’s get to the hotel.” Still holding my arm, we went to my van and drove off.
She told me she had already checked in, so we went to the 24-hour Denny’s next door to the hotel. As we looked over the menu, looking for something not too greasy, she said, “Think of it as field rations. We can get real food tomorrow.”
We had only known each other since we met at the last fair. If not for that screw-up at her hotel, we might just have said goodbye and left it at that. Instead, we fell for each other like – well, like I never thought I would. That meant plenty of getting-to-know-you chat over dinner (such as it was), and we talked easily. It surprised me, since I’m not normally much of a talker, but I felt comfortable with her, and somehow open. She had me talking about things that I never discussed. Like Allison.
“How long were you married?”
“Almost thirty years.” I got a little choked up. “A lot of good years.”
She heard the catch in my voice. “I’m sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it …”
“No, it’s OK.” Well, not really, but I felt like I had to tell her. “There were a lot of good years.” Then, some kind of nerve degeneration set in, and weakened the strong, active woman I had loved, still loved. Once the disease had taken almost all of her body, it took her mind, too, by inches. Bette stopped eating while I talked and just looked at me, a hand on my arm. I didn’t go into details, not wanting to bring my own memories of her last months back to life. I stopped after a while, and just looked down into my plate.
A few moments passed, and Bette rubbed my arm. “Dan …” There really wasn’t anything to say.
I shook myself, took her hand in mine, and said, “It’s OK.” No. No it wasn’t. No one should go that way. “We had a lot of good years.” Even her last years couldn’t take those away.
I had to do something to break the somber mood, so I asked “Are you done?” She nodded, I paid the bill (less than I thought), and we left. It was a short walk to the hotel, and I liked the warmth of her up against me.
There was an uneasy moment when we got to the room. Bette ended it by giving me a warm hug, pressing those soft breasts against me again. She sniffed, and said, “You need a shower, and I hate going to bed dirty.” She looked at me with a playful smile (that all-over smile again) and asked, “Wash my back?”
I turned it into a bear hug and asked, “Just your back?” She shook loose and started undressing. I did the same. Next time I looked over, she was down to a bra and panties, a matching set in dark blue. The bra had wide straps and side panels, not a young woman’s little stringy thing, but had lacy trim that matched the panties.
“Wow, you sure dress nicely when you undress.”
“Thanks,” she nodded. “It’s something I got from Mark.” He had been her husband, the one I first learned about from her tattoo. “He told me for years that I was beautiful, and I somehow never believed him. After a while, though, it sunk in. I really did learn to like what I saw in the mirror, as if I were looking through his eyes instead of my own. Nice underwear made me feel pretty so I indulged myself. I still do, and it still makes me feel good.” Maybe that was part of the confidence she projected, one of the things I loved about this lovely lady.
She reached behind to unhook the bra, still facing me. I tried not to stare. I was down to my boxers, and stepped over to her. “May I?”
I took a loose strap in each hand, and eased it down her shoulder. The swell of her breast started high on her chest. I kissed one side, then the other, and kept kissing as I worked my way down. Bette held my head gently and traced my ear. Finally, dark areolas came into sight, then nipples. I tugged the bra out from under her breasts, dropped it on the floor, and took a soft nipple in my mouth. Bette’s fingernail clicked on one of my earrings, and I made a little noise. She tugged it a little, and my lips clamped onto the nipple with a moan.
“Ahh,” she said, “you like that.”
“I like it way too much, and we have a big day tomorrow. Let’s get to bed.” We both finished undressing. She went ahead of me into the bathroom, letting me see that lovely body from behind. That lovely round bottom, those sleek legs would have looked good on a forty year old. Really, it was just her face that showed her age, and not all of her age at that. She leaned over the tub to turn on the shower. I took her hips in my hands and bumped up against her.
“Oh, you,” an unconvincing attempt to scold. She adjusted the temperature, still leaning over, and wiggled her bottom against my erection. When the tub was steaming nicely, she turned the shower on, stood up, and stepped in. “You get in here.”
Bette looked just as good from the front. Heavy, soft breasts lay low on her chest, and a dark pubic patch stood in contrast to her pale hair. She luxuriated under the stream for a moment and turned the temperature up a notch, which I liked. If she had been a cold-shower type, this would never have worked for us. I picked up the soap, unwrapped it, and discarded the wet covering. Then I turned her around and started soaping her shoulders. I leaned into her with slick hands, and she put her arms up against the tiles to support her weight. Quiet happy noises followed my way down her back, and turned to purring when I kneaded her bottom. I lingered there, feeling her muscles flex under my hands. After that, I worked my way down her legs thoroughly, but a lot more quickly than I really wanted to.
Once I got down to floor level, I said “OK, front now.” When she turned, her bush was just at nose level. Round breasts stared down at me, as did her eyes above. I resisted the temptation and worked my way back up to the tops of her thighs. I stood, soaped my hands again, and reached between. Bette shifted her feet to the sides, opening to me, and put her hands on my shoulders. I soaped her mons and outer labia thoroughly, exploring the crease between each thick fold and her thigh. We looked into each other’s eyes and I traced the crevices between her legs, feeling the hair untangle in front of my touch. Bette’s eyes fluttered, and she relaxed toward me. Then she looked up and said, “Mmm that’s nice, but not now, OK?”
“OK.” I leaned over for a quick kiss, soaped my hands again, and moved up to her breasts. I lifted each one and soaped it two-handed, top and bottom, enjoying that butterfly softness that comes with real maturity. I played for just a moment, then rinsed. I used the sprayer, and had fun directing the warm water up between her legs and up under each breast. The she took the soap and started on me.
She worked more briskly than I had done, but still stopped to tease me with slippery hands once in a while. When I turned to face her, my erection led the way. Bette took it in both hands, cooed, then looked up at me again. “We’ll have to take care of this, now won’t we?” More soap, so she was slick as an eel, then strong hands held my penis and started working back and forth.
That two-handed grip put the whole length of each hand along the side of my penis – it felt wonderful. I moaned and leaned toward her as she stroked. Every now and then she’d look down, but mostly kept contact with me through her eyes as well as hands. I could feel waves of tension building, gradually becoming deeper and more regular, and she felt it too. Her two-handed touch got fast and strong as each wave built, then slowed as it receded. The space between waves grew shorter, and she moved her hands. Now, one wrapped around my penis and the other reached under. My balls hung low in the shower’s heat. Still looking into my eyes, she felt behind them and found that ridge of muscle. Massaging that as she stroked my shaft just drove me harder. I moaned as the pulses of tension radiated out from her hands. Then the waves crashed together. I no longer had that respite between them, the tension just went on and on. Thick, white semen spurted, then again. Bette’s smile must have been as big as mine just then. I stopped ejaculating after a moment, but aftershocks of orgasm kept pounding me. Her hands held my genitals tightly, as if pulling me through them. Finally, it ended. My erection shrank in her hands.
She pulled me close, kissed me and said, “You’re beautiful.” She leaned her cheek against my wet shoulder for a moment, then got back to business. We rinsed off, played with the towels for a few moments, then turned back the covers on the bed. When we were both in bed, she reached over and turned out the light. I cuddled behind her, and went to sleep a lot faster than I thought I would.
The alarm clock sounded much too soon. I had slept like a log, and woke with my hand cupping Bette’s labia. I reached back to the noisy clock, and groped around until something shut it off. Then I rolled back to Bette. “G’morning.”
“`mornin,” a sleepy mumble came back at me. I reached over and started massaging the fronts of her shoulders. Her eyes were open, but not fully awake. “That feels good.” I could barely make out her sleepy slur.
I asked her to roll over, and she presented smooth shoulders to me. I worked on them, and her happy purring started again. It guided me to all the favorite spots around her shoulders, the ridges of muscle along her spine, and those deep spots where bones in her thigh joined her pelvis. That loving touch had me turned on in just a little while, and I started leaving slick trails along her thigh. Still lying on her front, she took my erection in one hand as I worked, and fondled it with a firm hand. Soon, she turned toward me and took it in both hands. “You’re incredible, you know that? And you’re not going to leave me alone until we take care of this.” I wasn’t quite sure about her tone.
“We don’t have to …”
She interrupted me, tenderly this time. “We don’t have to, but I want to and you want to.” She took one of my hands and put it on my erection. “Here, you do this part.”
“You’re sure …”
She pushed me flat on the bed. “Very sure. You take care of that. I have lots of other parts to work on.” She leaned down and nibbled my earrings, already knowing the effect that would have. One of her arms had to support her, but the other ranged up and down my body, touching my balls, my nipples, my face. A leg swung over mine, and I felt the scratchy warmth of pubic hair against my thigh. My free hand reached behind her, to the small of her back, and held her tightly against me.
To tell the truth, I was starting to feel kind of selfish, but she seemed happy just sustaining and being part of my excitement. I finished quickly, so I wouldn’t feel that I was imposing too much. After a little flurry of kisses, she lay her head on my chest. Her fingertip toyed with the white blobs across my stomach. Then she reached for some tissues and wiped up.
“You wait here.” I heard water run in the bathroom, then she came back with a wet washcloth and a towel. When she was done, she knelt next to me and toyed with me, back and forth the length of my body.
“I didn’t think old guys could do that,” she said happily, “at least, not that often.”
“When I’m around you, I don’t feel old,” I answered. “Old ladies need attention too …” I started.
“Shh.” A fingertip touch on my lips. “Old ladies do just fine, and will let you know what they want.” I started again. “Shh. Really. I’m fine.”
Argument wasn’t going to do anything good, so I just pulled her shoulders down for a long hug. I broke it this time. “What time is it? We have an early start today.”
She looked at the clock. “You’re right. We have time, but none to waste.” We started dressing again. Her lingerie ensemble was black today, the same as our first time but a slightly different style. I had never thought much about women’s underwear before, except as a matter of her comfort or sometimes as a kind of gift wrap. I suspected I was going to learn a new appreciation. I could feel it starting.
She wore the same pants and jacket as yesterday, but with a burgundy blouse. I wore my usual, jeans and a clean shirt that could probably have used ironing. The hotel restaurant was open for breakfast, so we didn’t have to subject ourselves to Denny’s again. I didn’t have time for a second cup of coffee, and really didn’t want one since bathroom breaks were few and far between.
Back at the fair grounds we parted with a quick hug and a kiss – the social kind, suitable for company, not the passionate embrace so fresh in my mind. Bette and I parted ways, and agreed to meet at the end of the day.
The fair closed earlier on the second day, the last day, so it was still light out when we had put everything away. I helped her fold her tent and tuck it in the back of her pickup, under the hard shell in back. Then we both drove back to the hotel. “Do you want a shower before we go out?” I remembered the promise to go dancing. “I want to get the dust off.”
I agreed. A moment later, she, I, and my erection stood under the steaming stream. We each washed quickly. When she was done, before getting out of the shower, she took my half-hard penis in one hand and wagged a finger at it with the other. “You’ll just have to wait.” I laughed at the school-marm tone of voice, and she laughed too.
I watched her dress, curious to see what she’d start with this time. The panties were a little higher cut, and the bra seemed to push up a little more – not that she needed help in that department. Bette saw me staring, stopped, and posed in front of me. “You approve?”
I leaned down and kissed the top of each breast, and said “Very much.” Instead of the linen slacks, she wore dark pants with a sharp crease and a silvery, silky long-sleeved blouse. This time, her shoes had a little heel. She brushed her hair and examined the mirror for a moment, then was ready to go. I was definitely outclassed in the clothing department, but wore my best jeans and a sport coat – maybe that would fool people into thinking I was respectable.
We lingered over a slow dinner. Bette had told me a fair bit about herself when we first got together, so I did a lot of the talking over dinner. I described my years in high tech, in the CEO/CTO/IPO circuit. What I made during that time would keep me going for the rest of my life. I really didn’t need the income from selling jewelry.
“I had wondered about that,” Bette offered. “Other vendors seemed to charge more for work that doesn’t look nearly as good.”
“I’m not trying to undercut anyone. Most of them make their living at it. I just want to cover costs, get out, and see people. I didn’t get out much in the years when Allison was sick. After she died, I turned into a hermit for a while. After couple of months, I realized the effect it was having on me. It wasn’t fair to her memory that I should let her death do that to me. Everyone dies. Everyone else goes on. This gets me out, going places, and seeing people. Seeing you.”
It turned out that Bette sold her paintings for much the same reason. Her own career and her late husband’s had left her comfortably well off. She turned to painting when she retired and loved doing it. After a while, though, every wall in the house was covered, and most of the walls in most of her friends’ houses. Starting at a local flea market, she discovered that other people liked her paintings, too. She got involved in the local arts groups, did well in juried shows, and realized just how high the prices could go and still sell. It let her travel, and she liked the ego kick from seeing people value her work enough to give her money for it.
I asked her about that. Her abstractions really moved me, with their intense compositions and driving energy. If I had seen them, not knowing Bette already, I would never have guessed that they came from a hand with age spots. It seemed hard to believe that the landscapes and pretty-girl pictures came from the same brush as the abstracts, too. “The abstractions are for me. Once in a while someone buys one. The others are for someone’s living room. They pay the bills. And, they make people happy.”
I was content to linger over coffee and dessert. Bette checked her watch a few times, though, and eventually announced that the music was starting in the lounge. We charged the meal to our room but left a cash tip, and started out.
Bette and I found a small table and ordered drinks. The DJ was playing something lively that I didn’t recognize, and a few younger couples were already dancing. To tell the truth, I was a little on edge. I never liked dancing and had never learned to dance – maybe the two went together. When Bette suggested it, I agreed anyway. For her, of course, but maybe I could learn to like it. My first thought, as with anything new, had been to take some lessons, but there hadn’t been enough time for me to find instruction. I was going to make a fool of myself, I supposed I could deal with that, but I didn’t want to disappoint Bette.
The music stopped and most of the couples went back to their tables. Then the DJ started a slower tune. Bette stood up, took my hand, and led me onto the floor. She stood facing me, expecting something, and I whispered, “I don’t know how to dance. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”
She looked annoyed for a moment, then smiled and pulled me close. “You sweetie. It’s easy, you just move. Go ahead.” She was already swaying, so I held her and tried to follow along. A little while later, I was usually going the same direction as her and it seemed to get easier. I can’t say I was really comfortable with it, but Bette felt good in my arms. I enjoyed her warmth and the feel of her muscles moving under my arms, and the soft pressure of her breasts. The music came to a stop and we did, too.
After a moment, Bette took a step back. She faced me with a big smile, and took my hands in hers. She leaned forward for quick kiss, then took my arm in hers and we went back to the table.
“You didn’t tell me you don’t dance.” It seemed more like a question than a statement.
“Well I do now, if you could call that dancing.”
“It sounded like something you enjoy, and I hope I’m not too old to learn new things. Was I that bad?”
“You did fine. And you’re a sweetie, doing it for me. I won’t make you do it again.”
“I said I would, and here I am. And I liked it. Really.” The next song had already started, so we sat it out. The one after was another slow one. This time, I stood up first and gave a little tug on her hand. She sat, giving me a quizzical look, and I tugged again. She came with me this time, and we held each other on the dance floor again. I was still focused on getting it right, so I can’t say it was that much of a pleasure in itself. I was with Bette, though, holding her close, and that’s what I really came for.
When we got back to the table, I tried to sound more positive about it than I really felt. “I think I could get the hang of this.” That much was true. I might even learn to like it.
“You really never danced before.”
“Never. Not even when I was a kid.”
“And you’re doing it for me.”
“It’s kind of fun.” Yes, I was doing it for her, but any way I thought to say it wouldn’t sound right.
She didn’t answer, but leaned warmly against me and put her hand on my leg.
We danced two or three more numbers. I don’t think I got any better, but I did get past feeling like an idiot. An inept klutz, maybe, but I could fix that by putting some work into learning.
“You know,” she said when we got back to our table, “dancing has been called a vertical statement of a horizontal intent.” She was leaning against me again, whispering, one breast pressing my arm.
“Is that an offer? If it is, it’s the best one I’ve had all day.”
“It’s an offer.” We paid our waitress and left, holding each other close.
Back in our room, I finished undressing before she did – my jeans and shirt could take being dumped in a pile, but she took the time to hang her blouse and slacks. She was just starting to unhook her bra when I reached. “Allow me. Please.”
“It’s all yours.” She turned away, but looked back at me over her shoulder. I undid the hook-and-eye catches. Those things always remind me of my embarrassing first encounter with them, back when I was a teenager, but they opened easily enough. Then I slid my hands up to her shoulders and out toward her arms, pushing the straps aside with the backs of my hands. Even as wide as they were, I could see where they had dug into her shoulders. I started massaging the marks.
“Mm, that’s lovely.” I could feel her relaxing under my hands. I stepped closer, then pushed the cups off her breasts the same way, sliding my hands along her curves.
Bette has the most amazing breasts. I remember enjoying the firm, young ones when I was younger, but that was because I didn’t know any better. An incredible, delicate softness comes with age. I had forgotten how electrifying it is to feel that – spreading my hands across them, the sensation drove everything else out of my mind for a moment. Then I lifted one breast and pulled the cup out from under, and did the same on the other side. Bette shook the bra down her arms and set it on the dresser. I went back to rubbing her shoulders.
After a moment, I said, “Would you like to continue lying down?” She answered in movement, bending to slide the last of her underwear off then moving to the bed.
She lay on her stomach, with her face toward me. “How do you want me?”
I suppressed a hundred eager answers to that question and said “You’re fine like that.” I knelt next to her on the bed, and went back to her shoulders. Gradually, I worked up to a deep pressure that seemed to squeeze happy moans out of her. I worked her arms, next, enjoying the strong, soft feel of her muscles, then returned to her back. My thumbs pressed into the ridge of muscle along her spine, then along her pelvis, where the muscles attach. I moved quickly over her bottom, saving that for later.
I turned to face her feet, next, and knelt with one of her legs between mine. I lifted one foot and flexed it for a while to loose it up. Then I probed the sole of her foot with my thumb, feeling around just behind the ball of her foot.
“A-ahh” I found the spot I was looking for. “Whatever you’re doing back there, don’t stop. You’re hired.” I did stop after a while, and kneaded the muscles in her calf. Then I did the other foot and calf.
I turned again, keeping one of her legs between mine, and worked my way up one wide, womanly thigh. It embodied all the best of a woman’s beauty: curvy and soft, but with clearly defined strength just below the skin. There was that lovely warm spot too, at the top of her thighs and between the them. When I got there, I switched to the other side and did that thigh too.
I dismounted her leg and knelt next to her, starting on her bottom. That’s where the body’s biggest muscles are, and I gave them deep, loving attention. Bette had been purring the whole time, with little moans to emphasize the spots she really liked, but this treatment had her moaning non-stop. Then my thumb found that deep dimple near the middle of one cheek. It worked kind of like that spot on her foot, only more.
“My god, what you’re doing!” Her hip lifted up, to return the pressure. I explored the whole, warm width of her bum, returning to that pressure point each time my hand crossed it. I climbed over her, then went to work on the other cheek.
She turned her head to look at me. I felt her hand flopping around my legs, and moved my knees apart. That let her grasp my erection, which had been streaming steadily for the last half-hour.
“You know,” she said looking up at me, “I expected that when we got back to the room, you’d undress me and we’d make love. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
I answered, “Well, you were right, weren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is making love.”
“How so?” She sounded happy, but a little puzzled.
“Making love is about nice body feelings, isn’t it? That’s what I’m doing. At least, that’s what I’m trying to do.” I didn’t tell her, but I had actually studied for this part. I had dug out my ancient copy of The Massage Book and spent hours going over every page repeatedly.
“You sweetie, you’re right.” She relaxed into my attention, still holding my erection in a possessive grasp.
Bette didn’t have an orgasm the first time we had sex, and told me she might not have one for some time to come. Despite her assurances that it was OK, that she really liked the feelings of what we did, I had come away with the sense that I hadn’t done enough for her. I wouldn’t argue with her, I’m sure she was telling the truth, that it really was OK and that she enjoyed it. I was grateful that she wasn’t faking it for me, but I’m stuck with my male view of sex and orgasm. I couldn’t feel right unless I gave as good as I got, and she had given me so much already. If I couldn’t give her orgasms, I’d give her what I could, including this. It still didn’t seem like enough, but she was certainly enjoying it. If I knew of more to do, believe me, I’d be doing it.
My touched lightened after a while, until I just held the curve of her bottom in my open hand. “May I do the front now?”
She opened her eyes with a sleepy smile. “You mean I have to move?”
“Just a little.” She rolled over and closed her eyes. I started with a light touch on her face, a little pressure a the temples and above her ears. Then I worked my way down the muscle groups in her neck, to her pectoral muscles. I know how much those enjoy deep pressure. I had to work carefully, though, so as not to press too hard on her breasts. I drew slow, deep circles with my fingers, being extra careful as I got lower on her chest. Then I lifted her breast from the side, so it mounded on her chest, and did the same again but more gently. When I had covered the whole breast in touch, I started on the other side and worked my way down. Arms next, with attention to each finger and deep pressure on the palms of her hands.
The I scooted down the bed a little, so I could really lean into her thighs. The happy purring continued and she opened her legs so I could reach between. Her intimate folds unfolded when she did that, just a little, and showed a line of pink behind her pubic hair. I resisted temptation, for the moment, and continued on those long, strong thighs.
When I had finished with them, I lay down next to her. My hand found her mons, and started little circles of wide pressure on that lovely, soft swell. She opened her eyes and looked into mine. “That was incredible.” She reached over and kissed the tip of my nose.
“`Scuse me for a second.” Still holding her vulva, I backed away slightly. She shifted to a more comfortable position, then said “Now you come back here.” I moved so our bodies touched almost whole length. She lifted the breast that was being pressed between us, then settled back. “Carry on,” she said, “I love what you’re doing.”
I did too. My touch worked its way lower, into her pubic hair. She opened her legs a bit more, and I explored the valley between her thigh and labia. My touch continued: press, massage for a moment, then move on. Down one side, between her legs, and up the other. Across the top, again, where pressure might be transmitted in to her clitoris, and back to the side. Her hand hand found my erection again. She stroked it gently or squeezed it from time to time. Once in a while her thumb would cross the round top, collect a clear, slippery droplet, and spread it. Neither one of us felt any hurry – we wanted this timeless time to go on forever.
My finger found the spot in front where her labia began to separate. I knew that the pad of my fingertip would fit it perfectly, but the sensation was new all over again when it did. I pressed in, a little, and felt the clitoral ridge. I massaged that, too, as far up as I could feel it. It slid back and forth under my fingertip, against the solid bed behind it.
“Dan, kiss my breast.” She cupped it for me, lifting it from the side up into her chest. I leaned up over it for a moment, awed again by the delicate tracery of blue veins barely showing, then leaned down to kiss. I pressed my face into that incredible softness and felt it envelop me. Then, with my fingers still exploring her vulva, I nibbled around the edge of the areola. It felt stiffer, thicker than the skin surrounding it, but yielded between my lips. After working my way around, my kiss moved to her nipple. I wiped it with a warm tongue, took it between my lips, and tongued again. Bette’s hand behind my head held me gently in place.
Her clitoris had thickened too. My finger traced its way down to her vagina, where I felt slick wetness forming. I spread that around. My mouth left her breast long enough to taste her on my fingertips and to moisten my fingers some more. Then I went back to kissing that miraculous, soft breast. My thumb and middle finger spread her labia, and my slick index finger went back to massaging that delicate crease.
The hand behind my head shifted, guiding me to look up at into Bette’s eyes. “Come inside me. Please, I want to feel you inside.” I leaned up to kiss her, then climbed between her legs. She had opened wide for me, with her knees bent up and out. I spread saliva across my penis, then lowered myself onto her. Her hand found my erection between us. She used the tip to tease her labia apart, then lowered it to the edge of her vagina. I was already rocking against her, in small motions, when I felt that deep softness start to open before me.
She brought her Bette-scented hand to my face. I turned to catch her fingers in my mouth, and she let me catch them. That turned into a caress of my lips and face, then a touch that guided me back to her lips.
My penis felt the ring of muscle at the edge of her body, and felt it open around me. I stopped at that magical moment, to savor that delicate grasp, that most intimate of welcomes, then started rocking again. Some times, I would move farther in. Some times I would just feel the shifting tissues within her and feel her pressure around me.
Bette worked her hand between us again. I lifted up to make room for it, then lowered again when it had found her vulva. Her fingers moved between us pressing where intercourse couldn’t press and touching what my arms couldn’t bend to touch. I felt her lower body tense, all along her legs and through her pelvis. She had said she might not come, but I could feel the beginnings building inside her. The pace of her touch slowed, then sped again as another wave of tension built. After three or four more of those deep pulses, she moved her hand away. “It’s not going to happen today.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, “Is there anything I …”
Her sweetened finger on my lips again, stopping my words. “I love what you’re doing. Really, this is what I want.” I squeezed her in another hug. “Do you think you’re going to come again?” I had already come twice in the last twenty-four hours. At my age, she might not expect more.
Heck, I wasn’t sure I could do it again either. “Let’s give it a try. Even if it doesn’t work I love the feeling of being inside you, being part of you.”
I started pressing deeper into her. Bette shifted her legs up, and the change in position made her feel tighter inside. One hand on my hips, the other on my shoulder, she pulled me into her with surprising strength. I could feel orgasm starting to build inside me.
I leaned up on one arm and worked the other behind her, under her bottom. Each time I rocked in to her, I lifted as well. The feeling built and built. Bette looked up at me with that brilliant smile, touching my face and cooing encouragement.
Then it came. I pulled her close with all my strength, and felt my orgasm erupt into her body. The second wave came, and I pulled again, then the third. Even when my body had nothing left to pour into hers, the waves kept coming. It seemed as if they would never stop. The time between them grew, however, and they lessened in magnitude. Finally, I collapsed onto the softness of her belly and breasts. Even as exhausted as I was, I still felt occasional tremors of joy. That’s really what I felt, joy. Joy and the passion of closeness that I could only feel when her body accepted me into it. I didn’t roll off her until my erection shrank and fell out.
The hotel had tissues by the bed. Bette stood, grabbed a few, and wiped herself in an ungainly squat. She grabbed some more tissues, wiped herself again, and examined the tissue. “I’ll be right back.”
I cleaned up too, while she had her moment in the bathroom. My tissues ended up not too far from the garbage can, close enough for now. Then my silver goddess reappeared. She lay down beside me and nestled under the blankets. Then she leaned up on one elbow, with her breasts hanging, reached down to my penis again. Trying its best, it thickened a little in her hand. She looked at me and wagged it, saying “Doesn’t this thing ever stop?”
I just pulled her down onto me for a kiss. Holding her in place, I turned out the light. I guess I’m not much to sleep on, because she crawled off a moment later and turned away. It wasn’t an escape or rejection, though, but an invitation to cuddle. I hugged her from behind. My hand found her breast and supported its heavy softness. She wiggled her bottom, playing, pressing against my lap and settling my half-hard penis between her cheeks. Her hand held mine against her, and we slept.