The neighborhood seemed neat, quiet, and well-established, a lot like Bette herself. The little apartment building fit the surroundings comfortably. I checked my directions one more time, and found her door, number three. I noted the silly coincidence — this was to be the third time we’d been together. As I raised my hand to knock on the door, I noticed that my mouth had gone to cotton, like a nervous teenager. I guess you never outgrow some things. (I hope not!)
I knocked. A moment later, the door stood open, framing beautiful Bette. We just stood for a few seconds looking at each other; maybe she felt a little of the same happy jitters I did. That lasted only a moment, though. She smiled, the kind of smile that takes over her entire face, squeezing the laugh lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. I let my bag fall, and we both stepped forward for a welcoming hug. The jitters vanished as soon as we touched.
Bette stands a few inches less than my height, so my cheek pressed against the side of her head. I wrapped one arm around her shoulder, the other around her waist, feeling her soft warmth. She held me close, too, pressing her ample bosom against me. Silvery hair, laugh lines, and all, I felt the first stirrings of my body’s response to her. I knew she wouldn’t mind, we’re both old enough to know how all that works. We just held for the moment, and started to rock gently together, making me think of our slow dances last time.
After a moment, she disengaged. Still holding me with both hands but at arm’s length, she looked me up and down. I’m nothing special, but in pretty good shape for an old guy. “Come in, come in! I’m so happy to see you again!”
I moved my bag inside and closed the door behind me. The scoop neck of her sleeveless blouse showed soft skin that bounced as she moved, framing tasteful but enticing cleavage. The lower hem of the blouse hid the top of soft, flowing slacks, and I noted that her small, neat feet were bare. Taking that as a hint, I kicked my sandals off into the coat closet, then looked around.
She followed my gaze. “Welcome to my humble abode.” It seemed large for a one-bedroom apartment, probably because there was so much light and because she had no need to fill it with furniture. Some book cases promised an interesting exploration, and of course her own paintings appeared on the walls. I had learned to recognize the subtle textures and bold forms of her abstract paintings. You would have thought that images like that had come from much younger hands, but hers still had plenty of energy under the soft skin and occasional spot.
Easy jazz filled the background. A small table was set for two, with candles even though the summer sun kept dinnertime bright. She waved me toward one of the chairs. “I’ll be there in a moment.” I opened the wine set out on the table while she brought a few more things out. I stood, as a matter of habit, when she was ready to join me, reached for her hand, and gave it a kiss. We sat.
I raised my glass, and said, “To you!” She touched hers to mine with a crystal sound and answered, “And to you, too.” We sipped the wine, then started on the food. A bed of linguini cradled a mound of dark greens, fat white beans, and dots of pancetta. I spooned a little cheese over it, too. The salad dressing smelled of balsamic vinegar and something else, so I stirred it and spooned a little onto a colorful salad. I tore a bit of warm focaccio, opened it with my knife, and drizzled olive oil into the fold. The meal somehow typified Bette for me: simple, elegant, satisfying, and a sensual delight.
We chatted as we ate, and let our hands touch each other often. I complimented her on the apartment.
“Oh, it’s not much,” she answered, “but I don’t need much.” Her husband had passed away a few years ago, and her children long since had homes and families of their own. She had seen huge houses full of white elephants that her own older relatives had left, mostly for her to deal with. She didn’t wish that on anyone, so downsized into this small apartment. “And I have better things to do with my life than housework. That big place was taking up all my time. It was OK when we all lived there, but I was just rattling
around in it.”
I asked, “Do you keep your painting stuff in the other room?”
“Oh, no, I rent a studio space not far from here. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
Dessert came, a fruit salad marinated in some dry liqueur (“Calvados,” she told me), with bits of dark, aromatic chocolate on the side. We chatted as we ate, so I hardly noticed when my bowl was empty.
“Would you like more?” I was all set. “Then give me a moment to clean up.” The apartment kitchen wasn’t big enough for two, so I left her to it. The closer book-case beckoned. It was filled with large-sized art books. An unfamiliar word appeared on more than one spine: ‘shunga.’ Of course I had to find out what it meant, so I pulled the colorful book out and took it to the couch.
Page after page, I saw the most incredible Japanese woodcuts. And, page after page, I saw the most incredibly exaggerated genitals, male and female, approaching and joining each other in every way imaginable. I was a bit shocked — this certainly wasn’t what I expected to see in a gray-haired old lady’s house — but fascinated. Whatever else they were, they were undeniably beautiful.
A few minutes later, I heard the dishwasher start. Bette was right there, I couldn’t just put the book away and pretend I hadn’t seen it. Instead, I continued thumbing through it, trying not to look like a guilty little boy caught with a girly magazine.
She sat next to me with her legs folded under her looked over my shoulder. “What do you have there? Oh, you!” She whapped me playfully on the shoulder. “Just like a man, I should have known you’d go for that first.” Despite her scolding tone, she wrapped her arms around one of mine and leaned against it.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Aren’t they beautiful?” she answered. “Do they give you ideas?”
I closed the book and turned to her. Looking over, I said, “You give me all the ideas I can handle.” I touched her cheek with my loose hand, and felt its softness. A little uncertain, I leaned toward her. She moved toward me, too, looking up at me as if the answer she wanted was written somewhere on my face. Her eyes closed and her lips parted, just a little. Something deep inside me, far below my reasoning mind, responded to the implicit request.
I brushed her lips with mine. There was no need to hurry. I tipped her chin up and let my kiss wander across her cheek, to her ear, and back. Her eyes had opened, and she responded with pressure of her own. She held me around the shoulder at that point, letting her other hand stray across my chest. I shifted, too, and slid my hand down the back of her shoulder. At her side, under her arm, I felt the heavy swell of her breast. As if to answer that touch, she came forward and kissed again. I leaned back into the curve of the couch’s arm, and she followed, lying half on top of me. My other hand roamed down her back, low on the swell of her hip, and I spread my fingers wide across that broad curve. Bette sighed a bit when I did, and settled a little more weight on top of me. Wide, soft breasts pressed against me. After a moment, I felt her quiver all over and settle her hand where my pants were bulging in response. She looked up at me, laughing quietly.
“What?” I asked.
“You and me, necking on the couch like teenagers. At our age.”
“Oh, I was enjoying it.”
“C’mon. The bedroom is this way.” She unfolded herself and tugged on my hand. I got up and she led me. She opened the door and turned on the light, then all certainty seemed to go out of her. Holding my hand, she looked up at me with a shy smile. Her eyes glanced around, as if looking to read in my face the words she wanted to hear. I hugged her again, but my hand had gone up under the hem of her shirt. Skin touched warm, soft skin, and my hand worked its way up her back.
Still standing, I leaned over to kiss a bare shoulder. Skipping over the blouse’s shoulder strap, my lips touched the curve of her neck next. I could feel the quiet purring in her throat. The open expanse of the scoop neck invited, so my kisses ranged lower. That magical something happened again, the one where the actual touch of skin always has more in it than my most vivid memory. This time, it started to happen on the upper slope of her breast, just where the full softness begins. My lips trailed lower, to the fuller part of her décolletage, and I experience that wonderful softness again. Any touch, no matter how light, seemed to sink in. That rose-petal softness brushed everything else from my mind — it’s a treasure that comes to a woman only later in life.
My hand behind her reached the hem of her pants and stopped. There wasn’t enough room or give in the fabric to allow more than a fingertip into the waistband. I knelt lower, brushing my cheek against each breast as I went. The relative rigidity of the bra under her silky blouse only tantalized me, like the wrapping on a longed-for gift. Lower still, I lifted the hem of her blouse with one hand, and touched the soft curve of her belly. She’s in great shape, and a woman’s shape includes that elegant roundness down low. A woman’s body also carries a warm animal scent that wafted toward me.
I looked up, past the full shape of her breasts, and saw her smiling down at me. It invited me to continue, so I opened the button at her waistband. I moved slowly, brushing each newly-exposed inch with my mouth. Bette shows her age only in her hair, and a little in her face. Everything lower down would look good on a forty year old — if that was a forty that took care of herself. I eased the zipper down a little at a time, while she toyed with my earring. (She knows how much that turns me on.) A lacy edge of underwear soon appeared, a dark, vivid green. She had told me how nice lingerie made her feel beautiful, and always wore something elegant. I held her hips in my hands as my lips explored that scalloped edge. The slacks’ waistband opened by itself, then, letting my hands slide downward. Once I reached the wide part of her thighs, the pants fell in a heap around her ankles. That moment exposed lowest, panty-clad curve of her torso, framed between long, sleek thighs. I pressed my face to it in wide, warm pressure, and tried not to be too obvious about inhaling her intimate aroma.
Bette took a step backwards, out of the pants, and picked them up. She led me farther into the room and folded them onto a chair next to the bedside table. I came up behind her and put my hands on her hips again. When she stood, I worked my hands up, lifting the soft blouse. I didn’t get the angle quite right to lift it off her, so she helped. In a moment, I saw the bra to match her panties. It had the wide shoulder straps and sides needed to contain the rich softness of her breasts, but added style to its practical aspect as well. I reached for a strap, but she gently deflected my hand. “My turn,” she said, and reached toward me.
One by one, my shirt’s buttons opened to her touch. Her hands and lips traced each new discovery as the opening shirt revealed it. She also stepped toward me, pushing me backwards, until I felt the bed behind my knees. I lay back. She knelt up on the bed, one knee on each side of me, and finished unbuttoning my shirt. Once my chest was fully exposed to her, she sat back and started on my belt. That opened too, and the fly. My erection pushed the front of my underwear forward. Taking it between her hands, she felt the cloth-covered ridge before undressing it. Then she pulled my clothing lower, exposing my genitals completely. Her gentle touch grasped my erection again. A fingertip discovered the clear droplet at the opening, then spread its slickness around the tip. She examined the finger, rubbed the droplet between fingertip and thumb, then lifted it to her lips. An inhalation brought its scent to her, and a cat-like tip of tongue licked at the slickness. She closed her eyes, sighed, and murmured, “god, you’re beautiful.”
Bette stood again, and said “I need the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.” She turned, showing the panty-wrapped curve of her bottom, and walked away. I’ve heard the term ‘granny-pants,’ but that no way describes the high-cut line along her thigh. And ‘granny’ isn’t what I think when I see hips like hers sway.
I finished undressing while water ran in the next room, and tried to do something not too untidy with the clothing. Bette was back in a minute. Just inside the door, she reached behind and undid the catch on her bra. Looking at me, she peeled the strap off each shoulder, then pulled it out from under her breasts. She folded the underwear and added it to the pile on the chair. A two-handed gesture common to every woman I’ve known rubbed up and down her chest as if rubbing the last of the bra’s constriction away. Still looking at me, she hooked her thumbs in her panty, pushed down, then stepped gracefully out of it. This time, she left the clothing on the floor.
Her neatly trimmed bush offered dark contrast to her silvery hair. She came toward where I was sitting on the bed, pushed me back, and straddled me again. Those deep, soft breasts dangled and she leaned over. Their tips brushed upward as she climbed along me, until I could reach up and guide one toward my mouth. Her nipple, darkened by long-ago motherhood, fit easily into my mouth. I offered it wide, gentle warmth, and felt the areola thicken between my lips. After a moment, my mouth let go. I wrapped my arms around her and puller her down onto me. The delicate weight of her breasts settled onto me and spread, then the whole of her slender frame lay on me. My erection found its way between her legs, but I ignored that for the moment. I had no need to rush — quite the opposite.
After a moment, I rolled us over, still holding each other. Supporting myself on my elbows, I looked down into her glowing eyes. This put me in an awkward position, though, with my legs dangling off the side. “Let’s get up on this thing properly.”
We disengaged, then shifted around and found the pillows. “Now, where were we?” Up on my elbow, looking down at her, I reached for her cheek. She turned when my hand got close, and caught a finger between her lips. I pulled that away, then leaned down for a kiss. My free hand stroked her breast, and charmed me all over again with that loving softness, the kind that takes so many years to develop. I reached around, cupped her breast from the side, and mounded it on her chest. My mouth explored the whole of its curve, working upward toward the colored peak. I pressed my cheek deeply against the buttery warmth, and nibbled briefly at the gumdrop tip.
I let go and let her breast relax back into its low, wide shape. I brought my face back up to hers at the same time that my hand ranged lower. We kissed, with warm touches peppering lips, cheek, ear, throat. At the same time, my hand explored her hip and thigh, feeling the sleek strength of her legs. She shifted as I caressed her inner thigh, giving more access to her lower body. In passing, I felt the soft rasp of pubic hair, but lingered for only a moment on the way to her other leg.
We went on and on, feeling the warm haze of arousal thickening between us. I’m male, it comes easily to me, but I wanted to give Bette as much as she gives me, and that takes time. After a while, I stroked that crease at the top of her inner thigh, alternating from one side to the other. Her labia felt full and warm, a perfect fit to my cupped hand. Using the full width of my fingers, side by side, I pressed inward against that softness. Low, down between her legs, I found the softest spot of all. Soon, that softness would turn to depth. For now, I moved my touch upward, fingertips drawing firm circles as I went.
I love that feeling, touching her labia from outside, but feeling the folds of her body shifting, unseen, underneath. Higher, where her mons divided to form her labia, I felt that thickest of folds — her clitoris, long and full. Bette sighed happily as indirect touch started to explore it. I lifted my hand so I could smell the womanly scent on it, wet my fingers on my tongue, and reached down again.
My lips brushed hers as my moistened finger parted her lower folds. There — that thick, pink crease, I found it with one fingertip. The slickness let my finger slide along its delicate length, one side then the other. The pink pearl at its tip might be too much, just then, so I stroked its hidden shaft.
Bette’s body responded. Her legs parted, making exploration easier. When I tried a light, quick touch, her hips pressed down into the mattress. She had warned me, early on, that full arousal might not come easily to her — back in the day, it never did with new lovers. That tension, that rocking in her hips gave me hope, though. I let my touch slow, and her thighs relaxed. Quick touch tightened them again.
I developed a slow, easy rhythm: tiny, fast motions to tighten her lower body, then slow caresses to let her relax. When the wave of tension rose in her, I offered inarticulate sounds of encouragement. Soon, each wave raised a visible ridge of muscle across her tummy. My leg across hers felt the thigh flex, my foot felt her lower leg tighten as well.
“Dan, come inside me. I want to feel you inside.”
No, not yet, not when her body’s rhythm was building so strongly. “In a bit. I want to enjoy this part for now.”
She didn’t argue. Reaching lower between her labia, I found a new source of slickness. That let my touch slide more easily over along her clitoris. The rhythm in her hips continued and deepened. Pulses of tension came at a more even tempo, and that tempo gradually quickened. More than that, each moment of inner strength lasted longer, and the intervals between them shortened. It was a struggle to keep my touch light and quick, but that was the silent request that her body made of me.
Not just her hips, but her whole frame joined in each wave of strength. Each one came deeper than the one before, and the intervals between them shortened. Then, the gap between pulses vanished. The next came before the last one faded, and built on it — then the next built higher, and the one after, and the one after. It was the slowest, most gentle arrival an orgasm had ever made. Little singing sounds came between her gasps. Then the waves of strength merged fully, creating one long plateau of tension.
My touch on her clitoris continued, and I let myself press more firmly. I held it hard against its solid, supporting bed, and felt it toggle back and forth under the ball of my fingertip. Then I just held, strong and soft, watching the beauty of her orgasmic face. Her wide eyes echoed the silent ‘O’ of her mouth, looking straight into mine. I think I was her whole world, for that moment, me and the magic inside her body.
Her breath came back in gasps as her shoulders relaxed, settling her head back on the pillow. Then her arms came around me in the hardest, tightest hug I’d felt in years. It took me by surprise, so my position was a little awkward, but that didn’t matter. I worked my free hand under her shoulder and returned the hug, as best I could. Small sounds came from her throat. I couldn’t quite tell whether it was laughing or crying, and I’m not sure Bette could either. After a moment, the embrace loosened so she could tug me upwards a little.
“You come here.” I finally withdrew my touch from between her legs, as she took my head in both hands. She just looked at me for a moment with watery eyes, then pulled me in for a huge, sloppy, playful kiss. “Dan, how did you do that? I haven’t felt that since … well too long.” She hesitated for a moment, looked down, and whispered, “I didn’t think I was going feel it again.”
After a moment, Bette got up on one elbow, pushed me over, and said, “Now it’s your turn.” Her free hand grasped my erection, and she leaned down to kiss my chest. She knew that a guy’s nipples could be almost as sensitive as hers, and made the most of that. She lay her head on my chest, looking down toward my legs, and brushed a clear droplet across the tip of my penis. “Now, I want this inside me.” She looked up. “If that’s OK with you?”
“Very OK.” I laughed.
Bette sat up and opened the drawer in the bedside table. She took out a small plastic bottle and squeezed a little clear gel into her hand. Then she closed her hand around my penis and spread the slippery goo all over. She put a dab on her fingers, and reached between her own legs. “You’re a love,” she said, “but I get a little tender inside. I hope that isn’t too cold on you.”
“It’s fine. You should have said something, I didn’t know I was hurting you those other times.”
“You didn’t. I wanted to feel you inside, and that just comes with the territory these days. Now, I want to feel you again.” She lay down again, facing me. “Now put that thing in me before this slick stuff dries up.”
I crawled over, and positioned myself between her legs. She reached down, and I felt her gentle hand on my erection again, guiding it to her open warmth. I slid in easily, more easily than I expected, until my tip reached that ring of muscle at the entry to her vagina. I slowed, and start rocking in an easy rhythm. No longer needing to guide me, she moved her hand around to the back of my hip, her other on my shoulder. “God, I love the way you feel in there.”
I felt a little foolish saying, “Me too.” I was in almost all the way at that point. One more slow push, and our hips pressed together. I just held there, pulling her close to me, for a moment. Then my body took over setting its own pace.
I know we talked, but I can’t remember a word of what we said. My attention split itself between her and the feeling building within me. Still supporting myself on one arm, I circled the other under her bottom and lifted her up into my thrusts. Her feet pressed down on the mattress and lifted her hips to meet me, too. I was nearly kneeling as I pulled on those round hips, watching the happy bouncing of her breasts. Her face glowed with an encouraging smile. “Come on, big guy, come on. How’s this?” She shifted her legs and squeezed inside. I nearly roared. “You like that, hmm?” She grasped me again, and my own orgasm hit me. I rose up, kneeling, roaring, pulling her hips with me, and pushed hard. I felt myself erupting inside her, and pushed again. A smaller jet spurted into her, and another. After a few more deep pushes, I held. I closed my eyes, in silent worship of this goddess who gave me her body, feeling as if our bodies joined somewhere inside her.
The moment passed, and I sat back down. Holding her hip in my lap, with her head down on the bed seemed a little ungainly, once our coupling ended, but Bette managed even that pose gracefully. My erection subsided and left her, leaving a shiny trail across her leg. Once we uncoupled, I pulled the box of tissue from the night stand. We each took a few and wiped up. There’s no dignified way for a lady to do that, but I liked the animal moment of intimacy anyway — she felt no need to hide it from me.
We pulled the sheet up and turned out the light. Nestled like spoons, I mumbled into her ear, “Bette, you are beautiful.” I meant it. “That was beautiful.” I reached around and let a soft breast fill my hand. “How do you feel?”
“Not at all sore.” It wasn’t the answer I expected, but was happy to hear it. “And, Dan,” she hesitated, then softly said, “I meant that. I really didn’t expect I would come again, maybe ever. It’s been so many years. Thank you.” A happy wiggle settled her bottom into my lap.
My penis had risen again into a half-erection. She reached back between us, settled it between her cheeks, and sat back again. I couldn’t imagine a warmer, happier way to end the day.