Last week we published the winning story from our Sh! September Stories Erotic Writing Competition on the theme of ‘Sex Over 50’.
This week we’ve got some more fabulous erotica for your edification and delight. These stories are from our runners up Scandarella and Megan Barnett.
Thanks to everyone who took part!
The front door closed behind me with a sharp snick, and I waited. Two whole minutes passed before I sighed, kicked my shoes off, and headed for the stairs. The dining room door was open, and I avoided looking at the row of brightly coloured cards on the sideboard. All of those huge glittery pink 50’s made me sick.
I padded quietly up the narrow staircase, wondering if Jack would still be in a mood with me.
He felt like I’d been neglecting him lately, and had grown quite jealous of the book our daughter had bought me for my birthday.
He’d accused me of being obsessed with it that morning when he’d shuffled into the kitchen and found me reading it over my first coffee of the day. But what could I say, other than it was a damned good book! Still, he’d rolled his eyes at me and questioned what a married woman could possibly garner from reading a cheap novel that was aimed at sad, lonely women, and I’d retorted that the better question would be, what could a balding missionary position loving, fifty five year old man with a beer belly learn from it.
The door to our room swung silently open with a gentle push of my hand, and I heard a loud cry. Jack jumped up from the bed and shot across the room, staring at me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He looked so sheepish, standing there by the window with his hands behind his back, it was all I could do to not laugh out loud. Not once in twenty five years of marriage had I seen him look so guilty.
“What have you been up to?” I asked, hanging my scarf on the little rail he’d screwed to the inside of the wardrobe door for that exact purpose. I loved scarves, and he bought me a new one every other month.
Stepping a bit closer to the wall he muttered, “Nothing. Well, nothing you need to worry about anyway.”
I opened my mouth to question him further, but he spoke over me. “Are you headed for a shower? You look all hot and bothered.”
I narrowed my eyes. He knew I showered after work whatever the weather, he didn’t need to ask. Something was amiss, but he was right, I was hot and bothered, and didn’t have the patience to get to the bottom of his shifty behaviour there and then.
“Yes, I am,” I sighed. “Did you feed Elspeth?”
The en suite door closed on his answer. I wasn’t being rude, I just didn’t need to hear it, because I knew he had fed the cat, and I knew the pot roast would be ready by the time I’d dried my hair. It was routine.
It didn’t take me long to shower, and I was soon back in the bedroom, blowing my greying hair all over the place, just to take the dampness off. I pulled on a loose dress and made my way to the door, pushing my wardrobe door closed as I passed. I could have sworn I’d closed it after I’d hung up my scarf.
Jack was in the kitchen, waiting for me. I was surprised to find him shirtless, but didn’t comment. Just as I was reaching for the fridge door, his hand wrapped around my wrist. I jumped, and stared at him like he’d lost his mind. What was he up to?
Silently, he drew me from the kitchen, straight into the dining room. I grimaced when I saw the cards strewn on the table. He must have finally decided it was time to put them away, though he was doing an untidy job of it. And he’d been drinking too, if the half full wine glass and bucket of ice was anything to go by.
Once I reached the table, Jack spun me around, and something soft and familiar brushed over my hand. It was my favourite scarf, the chiffon one with the little pandas on it.
He didn’t speak as he bound my wrists together, and neither did I. I was too stunned to form a sentence.
My eyes popped wide when he picked me up and lay me on the table, right on top of the cards. I knew immediately what I’d caught him doing when I’d entered our room, and a thrill of excitement ran through me. He tied the loose end of the scarf to one of the heavy chairs, giving me a look he hadn’t given me since our wedding night all those years ago.
Even though I knew it was coming, I still gasped when he lifted my dress to my neck, and despite my best efforts, I still cried out when I felt that first zing of coldness of an ice cube skimming my stomach.
Oh god, I knew this! This was the scene in chapter nine that I’d been reading before I’d left for work that morning. Jack had wanted to know what interested me so much, and now he did. He’d been reading my book when I’d come home, and he was showing me what he’d learned.
Each drip of the ice sent a shiver through me, and I tensed, knowing that its destination was my nipples. But to my surprise, the ice didn’t move up my body. It moved down, and stroked shockingly chill lines from my clitoris to my butt and back.
“Jesus, Jack!” I yelped. That yelp turned into a moan when I felt the freezing ice vanish, just to be replaced with a warm, wet tongue.
“Chapter twelve!” I gasped, widening my thighs while my husband sucked and licked. The ice cube was half melted now, but it still felt huge when he pushed it just inside of my vagina. His finger moved it around, his lips wrapped around my clit and he sucked harder, and I dug my heels into his back and had the strongest orgasm I’d had in years.
Jack straightened, and pushed the book toward me with a wet finger. “The pot roast will be ready in five, then for afters we’re having chapter nineteen. You’re right, it is a damned good book.”
Thirty years is a long time; a life time. We were so young, so full of wonder, and together we navigated this curious world. We scrimped and saved, we worked long days, and finally when the time came we were able to spend more of our days together. We satiated our appetites in all senses of the phrase: we travelled, we tried new cuisines, and we explored each other in every way we desired.
Time may have left its mark, but our naked bodies tell a story, each wrinkle an anecdote to be remembered. Over the years, I have learned to love my body, and how to love with it.
Like footprints we have made on our journey together, each caress, every touch has been etched into our skin, gone but never forgotten.
Tastes may change, but there are some things that you never grow out of. He knows that if he tilts my face to look into his with fingertips so light that they are barely touching me, that tingles will run down my skin, awakening my desire.
The smallest of gestures can spark the darkest of fires.
When we were younger, we were greedy; we would devour each other, hungrily feasting on our naked flesh, our inner beasts unleashed. He would take me roughly, grappling at my buttocks as he would thrust his throbbing member deep into my heated core. I would dig my nails into his back, urging him to go faster, harder, to send me to dizzying heights of pleasure.
Over time we learned that you can still enjoy the ride if you slow down the pace.
He is still firm with me, knowing that his purposeful grip is a give away for his desire. He still wants to touch me, to have me, to make love to me; this does nothing more than fuel the fire- to be desired after all this time is a highly arousing sentiment.
When he kisses my neck now, he savours the taste of my skin. He traces his kisses slowly down my chest, cupping my breast, excited by its fullness and bites at my nipple, sending the blood rushing to my swelling bud.
He takes his time; he fondles each breast with appreciation, as if they were works of art, and he nibbles and sucks at my nipples in turn, swirling his hot tongue around them. I squirm and moan, my clitoris throbbing like a distant rhythmic drum.
He will trace more kisses down my stomach, which may be softer now, but his eyes will still drink me in and I can see the hunger lingers, but he wants to savour me. He will gently push my thighs apart and I will tense with anticipation, eager for the dam to burst but he will tease me. He will plant kisses up and down my thighs, lapping at them with his clever tongue.
The feeling as I tip over the edge will never change.
When he finally licks at my swollen bud I melt into ecstasy. As he explores my delicate skin with his mouth, he will slip a finger into my heated wetness, beckoning my orgasm with a come-hither gesture. He will listen to my body, respond as I writhe uncontrollably beneath his touch, and my hunger for him will grow and grow until it’s too much to bare.
Always eager, I will push him back on the bed, and I will snake my way down to his engorged erection. The sight of it, the size of it, it always turns me on.
As I take him between my lips, he will groan. I will slowly trace my tongue up and down his shaft, twirling it in tantalising circles, swirling it around the tip of his prick, the fire in my core pulsing. Hearing him moan and whisper my name will forever make me feel sexy, that I am capable of making him feel as good as he makes me.
As I suckle and lick on his shaft, I will massage his firming testicles and draw soft circles along his perineum with nimble fingers. Feeling his erection start to throb against my hot tongue, I can no longer wait for him.
I will lie back on the bed, my delicate skin in full bloom, inviting him to take me. Our hot mouths will crash, tongues exploring each other as he eases his engorged shaft inside me, inch by inch, and when we are fully as one I will groan.
With a slower pace than we may have once had, I can enjoy him more now, focus on the sensations rather than getting carried away. I still love the way his rock hard prick fills me up, how the weight of his body feels against me, but rather than demanding him to fuck me we find our rhythm and roll our hips in unison, and my orgasm will start to build, slowly but surely.
I will slip my hands up across his broad back, and down to his firm buttocks and push him deeper inside me. I will plant breathless kisses on his powerful arms as he thrusts a little harder inside me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge until I feel as if I might explode.
He will lay on his side, gently pulling my thigh towards him, and the gentle rhythm of our hips will pick up speed. Feeling more like stormy tides than gentle waves, it’s not long before we crash together in climax, chests heaving as we try to catch our breath.
We will stay entwined for a moment or two, drinking each other in, letting the world catch up with us.
Thirty years is a long time; time we have shared together. We still have time to share, moments to enjoy. The only difference now to all those years ago is that we don’t have to make the time for us any more: we have all the time in the world.