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Mary Grace woke to consciousness of intense feelings of sexual desire: stirrings that had become all too familiar in recent years. Moisture soaked her cotton panties. She knew that if she failed to satisfy this demanding hunger, she would be restless for the remainder of the day. Comfortable ease with the idea of masturbating had not come easily to this seventy-year-old woman, but at this juncture, the need for relief outweighed any lingering feelings of guilt. The memory of her mother shaking her finger as she restated the rule that girls should never, ever. play with themselves still occasionally rose to smite her. Mary Grace had begun hearing that decree long before she even understood what her mother meant. This morning, however, the ache proved stronger than anything she had learned as a child.
The wetness dribbling down her legs and soaking into her warm bed felt good on this cold winter morning. Stretching out on her back, she let her mind wander. The aroma of her arousal drifted up from under the covers.
Can a man love a woman's smell? Will I ever find one who'll love my body and satisfy all my naughty desires?
Her hands swept gently over her responsive breasts. Through her flannel nightgown she could feel her own caress. Her sensitive nipples firmed. I love how they swell and harden, she thought as her fingers circled each. Would a man find my breasts exciting? Would he like me to play with his nipples? What do men like? There's so much I need to learn--so much I want to do. I want to give a man pleasure, but how do I play with his--his balls? I'd be afraid that I'd hurt him.
An image of a firmcock and balls formed in her mind, or at least as well as she could remember what a man's sexual endowment looked like. The only information about male parts her husband had ever shared was that testicles are touchy, and the cock's head is more sensitive than its shaft. However, most of their sex had been in the dark, so she had never really had much opportunity to look closely at his equipment or to do much touching. Ralph's hard-ons just seemed to pop up on their own and then he'd want to fuck.
Now she pictured a cock: one big and hard with a reddened rim around the head. An article in a woman's magazine she had read at the beauty shop while waiting for a haircut had mentioned a man's special spot. She tried to picture it. On the underside of the head, she recalled. In her mind she traced the edge of the head's rim and recalled seeing that indentation: the little piece of skin trailing down from it to the skin of the shaft--the spot the article said sensual women should lick.
Could I do that? What was it called--ah, the butterfly flick. Side to side across it, fast and light. Do women really like licking a cock? Hmm, I think I'd probably like that lick on my clit, but do men really enjoy doing that oral stuff to a woman? Ralph surely didn't. I really need a man to teach me all that I must have missed!
Reaching down, she pulled her nightgown up so that she could slide a hand under her plain white panties. Amazing what this old body can do, she mused. A chill ran up her spine. Her juices flowed as she lightly rubbed her swollen clit.
Where were these feelings hiding for so many years? I love this sensation. Ralph never really rubbed my clitoris. He never seemed to like touching me down there at all. All he wanted to do was stick it in and come. I want a man who'll make love to my whole body, not just fuck me for his own pleasure.
She knew that she wanted her clit to be tenderly caressed, not only with a man's finger but with his tongue as well. Once more the aging woman grew aware of the aroma she had come to appreciate. Ralph never liked my smell. She rubbed a bit harder as if to rub away a history of bad sex with her husband: the only man with whom she had ever made love. As her excitement grew, her pelvis automatically rotated up, instinctively offering more accessibility for her erotic self-exploration.
Fingers slid between wet lips. "Oh!" That single soft sound involuntarily escaped her lips. Two fingers then slipped into her well-lubricated vagina. I want a man in here, she thought as she experienced her warm interior. All those years I didn't like sex and now I want to be fucked. Even thinking the F-word created a tinge of guilt, but the feelings of her fingers moving inside chased the old negative thoughts from her head.
I'd buy a dildo, but don't know where to find one. I really want something real and warm and hard in me--a cock with a man attached--and I don't know where to find him either.
Her wet fingers emerged, only to slide up between her tender pussy lips, and return again to her firm little clit. She rubbed over it with all her fingers, a bit harder and a bit faster, first in a circle and then faster, side to side. She imagined that she felt the touch of a man. Her eyes closed, her back arched, and her legs tensed. Feeling her toes fan out, she held her breath. Mary Grace wanted to cry out when her orgasm hit, but she held back the sounds as her body convulsed in utter ecstasy.
As the intensity of her climax slowly faded, and as her body began to relax, her mind again wandered. I want to come with a man. I want him to come with me, to come in me. This feeling is too good not to be shared, and a dildo can't kiss me when it's all over. I need to find a lover. But how? Where?
This new day was Thursday, the day Mary Grace would routinely go to the Mayfield Senior Citizens Center to play bridge with her friends. A few older men would be there, but they didn't seem the least bit interested in becoming intimate with any of the women. One man who had caught Mary Grace's attention was the recreational director of the Center. However, Mr. Randolf was married. Still, he was younger than the seniors and she couldn't help but admire his body. He'd often change into a tee shirt and tight shorts, after coming to work. She loved looking at his muscular chest and firm, nicely rounded buns. For years she hadn't allowed herself to look at men in this way. Her parents would have scolded her, and she'd have been shamed for having lustful thoughts, or for coveting another woman's husband. Now, however, she could look at the bulge in the front of Mr. Randolf's shorts, and lust, almost guilt-free, after the hidden contents of that compact package.
Her first game of bridge had just ended when a short, stout woman stood on her toes and spoke into a microphone at the far end of the multipurpose room. "May I have your attention, please?" She waited until silence filled the room. "Don't start another game when you finish this one. I've a special announcement to make." Her eyes moved in the direction of a man standing by the coffee urn.
"Who's that?" Shirley nodded her head toward the tall, white-haired man who stood there with a Styrofoam cup in his hand.
"I never saw him before." Katherine looked up only briefly from the cards she held in her hand.
"Me, neither." Barbara gave him a cursory inspection. "Never saw him." She looked back at her cards and continued to rearrange them into suits.
Mary Grace studied the man a bit more carefully. He was older than Mr. Randolf and bigger around his waist, but he had an attractive face. He looked to be about her age. She wondered if he still liked sex. I could do him, she thought, but out loud she could only say, "He looks rather dignified."
"So few eligible men around here," Katherine remarked. "He's probably married to a younger woman."
"What would you do with him if he was single, if you had him, Katherine?" Mary Grace asked as thoughts of what she'd do flashed through her own mind. She could picture herself kissing him. His lips look soft. She could imagine his hands moving down to her breasts. His hands look gentle. She began mentally wrestling with words. Would I call that thing of his a dick or a peter? Cock seems harsh--but I somehow like that word. Could I say it? Could I say, "I want to fondle your cock, mister?" She felt her panties begin to moisten, but found her attention called back to the conversation.
"I just miss going places with a man." Shirley glanced down as though imagining where she might go.
"I actually miss cooking for a man." Barbara's tone was serious. She looked up at the man, and then quickly back at her cards.
"And probably doing the dishes and housecleaning as well," Katherine teased.
Mary Grace fought back the urge to ask who among them would want to have sex with this white-haired stranger. She imagined the disapproving frowns that line of questioning would bring from all three of her friends. Seventy-year-old women are not usually supposed to be thinking of such things, she reminded herself. God, I would love it if that man would want me. Right now, I would love any man to want me. I need to be fucked. The wet spot in her panties grew.
The four women at the table turned back to their bridge. The tall man stood alone in silence, looking dignified as he carefully sipped his second cup of hot coffee. Mary Grace checked him out from head to toe one more time, and pondered her own unspoken question. What would I do with him sexually?
I would, she thought, want to do something with him--or to him. After reflecting on her own thoughts, she realized that she wasn't quite sure what she would do, exactly. Being sexual with a man is not one of my usual behaviors, she admitted to herself. Would I stroke his--his cock? Could I ask him to rub my clit? What would I say if it felt good? Would he know when I got close to coming? It's not fair for a woman to reach my age and still have so many questions!
Miss Thompson again stood on her toes at the microphone. "People, listen up. I want to introduce Nicholas Jacobson to all of you. Nick is a poet. Next Monday night he'll be here at seven to read some of his poems. Nick, why not say hello to the group and mention something about your poetry?"
The man had moved to the side of the woman who appeared even shorter in comparison with his height. A surprised look spread across his face when she asked him to speak. It was as though he had been caught off-guard and suddenly was no longer that dignified stranger.
"He looks like a small boy, unexpectedly asked by his teacher to come to the front and tell the class all about his hobby." Mary Grace liked that look of vulnerability that flashed across Nick's face, but she hesitated to share that thought with the women at her table. I think he'd understand me and be gentle. I know about feeling vulnerable! I'd need him to be patient.
"Hello," Nick said in a deep voice, stepping up to the microphone. "As Miss Thompson said, I'm Nicholas--Nick--but I don't really consider myself a poet. Yes, I write verse, but I'm a retired high school history teacher. I didn't begin writing poetry until I quit teaching about seven years ago." He looked out across the room.