“I want to watch you cum,” she stated, “and I want to taste you. I tasted myself for the first time, now I want to taste you.”
I knew how close I was, and was delighted at her suggestion. I prepared to take myself in hand and finish for her, before allowing her to choose at what point she took me in her mouth. She had other ideas.
She sat on the edge of the sofa and directed me to stand in front of her. She reached out and grabbed my shaft, taking me so firmly I would not dare to argue. Retaining the full pressure of her hand, she stroked up and down, then edge of her hand rolling over the most sensitive part of my erection. Each upstroke stretched me further, almost painful, yet incredibly stimulating at the same time.
She bit her top lip, watching my face as my breath became laboured and the sensation in my cock-head rose to the point of no return. I tried to keep looking in her eye, but kept needing to put my head back and close my eyes. Once … twice … three times she brought me to the brink, then eased her grip and slowed down. Her ability to control not only her own movements, but also my responses was incredible. Eventually I begged her.
“Please, for fuck’s sake finish me off. I’m fucking desperate here.”
She giggled again. It was a sound I adored already and which wormed its way into my brain until the sound ultimately became a leitmotiv, running through my life and our relationship. But right then, in that moment, it meant just one thing. She was going to make me cum.
She did. Tightening her grip, she rubbed rapidly, my sensation rising until I pushed forward, buttocks clenched, stomach tight as my first ejaculation landed on her face. She pulled me to her, using my erection to drag herself forward as the second glob hit her lips, landing on her tongue, before she consumed me. Semen seemed to thrust from in a never-ending stream, as her hand worked my shaft as her mouth sucked my head, draining me, as she gulped and swallowed.
Finally, squeezing along my length to milk out any last droplets, she withdrew, her tongue lingering on the small hole, cleaning off every last vestige of cum.
She smacked her lips.
“I think you taste good too. Not really sure, because I swallowed before I really got to taste anything. Next time, I’ll make sure I get a proper mouthful and swirl it round. Like wine tasting. Tomorrow night maybe … if you want to, that is.”
Once again, her confidence had slipped at the last minute, so I quickly dropped to my knees and embraced her. At first, she resisted, and I was powerless to shift her. Then she leaned in to me, and we kissed, long and deep before separating. I looked her in the eye.
“Tomorrow night’s a date. Perhaps we could go out somewhere first. A proper date. Then back here — or your house — and we can fuck again. All night if you like.”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
We went to bed together that night and talked about ‘us’, about sexual matters in a frank, open way — yes, she’d love to try anal; no, she’d never done it before; yes, she’d be careful not to hurt me; no, our age difference didn’t bother her — questions and answers, every question and every answer bringing us closer.
We’re still together, my muscle-girl and I, She still trains and loves her body — I look on in awe, making sure I stay fit, but never looking to build my own body to match hers. We live in her house, my late wife now well and truly left behind. We live off her salary as a librarian and my income as an averagely successful author — plus the capital from my house.
Life couldn’t be better.