Your erotic stories

My name is Jenny Blithe. At the time of writing I am in my mid fifties. I have been married once, to Tom, who died in a skiing accident about five years after we got married. I have had two lovers since then, but neither of them worked out, the first turning out to be a lout, and the second a foul-mouthed pig. After that I gave up and contented myself with a dildo.

My main activity in life is my painting and craftwork, which is carried out in the “Workshop”, which is a large room attached to the back of the house. I have a number of outlets for my work that bring in enough money for me to live on in reasonable comfort.

I was about thirty-four when Madge and Ben moved in next door with their two-year-old child, Alan.

I got to know Madge fairly quickly through chatting over the back fence, then joining her occasionally for morning coffee. Along with her, I also got to know Alan a rather sweet child, who tended to sit staring at me rather intently when I visited.

One day, when Alan was about three, he found his way to my workshop, and finding the door partially open he came in.

I was working on a painting at the time and didn’t hear him arrive, so it was only when I turned away from the painting I saw him. It gave me quite a jolt. He was staring again, but this time dividing his interest between the painting and me.

Not sure how to proceed I asked him, “Do you like the painting?” He nodded and said nothing.

Being concerned about how Madge might be worried, I called over the back fence. She came running and I told her that I had Alan with me.

“Thank God,” she said, “I just turned my back for a minute and he was gone. I’ve been hunting everywhere for him.”

Alan was duly restored to his mother, but from then on he became a regular visitor to my workshop. He was fascinated by the great variety of materials, machinery and equipment I had, and I had to keep a sharp eye on him around the bandsaw and wood lathe. He was, however, mostly content to watch me at my work, and most especially when I was painting. Somehow, his presence managed to assuage the loneliness I sometimes felt.

He gradually became more talkative, and when he was about four years old, he paid me what I suppose he thought to be the supreme compliment.

“I love you Auntie Jenny, you’re nearly as pretty as my mummy.”

Realising that the compliment of a child is the sincerest you can get, I thanked him for his unsolicited tribute, smiled, and decided to reciprocate. “I love you too, and I think you a very nice boy.” The truth was, I had got to love Alan. Perhaps I saw him as the child that I had never had with my beloved Tom. Whatever the case, I looked forward increasingly to his visits.

Alan went to kindergarten and soon after he began, he turned up carrying a roll of butcher’s paper.

“I paint pictures too. I gave one to mummy but I did this for you.”

He offered me the paper that had washed across in wild abandon a water paint picture of what Alan said was a dog. I kissed his cheek, thanked him, and pinned it on the wall. It hangs there faded to this day. The first gift of love from a child.

When Alan went to primary school his paintings arrived in my workshop with increasing frequency, until one day he announced that he had to do a painting to take to school the next day, and could he come and do it with me?

I agreed and found an old easel to use. To have a “real thing” to do his painting on was a great thrill for him, so I stood him on a wooden box and let him get on with it.

From then on he always did his painting with me, often asking me, “How do you do this.”

One day, when Alan was eight and on vacation from school, I had forgotten this, and was working with a large mirror on a nude self-portrait.

Surveying myself, I saw a figure, five feet seven tall, long blonde hair, dark brown eyes, longish nose, and wide mouth with rounded chin and a rather swanlike neck. My breasts (38C), had been Tom’s most delicious delight, and from being embarrassed by their size in my teenage years, he taught me to love and enjoy them.

Waist a little on the plump side, pubic hair a nice little triangle which barely hides my vagina. I believe my vaginal opening is a little more forward than most women’s are, and Tom got further delight from this because he could get that extra inch into me. And finally, legs long and strong and they had frequently wrapped around Tom’s buttocks to drag him deeper into me.

As I contemplated myself in the mirror, and tried to paint what I saw, the door opened and Alan came in. He gave me the briefest of glances then focused his attention on the painting.

“That’s a rude painting, ” he announced.

I had grabbed a smock to cover myself with, and rather flustered I tried to deliver a lecture on the beauty of the human body with, I fear, no great success.

Alan said no more on the matter at the time, and showed me a little carving he was doing at school, but the next day he entered with a further pronouncement on the nude.

“My mum says that if you are doing the painting it can’t be rude.”

I expressed my gratitude for this confidence in my virtue, and no more was said. Or at least, nothing further was said about it until long afterwards.

The years passed and Alan went on to high school. Here he continued to develop his skill and interest in painting and the arts in general. He spent a great deal of time painting in my workshop and in addition, did most of his other homework there. I sometimes wondered what his parents thought, but they said nothing, and since they now had two more children, I suppose they were not too unhappy to have Alan working next door.

As Alan reached his latter-teen years, he developed into a very well built and good-looking young man. I began to paint portraits of him. They were not posed portraits, but done from sketches I made while he worked. Eventually, however, when he was 18 I made a bold decision. I wanted to paint him nude.

Before asking him, I spoke to his mother. Madge shrugged her shoulders. We were both aware that Alan had been sexually active with girls from the high school for some time.

“He’s of an age to decide for himself now,” said Madge, “and I think there have been quite a few females that have seen him naked, so ask him.”

I asked and got an affirmative answer.

The first time I posed him naked I was almost overwhelmed by what I saw. I knew him to be a fine looking young man, but when unclothed, he was in truth, beautiful. His muscle development was a painter’s dream, but I confess to you, I was most taken by his genital maturation. He was like a young stallion.

“No wonder he has no problem in getting the girls,” I thought, and I could not help wondering what he was like when he had an erection. “He’d be a delight in any woman’s bed.”

Between doing his own work, Alan posed for me many times over the next few weeks. I tried to discipline myself not to be constantly drawn to his manhood, but I admit that I often found myself getting wet between the legs, and had to constantly tell myself that I was an old woman, and he a young man, barely out of boyhood.

The painting finished, it went on display at a gallery that took my work. It was sold to a sixty-year-old widow for an enormous sum. I am not a painter of the first rank, but am merely what people call “competent,” but this work was something that had gone beyond anything I had ever painted before.

Towards the end of his last year at high school, Alan told me he was preparing his portfolio as part of his entry into high school.

“Your turn,” he said.

I was mystified. “What do you mean, ‘my turn’?” I asked.

“Your turn to pose naked for me,” he answered. “I want a nude for my portfolio.”

“Nonsense,” I replied. “Why ever would you want a nude picture of an old woman like me? You want a young woman.”

“No I don’t,” he laughed. “Remember all those years ago when I walked in and caught you naked?”

I recalled the incident with a blush.

“Well, I haven’t seen anything since that I’d rather paint,” he said.

“But I’m much older now,” I protested. “Things change, you know.” I had in mind not only how I might have changed, but how he had definitely changed.

“I don’t care,” he retorted. “I posed for you, so now it’s your turn to do the same for me.”

The argument raged for a while, but it ended in my agreeing to sit for him. We began the next day.

I was stretched out on a chaise lounge, one leg drawn up, arms up with my hands behind my head. In this position, I was giving him a good view of my vagina, and a fine uplift to my breasts.

His nudity had aroused me, but like all women, it could be hidden. His arousal could not be so easily concealed. Almost from the start of the first sitting, I could see his impressive erection pushing out the painter’s smock he was wearing.

This sight of his hunger for me had its effect on me. My nipples stiffened and my vagina began to lubricate.

He began working, but I could see that concentration was lacking. The sexual desire we were both experiencing was almost a tangible force extending between us. Telling myself I was just an old woman and he a virile youth made no difference.

Alan came across as if to adjust my pose, he leaned over me and pressed his lips to mine. I made no effort or pretence at resisting, but responded to him.

Moving away from the kiss he whispered, “I want you Jenny, I’ve wanted you for years.”

I stood and undid the buttons of his smock that fell open to reveal his nakedness beneath. His lovely young penis sprang out and I took it in my hand and said, “You shall have me, my love.”

He stood behind me and cupped my breasts, stroking from the base to end up gently squeezing my firm nipples. My mind began to whirl. I shook all over.

“My God,” I thought, “I’m so worked up, he’s making me come just by touching my breasts.” Never had this happened to me before.

My legs began to shake until they could barely support me. Alan held me, still caressing my breasts, and kissing the nape of my neck. My orgasm approached and I began to cry out, “Oh darling, my love…ah…no…no…oh my God yes…”

The climactic storm swept over me as I screamed and screamed, and then it was over and I collapsed completely in Alan’s arms. He lifted me up and lay me on the chaise lounge.

He sat on the edge of the chaise lounge, waiting for my recovery. He had just done something spectacular for me, but I had seemingly done nothing for him. I could see his massive erection throbbing in time with his heart beat, so as I gradually revived from my towering climax, I took his organ in my hand and leaning over, inserted it into my mouth. He groaned and began to tremble, calling out my name: “Jenny, oh Jenny…”

I felt his orgasm coming as he put his hands behind my head and pulled himself deeper into my mouth.

Suddenly he was howling as he spurted into me and I was fighting to swallow his sweet young seed. As he pumped more and more sperm into my mouth I could no longer swallow quickly enough, his ejection was so immense. It ran out of my mouth onto the seat and floor.

He finished and it was his turn to collapse. He slipped to the floor and I joined him, kissing him so he could taste his own discharge.

When I felt him beginning to recover I moved over him and put my vagina to his mouth. He knew what to do, and was quickly forcing his tongue into my entrance. From there he moved to my clitoris, and he soon had me in a mad fever of exultation again, first screaming for mercy, then begging him not to stop.

When it was over, I lay on the floor beside him. I had never known such completion, such euphoric fulfillment, before. Every fibre of my being seemed to quiver with triumph.

When I had recovered sufficiently, I rose to my feet and said, “Let’s go to bed, darling.”

I led him to my bedroom and the big double bed. So far he had not penetrated me, and I was determined he should.

I felt for his penis, and finding it slack I began to caress it. It rose to its mighty extent and I sat across him.

Inserting him into me, he began again to cry out my name. Jenny, oh Jenny, I love you…I’ve always loved you…I want you for ever.”

He was slow this time to ejaculate and I enjoyed him to the full.

When he did climax, I chimed in with him, adding my cries to his, and ending up sobbing with rapture.

That night we did not return to the workshop, but on the following nights we did manage to get some of the work done, a little at a time, that is, between love making.

Perhaps you would like a happy conclusion to my story. I can give you neither a happy nor an unhappy ending.

For the past three years, Alan and I have been lovers. The huge age gap means we cannot be anything else to each other, and I cannot give him children. I would dearly love to be pregnant to him but it is no longer possible.

I know that our relationship in this form must almost certainly come to an end. When and how I do not know, but in the meantime I’ll enjoy him to the fullest possible extent, and shall make sure he enjoys me.