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Lady on Beach

Category: Mature
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I was sitting somewhat gloomily under the beach umbrella idly listening to the ocean rollers pounding on the shore. It was a beautiful day with the bright sunlight heat tempered by the gentle breeze coming in from the sea.

Further along the beach I could see two stick like figures of children throwing something into the sea for an equally stick like dog to fetch.

Behind me where the beach ended there began the fringe of low trees and bushes that extended back some two hundred metres. On the edge of this fringe I could see another beach umbrella and sitting under it was someone who seemed to be painting. The artist was too distant for me to determine whether they were male or female.

Given the beauty and tranquility of the scene I suppose I should have been at peace myself, but I wasn’t. I was suffering what might sound like a contradictory mixture of boredom and frustration.

My boredom arose from the fact that ever since Grant’s retirement from work we had come to spend more and more time at our beach shack. That would have been fine if the location of the shack had not been so remote from others, and if Grant had taken the trouble to keep me company. Instead Grant went off in his boat almost everyday fishing with his mate from the other side of the bay.

My frustration was possibly the experience of many women my age. Despite all the information now readily available on the subject, there still seems to be a general view that once a woman enters her fifties, she loses all sexual interest.

If that idea makes you feel comfortable, then let me discomfort you by announcing that this woman when she was sixty-one was as hot for a man as ever she had been. My problem was that my man, Grant, wasn’t hot for a female.

Of course, it was not Grant’s fault that he developed prostate cancer and had to have the operation, but it was frustrating for me when he was no longer able to perform in bed.

I know there are many women who find themselves in this situation, and feel that they can do nothing about it. Matters of sexual morality, especially for women of my generation, tend to prevail, and so, no sex outside marriage.

The impotent husband also has his problem with this. Facing the truth of the situation he could say, “Darling, I can’t do it any more, but if you need sexual satisfaction, why not take a lover.”

That however, rarely happens I believe. There is the husband’s ego that demands that although he can no longer sexually perform, he still expects the sexual fidelity of his wife. No doubt there is the fear that if his wife did take a lover she might leave him, the husband, for the lover, and I admit that there is always that possibility.

And as I was in misery mode, I can add that there was a frustration to add to my frustration. My mother had counselled, “Take care of your teeth and they’ll take care of you.” I had followed her advice and having no clacking false teeth and no hollow cheeks, I’d kept my face in fairly good condition.

Another dictum I had followed came from my own observation. “Take care of your breasts and they’ll keep your man interested.”

Add to these things the fact that I had produced no children, eaten a good diet and engaged in moderate exercise, and I considered that I was in pretty good shape for a sixty one year old.

On the beach that day among my other moans was the thought that I’d gone to all the trouble to keep myself looking good, and now Grant, even if he was interested, could do little to feast at the honey pot I had preserved for him.

So there I was, like a juicy plumb, ripe for plucking, and no one to pluck and taste me.

Talking of “juicy,” that was just how I was as I lay there; apropos of no particular stimulation other than my own psycho-physical self. I was thoroughly wet between the legs and my nipples were standing out to announce my state of sexual arousal as they pressed against my bikini top.

The two stick children with the dog had left the beach, but the artist was still there, otherwise I would have relieved myself with a little masturbation. I had the choice of going back to the shack in order to unburden myself of my libidinous condition, or taking to the water for a little body surfing and hopefully, a little lust cooling.

I chose the latter and made my way down to the water and entered gasping as it crept up my body. I caught a few waves and rode in with them, but then was taken by surprise. I was standing with my back to the incoming rollers and therefore knew nothing about the particularly large one that suddenly picked me up and tumbled and turned me towards the beach. Completely in the power of the wave the last thing I remember is a sudden jolt, and the world went black.

How long I was out for I’ve never been really sure, but the first thing I became conscious of was a voice asking, “How are you feeling?”

At that stage as I struggled up out of the gloom, I wasn’t sure how I was feeling so I made no effort to answer, but tried to gather my disordered wits. As my eyes came into focus I saw a face peering down at me and heard the voice ask again, “How do you feel?”

Instead of answering the question I managed to ask, “What…happened?”

“You were riding the waves in and a big one caught you and threw you up onto the beach,” the voice said. “I saw you tumbling over and then the undertow began to drag you out. I ran down and pulled you up here. I’ve done a bit of first aid so I had a feel around. I don’t think anything’s broken.”

I was beginning to be aware of the world around me and in particular the face hovering over me. It seemed to be a young male face.

Nothing was said for a while, and then the face asked, “Do you think you can sit up?”

“I’ll try,” I murmured.

“I’ll help you,” the voice said, and I felt an arm under my shoulder.

With the aid of the arm I got into a sitting position, and apart from still feeling a bit fuzzy, I seemed to be okay.

I now saw that the face did indeed belong to a young man who was kneeling beside me.

“Look,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ve lost the top of your bikini. It must have been dragged off while you were getting thrown about. I did take a quick look for it, but it must have been taken right out by the undertow.”

I glanced down and saw that my breasts were indeed exposed. I raised my hands to cup them and the young man went on, “I’ve got a beach robe over there with my gear, I’ll get it.”

“Beach robe!” I thought, and then said aloud, “I’ve got one under my umbrella.”

“I’ll get it.”

Striving for independence I said, “It’s all right, I think I can stand.”

Playing the heroine I strove to get to my feet, and having got to a standing position the world suddenly began to spin. I felt myself caught, held and then lifted off my feet. The young man had swept up all sixty kilos of me as if I was feather and began to carry me up the beach.

Independence was flung to the four corners. “This is nice I thought; I haven’t been picked up like this since the first night with Grant when he carried me to the bed. Even so I only weighed fifty five kilos in those days and he hadn’t needed to plod through sand.

I was lowered on to the blanket under the beach umbrella and the robe was draped round my shoulders. I pulled it round me and at least partially was able to conceal my breasts, although why I should have bothered I don’t know, since the young man had seen plenty of them already.

I was now able to take in my rescuer. He was kneeling beside me so I couldn’t determine whether he was short of tall. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but had a pleasant round face with one of those cleft chins that have always set my heart pounding. His shoulders were broad and he was well muscled.

“Lay back for a while,” he said, smiling at me. “By the way, my name’s Hartley. People call me Hart.”

“Hannah,” I responded, “and thank you very much Hart for my rescue from a watery grave.”

“S’okay,” he muttered, and seemed to blush. Then he grinned and said, “Any time.”

Now able to respond more fluently I smiled and said, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

He stood up and said, “If you’re sure your feeling okay, I’d better get back to work.”

I hardly heard what he said because my eyes had become riveted on what was before me. Tall he was, but that was for the moment of little interest since he was wearing bathers that in the days of my youth would have got him arrested for indecency. I had of course observed these sorts of bathers before, but it was what Hart’s bathers were trying to conceal, or more accurately, revealing that had me mesmerized.

Fans of the ballet will know what I mean when I say that what Hart had by way of manhood was like looking at one of those male ballet dancers who pad themselves to give the impression they are well endowed. Clearly what Hart had was not padding. I was looking at the real thing, and my God, what a size it was.

I think he was half way towards a full erection. The source of his arousal, I conjectured, was probably the same as mine, plain old fashioned sexual frustration brought on by nothing in particular except, in his case, over full testes.

He stood waiting for me to say I was fine so he could leave me. Short of company as I had been for some time and certainly having little hope of such attractive male company again, I sought to delay his departure.

“Er…you’re an artist? I noticed you with your easel.”

He grinned; “I like to think I’m an artist. I finished Art School a couple of years ago and I’m what is generally known as a ‘Struggling artist’. I’m hoping that when I’m dead I’ll be ‘discovered’ and people will pay fortunes for my work.”

We both laughed at this, and I asked, “You paint seascapes?”

“I try lots of things, but what I really want to do is paint portraits.”

“And do you paint them?”

“I’ve done a few, mostly paid models, but if I’m going to make a living at it, I need clients who can pay me. That’s not so easy when you’re an unknown. What I need is a portrait that can really grab the public eye, especially the rich public eye.”

“Well, as my rescuer I can only wish you the best of luck.”

At that moment I heard the distant buzz of an outboard motor.

“Good God is it that time already,” I exclaimed, “That’s my husband’s boat coming in and I haven’t even started to get a meal ready.”

I started to get to my feet and felt Hart’s arm round me, lifting.

“I’ll help you with your things,” he offered.

It was nice to have a young man offering to carry for you, so I accepted, and after folding up the umbrella and gathering my bits and pieces, we made our way up the track to the shack. On the way he pointed into the bushes and said, “My camp is over there.” I took his word for it because it wasn’t visible from where we were.

On reaching the shack Hart put down the gear he was carrying for me and said, “Perhaps we’ll see each other again,” and began to make his way down the track to the beach.

He had gone a few paces when a thought occurred to me. “Hart, how would you like to eat with us this evening? I’m sure my husband would want to thank you for saving me.”

He turned and came back a couple of paces. “I’d like that,” he said, “thank you. I’ll go and get changed. What time?”

“Come back as soon as you’ve changed,” I replied, taking one last look at his fascinating male organ.

Hart left and I hustled into preparing a meal. Grant came in bearing his trophies for the day; two whiting. I’ve often wondered why people bother to spend a fortune on boats and the fuel to run them, to catch fish that you’d get in a shop for a tiny fraction of the money expended on the boat and other gear.

Hart arrived soon after Grant and so we were able to regale Grant with our accounts of my rescue. We both omitted to mention the bare breast part of the story.

Grant, all bonhomie, produced a bottle of his best whisky and poured us all a glass. He then made what you might call a “thank you toast” to Hart, for rescuing his “dear Hannah”.

Hart and I stayed at one glass of fire water, but Grant proceeded to pour himself successive glasses. With each glass his affability increased to the point of drooling embarrassment as he constantly informed Hart he would be “welcome anytime.” It mercifully ended when he staggered off to bed.

It was late, but Hart showed no desire to leave, so we sat talking for a while. We got around to some personal aspects of his life, and I learned that his parents were both dead; that he and his sister had inherited some money from them, and his sister was a business go-getter who viewed Hart’s way of life as unprofitable.

Eventually Hart rose to leave, but as he stood he said to me, “Hannah, would you allow me to paint your portrait?”

I laughed and said, “For heaven’s sake, why would you want to paint me? You need to paint some beautiful young woman…or at least, an ugly rich woman.”

“Perhaps you underestimate yourself, Hannah,” he said quietly. “I think you would make a very lovely model. Think about it, will you?”

“I’ll think about it; good night Hart.”

I did think about it. Grant and I slept in the same room but in different beds. We had come to this arrangement because Grant said he couldn’t sleep when I was restless. Since I was often restless because of my sexual needs, the arrangement suited me because I could masturbate without self-consciousness.

I thought about having my portrait painted and other things as well. I kept getting flashbacks to my first sight of Hart’s robust manly equipment. I masturbated and fantasized that lovely phallus finding its home, specifically, in my vagina.

I awoke with a sticky wetness between my thighs and an overwhelming feeling of discontent.

Fortunately Grant had, as usual, left for the fishing grounds before I got up, otherwise I’d probably have snapped the poor guys head off. I showered and prepared myself for the beach. Fortunately I had several pairs of bikinis so I didn’t need to go topless. I slipped on the beach robe and picking up my beach umbrella, I made my way down the track.

As I approached the beach my earlier gloom began to dissipate to be replaced by a feeling of anticipation; Hart would be there.

He wasn’t there. The mood of dejection washed over me again. I set up my umbrella, spread the blanket and taking off my robe lay down to watch the waves breaking on the shore and the gulls weeping and moaning.

“Yes,” I thought, “it’s all right for you to moan, but what about me?” Self pity is not a very attractive emotion, but lately I seemed to have been indulging in it rather frequently.

Having had a bad night’s sleep I must have dozed off, and was awakened by a voice saying, “Hello Hannah, you’re down here early.”

I came to and looked up. It was Hart. Foolish old woman that I was, I felt my heart leap.

He was wearing a beach robe that was covered in streaks of paint. He’d obviously been using it to wipe his brushes.

I tried to sound casual saying, “Oh, I like to get here while it’s still quiet.” A rather foolish remark since this particular beach is nearly always quiet.

“Did you think about my painting your portrait?”

“Yes, but why would you want to paint an old woman like me?”

He looked at me curiously for a moment as if trying to work out how he should respond, and then said,”Perhaps because an ‘old woman’ like you has a beauty that youth needs to understand.”

I was nonplussed by this reply. My attempt at self negation, insincere though it was, had been exposed. Not only that, Hart had stroked my female ego at just the point it needed stroking.

“If you really want to paint my portrait Hart, I’m happy for you to do so, but I’m not a rich old lady.”

He laughed and said, “I thought I might have to pay you, Hannah.”

“All right,” I said, “we’ve got a bargain.” You can paint me for free and I don’t have to pay you.”

“Great,” he responded, sounding as if he was relieved.

“Where and when?”

“Right here, but there’s one thing I’d like to ask you…”


“Would you mind if I painted you nude?”

“Good God, Hart, I’m not one of your young models. Who’d want to look at a painting of a nude old woman?”

I had not anticipated this. A nice painting of me sitting virtuously in a chair, with my eyes scanning a book; maybe the bible, fine; but naked for all to see!

“No,” I protested. “I’m past the time when my body can interest people, even artistically.”

“Trust me, Hannah. You denigrate yourself too much.”


“Okay, if that’s the way you feel; will you take your top off then?”

Hart had already seen me topless and if he thought my exposed breasts worth painting, then why not?

“All right,” I said, and proceeded to take the top off.

Hart set up his umbrella and equipment a little distance from me, and then proceeded to pose me. I was to sit angled slightly away from him, my upper legs pointing towards him and knees bent and one hand on the sand supporting me.

“I want to take some photographs first,” Hart said. “That way I can still keep on working if you’re not here or are having a break from the pose.”

His camera was one of those that produced instant pictures and he proceeded to click it at me from several angles.

I could see why he would need them because my pose, while looking relaxed, was in fact very difficult to hold for long. I rested while Hart looked at the photographs, and then he said, “Right, we can get started.”

He came to me to adjust my position and the touch of his hands on my body was very gentle, in fact, quite soothing. I felt a lightening spear of excitement thrill through me, and there was a ticking sensation in my clitoris. I was disappointed when, satisfied with my pose, he stopped touching me.

He made his way to the easel, and after looking at me for a minute of two, he began a flurry of activity with a pencil. He would draw away for a while, then stop to look at me, then on with the drawing again. To my delight he would occasionally come and adjust my position.

He worked for about half and hour and then said, “Okay, have a break.”

I got up and moved about for a bit, trying to ease my stiff joints. I heard the distant barking of a dog, and saw that the stick children were back on the beach. They were some distance off, but I grabbed my robe and covered my naked breasts.

Hart said, “We’ll wait until they’ve gone. I can work with the photos for a while.”

I lay down under the umbrella and watched him work. I wanted him to take his robe off so that I could indulge myself in looking at his bulging genitals. I tried to encourage him to divest himself, but he looked discomfited and said, “I’d rather keep it on, it’s handy for wiping the brushes on.”

The children left after about half and hour so we worked on until lunch time. I invited Hart to come back to the shack for lunch, and he readily accepted. I asked how the picture was going and he said, “Early stages yet, and anyway, you can’t see it until I’ve finished.”

“How long will that be?”

“Depends on how it goes, some portraits take weeks.” He gave me a mischievous grin.

I was about to register my protest at this suggestion of “weeks”, but then it occurred to me that should it take that long I would have his company for that time.

I immediately mentally chastised myself; “Silly woman, you’ve become enamored of this boy simply because he’s taken sufficient interest in you to want to paint your portrait.” I tried not to add that the interest also included the considerable sexual organ that was now lurking beneath that paint smeared beach robe.

We ate our lunch and then returned to the beach and my pose. I decided on a new maneuver.

“Hart, if you’d really like me naked, I don’t see why not.”

“Wonderful” he said. Did I hear a note of fervor in his voice?

I took off my bikini bottoms and enjoyed his manipulations as he moved me into a modified pose.

We worked with regular breaks during the afternoon. Twice I had to do a hurried cover up as people walked past on the beach. As often happens when people see an artist at work, they were curious and tried to look at the picture, but Hart covered it before they got to the easel.

Hart seemed totally absorbed in his work, while I became more and more absorbed with him. However much I told myself not to be an idiot, I was in a constant state of sexual excitement. There was an uncomfortable wetness at the top of my inner thighs, and surely he must have noticed the hardness of my nipples?

By mid afternoon I was almost beside myself with craving for him and desperately trying to keep my overwhelming feelings concealed. This battle between desire and concealment began to make me agitated and irritable. Unreasonably I began to blame Hart for the state I was in.

“What right has he got to make me feel like this?” I thought. I was naked and vulnerable. He hid behind his robe and absorption in his work, while I sat trying to maintain the pose. I became increasing agitated, fidgeting and breaking the posture.

Hart finally decided I had had enough for one day, and he was more right than he knew. Had we gone on much longer I might have said or done something and made a complete fool of myself.

I flirted with the idea of inviting him to share the evening meal with Grant and me, but decided against it. “Why keep the object of temptation and desire in close proximity, only to feel the anguish of unrequited lust?” I thought.

“Half past nine tomorrow, then?” Hart asked.

In my frustration I answered rather snappishly, “If you like,” and gathering my things I headed back to the shack. I no sooner got inside the door and a wave of remorse washed over me. Remorse that I hadn’t invited Hart for the meal and for the brusque way I had parted from him.

Grant came in from his fishing and proudly displayed his unusually large catch for the day. He was the all providing male home from the hunt. I tried, but I am sure failed, to make the appropriate comments. When he asked, “How’d you get on with the artist chap?” I replied shortly, “Okay.” Sensing my mood Grant did not press the subject.

After our meal I decided to go for a walk along the beach. I asked Grant to go with me, but to my relief, he declined. I was hoping that Hart might also decide on a beach walk, but the hope proved in vain. I passed one couple walking their dog in the late evening sun, and that was all.

I was in a state of profound discontent with myself and the world. At sixty one I was experiencing all the emotions of a young girl in love which seemed ridiculous at my time of life. I knew many people would, if they knew about such feelings in me, have felt revulsion that I was hungering for a man hardly a third my age.

As the sun dropped below the horizon I made my way up the track to the shack, and to Grant, already engrossed in some television sitcom. For a while I tried to watch the ridiculous antics of a single mother with daughter, both of whom wanted to be fucked by the same man who did not seem disposed to oblige either of them.

Finally I took my woes to bed and tried to relieve them by masturbating. Hart, all towers and steeples in my fantasy, pierced me to the heart. The trouble was Hart wasn’t with me.

I slept badly and awoke prickly and ready to pick a fight with whoever crossed my path.

Grant announced that he would not be going fishing that day, and instead would be driving into the town some forty kilometers distant to get some gear for the boat. He suggested I went with him, and I almost agreed out of some irrational idea that I would be punishing Hart by not turning up for the sitting. However, the thought that I would not be seeing Hart was more agonizing than the desire to strike out at him, so I turned down the offer of a trip to town.

I made my petty protest by arriving ten minutes late on the beach. It was a hollow attempt since Hart arrived even later. He seemed as grouchy as me and said very little as he set up to start painting again.

The day grew quite hot as the sea breeze seemed to have dropped. Around mid-morning I got at least one of my desires fulfilled. The heat started to affect Hart, and in the end he had to remove his robe.

I saw again his penis and testicles bulging under the cloth of his very brief briefs. I could not take my eyes from this magnificent equipment as he worked away and I tried to hold still. Lubricant seemed to be almost squirting out of my vagina and I wanted to scream at Hart, “Fuck me; for God’s sake fuck me, I’m going out my mind.”

It was a ridiculous situation. I was fully aroused and ready for penetration. I think I would have taken any man who offered at that stage. I could see that Hart had an erection, but neither of us made a move as he painted and I posed.

We were like a boiling vessel with its safety valve jammed. As the heat increased something would have to give. It blew up when Hart was adjusting my pose.

“Blew up” is really too strong a description because it began so tenderly. As Hart was moving my head he bent and very softy kissed me on the lips. This was my cue, and I parted my lips to let his tongue enter and explore my mouth. As his tongue delved I took his hand and brought it to my breast and felt him begin to softly fondle it.

He broke from the kiss and whispered one word, “Hannah!” It was part cry of yearning and part question. I answered with equal brevity:

“Yes darling.”

To leave him in no doubt about what I meant I lay back and opened my legs wide, ready for him to enter. He came between my legs and felt with his penis for my opening. I took hold of his shaft and guided him in.

As he pushed into me we almost simultaneously uttered the only other words that preceded this strangely quiet and tender coupling; “Oh Hannah!” “Hart darling.”

It was beautiful feeling his firm warm shaft penetrating and then thrusting up and down in me, slowly at first as if he was savouring every moment, and then with increasing intensity as his testes prepared to release their load.

I felt his hands come under my buttocks and I knew the moment was near. I opened and raised my legs as wide as possible to give him maximum penetration and let my own orgasm take control of me.

As I fell under the spell of my rapidly approaching climactic moment I could not hold back the little squeals of anguished pleasure, and as I began to reverberate I heard Hart make a deep throated gasping groan then thrust in fiercely. The first impulsion of his semen pounded into me with enormous force, and this together with my own orgasmic throes set multi coloured lights whirling in my head.

I felt as if I had been given entrée into paradise as we clung to each other struggling for ever deeper penetration.

I reached the pinnacle of my climax and still Hart was discharging, gasping with every fresh ejection. I, still quivering with the aftermath of my climax, was surprised to find I was sobbing with joy.

Hart made a final powerful thrust into me, and his ejections ceased. He relaxed over me saying once more, “Oh Hannah.”

I wanted to respond, but my sobs combined with the last quakes of my orgasm prevented me from speaking at that moment.

Hart, still penetrating me, was kissing my face and eyes with warm moist lips, his hand still embracing my breast.

When I had finally calmed I spoke my thoughts.

“Oh Hart, you’re beautiful.” Then I wept into his shoulder with sheer happiness.

He withdrew from me after a few minutes and I lay, my head against his chest as he held me to him. We were tranquil, the unbearable torment of our hunger for each other sated – at least temporarily.

In my serene state I must have drift off into a light sleep, to be awakened by Hart shaking and saying, “Wake up, Hannah, the kids are back.”

As I came to I heard the distant barking of a dog and looking along the beach I saw the stick children running back and forth in the shallow water, the dog chasing along with them. As they played they were gradually moving in our direction.

There was a flurry of activity as we hastily put our robes on; then we sat not quite knowing what to do.

I could feel Hart’s emissions mingled with my lubricant dribbling out of my vagina and making a sticky mess between my thighs. I foolishly thought for a moment, “It’s a pity those lovely little sperms had nothing to fertilize, it would be lovely to have a baby with Hart.” I sighed and Hart looked at me with concern.”

“Are you okay, Hannah?”

“Yes, darling, just wishing I was thirty or forty years younger.”

“I’ll take you just as you are,” he replied, and bent to kiss me.

The children had drawn near so Hart went on, “No more portrait today, let’s pack up.”

I wondered if Grant was back from town or if not how long he would be. I wanted to ask Hart back to the shack were we could shower, and perhaps enjoy each other again, but for all my ardour I decided against, so we parted, having agreed to meet again on the beach at nine-thirty in the morning.

Back at the shack I showered, and for all its discomfort regretfully washing out Harts residual sperm from my vagina. As long as I had the sperm in me I felt as if I still had something of Hart in me.

Grant came back about half an hour after I’d finished showering, so it was just as well I hadn’t brought Hart back. After a brief, “Had a good day?” to which I could honestly reply even if massively understated, “Fine,” he went off to do something with his boat.

As I wandered round the shack doing odd jobs and preparing the evening meal I kept dwelling on Hart and our love making. As I did I began to get turned on again. I wanted to be with Hart, to make love with him and feel his warm young sperm filling me once more.

Grant made it worse when during the meal he kept talking to me about Hart.

“Getting on with the young bloke okay?”

“Yes, he’s very nice.”

“Portrait going well?”

“I think so, but he won’t let me see it until it’s finished.”

“Might buy it from him if it’s any good.”

I had only been half listening to Grant, my mind and by extension my sex organ, being focused on Hart, but his words about buying the portrait brought me up with a jolt.

“My God, if he sees I’ve been posing naked he’ll go raving mad.”

I would have to warn Hart of Grant’s intention, but what could Hart do. The only thing I could think of was we would have to stop the painting.

After the meal Grant settled down to one of the endless sitcoms he watched, and taking advantage of his absorption I announced I was going for a walk and asked if he would like to come with me. I held my breath fervently longing for him to say “no,” and luck was on my side, for he replied, “Want to watch this.”

I took my sex hungry body down to the beach and looking in the direction Hart had said his camp was, I saw a narrow track through the bush and began to walk along it. My luck continued to hold because shortly I came out in to a clearing, and there was an old fashioned square tent with a battered Ford utility standing beside it.

I saw no sign of Hart until I got right up to the tent and looked in through the open flap. He was stretched out on an air mattress, still clad in his beach robe, apparently contemplating nothing in particular.

I saw the ruins of a meal lying on a camp table and the interior of the tent was somewhat untidy.

Hart, seemingly lost in his revere, didn’t see me until I stepped through the open flap and said, “Hello, Hart.”

He looked up, startled, then seeing me smiled. “Hannah, I was lying here thinking about you.”

I could see by the lump in the groin region of his robe that he had been thinking about me in a rather specific manner. I decided to get my priorities right, and as I was still wearing my beach coat, but with the addition of a pair of knickers for respectability’s sake, I slipped the robe off and dropped the knickers.

“I think we have some unfinished business, Hart,” I said. Then kneeling beside his air mattress I open his robe to reveal just what I had expected; a beautiful throbbing erection.

For a moment I toyed with the idea of taking the purple shining crown into my mouth and giving him oral sex, but my own dire needs prevailed, so I sat over him and saying, “I think this needs fixing,” I inserted him into me.

He gave the now familiar groaning cry of “Oh Hannah” as I dropped down to take his full length into me, and when he was pressing up against the end of my tunnel I gripped him with my vagina. In the days of my love making with Grant that grip had always sent him off somewhere into space. It had a similar effect on Hart.

He gave a cry that sounded like “Yeow” and grabbing my hips, he held me down tight. He closed his eyes and began to moan, “Hannah, oh Hannah, that’s fantastic.”

I clenched him even harder and got a very satisfying moan from him, and then began to move over him.

It was strange, but the years seemed to fall away from me. I was a young woman again experiencing all the excitement of early sexual exploration. Love for Hart washed over me; I was in love with a boy nearly forty years younger than me, and I didn’t care. I wanted him with all the passion of a youth; such is the power of superlative sex.

Very quickly I started to be overtaken and controlled by the physical demands of my body. I was shaking and whimpering, longing for and dreading the climax I knew would soon have me firmly in its power. When it struck with unprecedented force I continued to pound up and down on Hart under the control of some primitive physical urge that would not release me until it had been fulfilled.

In the midst of my own howling confused state I heard as if at a distance Hart cry out, “Hannah, oh my God, Hannah,” and something hot and glutinous was filling me with powerful eruptions and I heard my own voice crying out, “Hart…Hart…don’t stop…don’t ever stop…”

I was weak and felt myself lost in some seventh heaven. As my climax passed and I could think connectedly again I thought, “This is sexual union as it should be.”

Unable to restrain myself I wept out, “I love you Hart….I love you…”

Hart was looking at me, his eyes seeming to penetrate to the inner most me. What he saw I was only to discover later, but with that gaze I felt that he was trying to draw me into him, to make us one flesh and spirit.

As the world began to take shape around us again I slowly pulled away from him, and as the nerve crammed tip of his penis came out of me, it’s still sensitive nerves made him give a little yelp as he felt a twinge of delicious pain.

I lay beside him burying my head against him, and began to think of all that we might yet experience with each other. I could easily have gone to sleep in his arms, but the reality of my life with Grant took over. I rose and said, I must go, Hart.”

He rose to stand in front of me and holding me close, kissed me and said, “I love you Hannah, and would keep you here if I could.”

I pulled away from him and smiling said, “See you in the morning.”

I walked home in the setting sun under a glorious sky of reds, pinks and purples. I was filled with a glorious contentment, not to say another load of Hart’s sperm. It was running out of my vagina to soak my thighs, and I hoped I could get into the shower before Grant spotted it or detected the smell of sex on me.

Fortunately he was still engrossed in television and only muttered, “Have a good walk? You’ve been a long time.”

I made no comment, only saying, “Mm,” and went to the shower to eliminate evidence of my guilty love making.

I slept well that night, and woke feeling refreshed and very much alive. Grant was still around the place and feeling very much at peace with the world I surprised the poor man with my singing and little touches of affection I bestowed on him.

Immediately after breakfast he took off in his boat for a days fishing, and no sooner had the last hum of his motor disappeared, I hurried down to the beach.

It was still not nine thirty, the appointed time to meet Hart, but he was already there. I looked along the beach and there was no one in sight. I went to him and putting my arms round his neck, kissed him hungrily and said, “Good morning, darling. I hope you slept as well as I did. What do we do first, pose and paint or make love?”

He grinned and said, “I think we should do a little work first or we may end up doing nothing but make love.”

We worked for about an hour, but by then our sexual appetites were making themselves very obvious. “Come up to the shack, darling,” I said, “We’ve got it all to ourselves for hours yet and there’s no children with dogs.”

We left our gear on the beach except for the painting itself, which Hart wrapped carefully and carried back to the shack. As we walked I remembered what Grant had said about buying the portrait, and I told Hart.

He laughed and said, “Don’t worry Hannah, I’ve got that covered.”


“Trust me Hannah, you’ll know all in good time.”

I was in no state to continue to press the matter as I was feeling as randy as hell.

I had made up my mind that I would give Hart a little treat, but he got in before me.

As soon as we were inside the shack he took off my robe and shrugging off his own, swept me off my feet and sat me on the edge of the table.

“Now, lovely lady, I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do to you ever since we first met.”

He lifted up my legs and knelt in front of me. For a minute or so he explored my vulva with his fingers, and then began to kiss his way up my thighs. I felt his fingers part the lips of my vulva and then his tongue began to probe my soft inner lips until he had penetrated my vaginal tunnel.

The rapid flicking of his soft warm tongue began to send me into a spin, and I started to say softly, “Oh no Hart, don’t…you’re driving me mad…please…don’t…I can’t take it…don’t…”

I took it and liked it…oh how I liked it. I’d always believed that oral sex was one of the most loving things a man can do to a woman. To want to taste and smell her seemed to me an act of supreme love and desire. I loved him so much, and as he continued exploring between my vagina and my clitoris I held his head to me imploring him not to stop.

Hart had an amazing ability to give me the most racking orgasms I had ever experienced. I don’t think it was sexual technique but that wonderful union of love and hunger that we both felt for each other. I am sure no technique could have made me want to give myself totally to Hart. I would even have accepted anal sex from him if he had wanted it, but he never did ask for it.

As he worked on my genitals with his tongue and lips his hands reached up to fondle my breasts and I could not hold back my cry, “Oh Hart, take all of me.” It was the cry of desolation arising out of the realization that I wanted to be totally one with him, his body in mine and mine in his, and knowing, as many other lovers no doubt have, that physical separation must eventually take place.

Once more my orgasm came roaring in like a wild beast wanting to devour me; shaking me like prey it has hunted and struck down. I was powerless in its grip and surrendered willingly to its savaging of my body and mind.

I heard screams as I was assailed by this beast that came from within but was being aroused from it lair by the outside goading that was my beloved Hart, and the screams were mine. Body racking convulsions shook me as I reached the zenith of this wonderful and terrible onslaught.

I think I nearly passed out and was aroused by Hart’s voice; “Hannah, are you all right? Have I hurt you?”

I looked up to see his lubricant soaked face looking at me. I was unable to speak immediately, and he picked me up and carried me to the divan laying me on it carefully.

“Are you all right?” he asked again.

I smiled at him and answered, “I’m fine, darling; I’m just a bit weak at the moment. You do the most shocking things to a girl, you know.”

He sat on the floor beside the divan holding my hand and looking at me anxiously.

I began to recover and to reassure him I said, “Its all right darling, but next time we do it to each other and at the same time.”

“You mean the sixty nine?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

He stood up and was about to sit beside me when I stopped him. His shaft was right in front of me, the purple crown with the juice oozing from his urethra within inches of my face. I took hold of it and gently pulled him towards me. As I closed my lips over his crown he tried to pull back, protesting.

“No Hannah, you mustn’t. I’m right on the edge…I won’t be able to hold back…Oh God…Aaaah.”

I had ignored his protest. He had tasted me and now it was my turn. The first beat of his sperm hammered into the back of my throat, and now he was the helpless one. All protest gone he gave himself up to the wild carnal animal that now controlled him. This was my sweet revenge for my own exquisite agony. Like me he surrendered to the beast that held him in its power. His hands came behind my head and he worked his shaft back and forth as I strove to swallow his copious emissions.

The salty viscous fluid overwhelmed me and I felt it begin to run out of the corners of my mouth to run down my chin and drip down on to my thighs.

As his jerking movements diminished I sucked the last drops of his love juice out of him, and then released his penis. He dropped back to his knees in front of me and buried his head in my thighs. I let him rest there for a moment, then raising his head I said through a mouth still gluey with his semen, “Here’s a present for you, darling.”

I kissed him, forcing his lips apart and thrust sperm into his mouth. As I did this I tasted and smelt my own vaginal discharge that still lingered on his face and lips. This combination of our fluids and genital odours had a stunning effect on me.

I suppose you might crudely say I became like a “bitch on heat.” Hart must have been experiencing the same effect because suddenly he was striving to open my legs and I could see he was erect and ready.

“Not here, darling,” I pleaded; “take me to the bedroom.”

He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom and lay me on the bed. He began kissing me, continuing to intermingle the residue of our fluids. Then he almost hurled himself on my breasts, sucking each nipple in turn while his hands roved over the firm mounds of flesh.

I took his penis in my hand and began to stroke his foreskin back and forth until neither of us could stand this stimulation any longer, and I opened myself for his penetration. It was a long and very sweet union, neither of us being in a hurry, but we were content to simply revel in the merging of our genitals.

This is perhaps the closest a man and woman can come to physical oneness, and when love is present, it becomes almost a sacred act.

We spoke to each other of love and let each other know the effect of each change in the angle of penetration; “Darling…do that again…Mmm, that’s lovely …press a little harder there, sweetheart.”

We must have loved an hour away like that before Hart finally gave in to the pressure of his testes and spurted in to me. I had not had a big orgasm this time, but had enjoyed a series of fluttering little climaxes, an experience I had not had before.

With the end of Hart’s ejections we were both sated, at least for the time being, and I dozed off. By the time I awoke it was after midday and I shook Hart, who had also slept.

“I’ll get some lunch, darling,” I said, “I think we can both do with some nourishment.”

After lunch we decided that some work should be done on the portrait, so off we went to the beach again. Hart worked away for a couple of hours and then said, “Enough for today, and I think we might finish tomorrow.”

I felt a shiver of apprehension run through me. Would the end of the portrait painting mean the end of our love making? I did not dare to ask the question, but prayed that Hart’s words of love to me had been sincere and not simply a response to the passion of the moment.

I felt the vulnerability that many older women must experience when they have taken a young lover. In my case I wondered if it had been merely the absence of young women in the area that had led him to relieve his sexual tensions in me.

Carrying those thoughts unspoken in my head I heard the distant buzz of an outboard motor, and knew Grant must be on his way back.

“I must go,” I said.

“Tomorrow?” Hart asked with an anxious look.

“Of course, darling,” I replied.

He took me in his arms and kissed me, making me almost forget Grants incoming boat.

As I walked back up the track to the shack I asked myself, “What has that guy done to me to get me like this. I swear he could fuck me ten times a day and I’d still come back for more.”

That might have been something of an exaggeration because throughout the meal preparation and its consumption I was constantly yawning and as soon as we had cleared up said, “I’m having an early night.”

Grant grinned and said, “Don’t know why you’re so tired, all you’ve been doing all day is holding still for that young guy to paint you.”

I felt a pang of guilt spear through me, but quelled it by telling myself I was getting from Hart what Grant could no longer give me.

I slept, as they say, “like a log.”

When I woke up it was to the distant sound of Grant’s outboard engine just kicking in as he went on one of his interminable trips to the fishing grounds. I ate breakfast and raced through a few chores, and headed for the beach.

I was early, but Hart arrived well after the time we had arranged.

In my insecurity about Hart I interpreted this late arrival as a sign of his waning interest.

True he kissed me somewhat avidly, but then said, “We’ll put in a lot of work today, because I’d like to finish.”

“Finish the portrait” I thought, “and with me?”

I adopted the pose feeling more than a little disgruntled. After a while Hart, who seemed to sense my mood asked, “Is there something wrong, Hannah. You seem to be out of sorts.”

“I’m okay,” I snapped.

He stopped working on the portrait and came to me with a worried frown on his face.

“Hannah, you’re not regretting what we’ve done, are you?”

“No, are you?”

“Of course not, you must know I’m not…how could I after how it’s been between us? I thought we’d find a way of still seeing each other…and…loving each other.”

I felt relief wash over me and tried to turn the subject off.

“Have you nearly finished the portrait, darling?”

“About another half an hour. If I go on any longer I shall make “improvements”, and they’ll wreck the thing.”

In a much happier frame of mind I posed for another twenty five minutes or thereabouts. The Hart stood back and said, “Done, you can look now.”

All along I had been itching to see the work, but now I felt some trepidation at the idea of seeing myself, as it were, through Hart’s eyes and hand.”

I walked to the front of the easel and stood still. I suppose it was something like shock that paralyzed my tongue.

What I saw was me, but not me. Taken piece by piece, yes, it was me, the nose, the mouth, breasts and so on, but looking at the whole I could not see myself.

“Don’t you like it, Hannah?” Hart asked anxiously.

I found my tongue and whispered, “It’s beautiful, Hart, but it isn’t me.”

“But it is, Hannah,” he protested, “it’s how I see you.”

“B-b-but she’s lovely, Hart.”

“Of coursed she is, because you are lovely.”

I was overwhelmed. My legs seemed unable to support me and I dropped to my knees before the picture and wept and wept.

Hart knelt beside me cradling me in his arms and whispering soothing words. I clung to him unable to stop the sobs that shook me. How could anyone see me like that? What was it that Hart saw in me that produced so stunning a portrait?

As I recovered and Hart wiped my tears and nose with his paint spattered beach robe he said, “I’m calling it, ‘Lady on Beach’.”

That nearly set me off again, but I exercised some self control and flung my arms round him saying, “Thank you, thank you darling, it’s the most lovely thing anyone one has ever done for me.”

“He smiled at me and said, “I thought there were some other things we’ve done that might at least be equally lovely.”

I laughed, through my diminishing sobs and agreed that yes, we had done some equally lovely things.

I stood up looking at the portrait again and felt myself blanch. “My God, Grant! You’ve not only painted me naked, but you’ve made me look like a sex goddess as well. He’ll go raving mad when he sees this.”

“He won’t see it,” darling. “I told you, I’ve got it all worked out.”

“How? He’s sure to want to see the portrait.”

“And so he shall, my love. Now suppose you go back to the shack and prepare some lunch, and I’ll join you shortly.”

Still puzzled as to how Hart was going to show Grant the portrait and yet not show it, I obediently went to the shack and prepared lunch.

After about fifteen minutes Hart turned up carrying the portrait with some cloth over it.

“There you are,” he said, “we can show Grant your portrait as soon as he gets back.”

With that he set the portrait against the back of the divan and took off the cloth.

It was my second shock of the day. It was certainly a picture of me, but it had none of the depth of feeling I had sensed in the other one. Moreover, I was demurely clad in a fairly respectable bikini.

“How…?” I began.

“In whatever time I could find between doing the real portrait and…and other things.”

We both burst out laughing.

We left the painting propped up on the divan and ate lunch.

Since the work was finished and Grant would not be back for at least another couple of hours, we wiled away the time doing some interesting things with each other’s bodies.

When I thought that Grant would be on his way back we showered together to remove evidence of our activities, and by the time we’d finished I could hear the approach of the boat.

We sat down demurely as if we had been discussing a Sunday School picnic and waited for Grant’s entrance.

When he walked in he saw the portrait immediately and stood in front of it appraisingly.

After while he said, “Not bad, young fellow, not bad; pretty creature, my wife, don’t you think?”

“Ah…yes,” replied Hart, “very pretty.”

“For her age, of course,” Grant went on.

“She’d be considered pretty…beautiful whatever her age,” Hart responded.

“Grant looked at him shrewdly for a moment, and then at me.”

“My God,” I thought, “He’s realized about Hart and me.”

“Yes, you’re right young man,” he said, “She is something of a beauty. Tell you what I’ll do; I’ll give you three hundred dollars for the picture.”

“Done”, said Hart, as I felt a wave of relief pass over me. “He doesn’t suspect.”

“You’ll stay and eat with us,” Grant asked.

“Thank you, yes, I’d like that.”

Nothing much happened for the rest of the evening except Grant behaved in a very patronizing manner towards Hart, never calling him by his name, referring to him as “Young fellow.”

As Hart left for his camp I went to the door with him. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he said, “I’ll come here after I hear the boat leave; I’ve got an idea.”

The morning found me anxious to know if Grant was going out fishing that day. Fortunately he was, and after he left the house I waited impatiently to hear the outboard motor start.

Within five minutes of the boat leaving Hart was at the door complete with his artists gear. “I’ve had an idea, darling,” he said, picking me up and carrying me into the bedroom.

“I know you have, you said so last night, and do put me down, we can’t make love properly like this.”

He put me on the bed and I asked, “What’s the idea?”

“Another portrait of you.”

“Not another nude?”

“Yes, another nude, but this time right here.”

“On the bed?”

“Yes. I’ll show you how I want you.”

I was laying on my back my legs slightly open and partly turned towards Hart. I was about to suggest that we made love before we got down to any more portraiture and I extended my hand towards him.

“That’s it Hannah, that’s just what I had in mind. Now don’t move, please.”

Click went the camera followed by a series of clicks as he took me from different angles.

“For goodness sake, Hart,” I howled, “do stop clicking with that blasted camera and come and make love with me. I’ve been horny ever since I woke up.”

“No problem,” he grinned as he started to undress me and himself.

In no time we were moaning together in our early morning coupling, and when we had both exhausted each other’s libidos temporarily, we got to down to another sort of work.

Hart had brought no easel with him, and sat on a kitchen chair with a large pad of cartridge paper sketching away with a pencil.

We broke away from the work for sex and food several times that day, and by the time we heard the sound of Grant’s boat Hart had still done only pencil sketching.

At the risk of Grant walking in at any moment Hart insisted on a final act with me bent over the kitchen table as he came into me from behind. When he had finished he dressed, and grabbing his gear, he fled, saying, “See you tomorrow.”

That evening Grant almost had me laughing when he said, “It must be a bit boring for you now the portrait’s finished; like to come out fishing tomorrow?”

I made some excuse about still catching up on the jobs I had left undone while sitting for the portrait, as I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the new one.

Grant soured things for me a bit when he added, “The fishing’s going off a bit, I thought we might head for home next week; what do you think?”

The thought of a return to our suburban house, normally a very welcome event for me, was now devastating. In my sixties I had got myself a young lover who couldn’t leave me alone. He was what I think many women dream of; loving, ardent and with a seemingly endless supply of sperm that he was eager to discharge in or over various parts of my anatomy. He was like a drug that I felt I couldn’t do without. “What the hell am I going to do without him,” I thought frantically.

I needn’t have worried. When I put the problem to Hart he laughed and said, “Well, I’ve only been staying here because you’re here, I can pack up and leave the same time you do. Surely we can find a way of being together once we’re both back in town?

We could, I’d make damned sure of that. I wasn’t going to let his penis go wandering elsewhere so long as I had him in thrall.

Hart was now at the painting stage, and before we were due to go home he’d finished the work.

If I had been stunned when I saw the first portrait, this one really turned me on my head.

“I’m calling it ‘Lady in Waiting’,” Hart said.

What the lady was waiting for was very clear. The extended hand, the body turned a little towards the viewer, the slightly parted legs all spoke of a woman almost imploring her lover to come and take her. The detail was amazing. As I looked at the strip of pubic hair that, starting at her (my) mons, ran down to just above the firm cleft of the vagina, it seemed that every hair had a life of its own. There was a hint of lubricant on the lips of the vulva and the nipples of the sharply defined breasts were erect.

I don’t think I had ever seen such an erotic picture before. Everything about it spoke of a woman ready for physical love and pleading for gratification.

As I looked at it I almost had an orgasm and I said, “For God’s sake Hart, fuck me before I explode.”

He is a very obliging fellow and without hesitation attended to my needs, and incidentally, his own.

Following this painting Hart had some more “ideas.” He occupied a small cottage in a suburb not too far distant from ours. This became our main trysting place and included more portraits of me; naked of course.

One of Hart’s bright ideas was to paint a picture that included both of us. This entailed Hart setting up a camera with some sort of timer on a tripod. Once he set the gadget in motion he lay on the bed while I sat across him with his penis inserted in me while his hand reached up to touch a breast.

The camera whirred and clicked, and that was it, except we finished what we had started.

This picture he painted entirely from the photograph.

One day I was greeted by Hart at the door of his cottage with an exultant look on his face.

“I’ve won fifteen thousand dollars, Hannah.”

“You haven’t been gambling?” I admonished.

“Of course not, I’ve won the Sinclair prize for erotic art. I submitted ‘Lady in Waiting’.”

I was delighted for him and hugged and kissed him all the way to the bed.

When we were feeling somewhat more relaxed he said, “You know, darling, there’s going to be heaps of money in this. I can put out limited edition prints of it, and now I’m known I’m expecting to get commissions.”

“Not to paint nudes,” I asked uneasily.

“Well, not necessarily,” he replied seriously. “I’ll stick with the nude I’ve got if you don’t mind; but if a commission to do a nude portrait comes along, you can sit in to see that I behave myself.”

We both laughed at that idea, but I think my laugh was a bit nervous as I imagined Hart painting beautiful nude young women.

He certainly “stuck with the nude” he had, and more portraits of me were made.

It was the “limited edition prints” that nearly got me in to trouble. One day Grant and I were walking past a shop that sold prints. In the window was one of Hart’s prints. The print was of me standing naked with my hand resting on a tall lamp stand. It was entitled, “Lady and Lamp.”

Grant glanced at the window and then stopped. “Huh,” he said, “She looks a bit like you.” He looked closer and saw the name of the artist. “Hey, that’s the young fellow who painted your portrait.”

He looked more closely at the print and said, “She’s a good looking bird, I wouldn’t mind having her picture on my wall.”

“No you don’t,” I said, trying to fight down a rising panic, “You can look at me when I’m undressing for bed.”

Thankfully we walked on and Grant muttered, “Funny how she looks a bit like you.”

In the meantime there was the worst possible news concerning Grant. The cancer that had led to the removal of his prostate gland had apparently spread to other parts of his body, and there now followed a series of operations and chemotherapy that gave a little respite but in the end failed. Grant died aged sixty seven.

For all my infidelity in the latter part of his life, I was distraught by his death and the manner in which he died.

Hart was wonderful, and oddly, in my grief I was more libidinous than ever. Perhaps it was the sheer closeness of another human being and the comfort of sexual contact that brought about this increase in sexual urge, but Hart serviced me as much as he could, but I even began to outrun him in my need.

Sometimes a woman can become too cloying and the consoling partner weary of her constant need for comfort, but Hart hung in.

As the sharp edge of grief began to blunt I had to consider my future. Hart made the suggestion that I should move in with him at the cottage, but I declined this and made a counter offer. I suggested that Hart move in with me.

“You can use one of the rooms as a studio,” I said, “and I can keep an eye of you when you’ve got naked young models.”

That is how it worked out. One room was converted into a studio and Hart shared my bed. I am sixty six now and still I have to pose naked for him as he comes up with ever more new ideas for a portrait.

Delightful as this arrangement has been, I am not blind to what can happen in the future. It is noticeable for example that my relationship with Hart, although we still make love frequently, has gradually become more like a mother and son bond.

Hart may well want to marry and have children one day and I have steeled myself for that loss. In the meantime I shall enjoy what I have, happy in the knowledge that so late in my life I have experienced a passionate love affair, and served the cause of erotic art.

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