Driving Home

The evening had been fantastic – a lovely early evening meal followed by a tour of Oxford’s cocktail bars.  Raoul’s had been elegant, sophisticated, where she felt at ease in her dark blue bodycon dress.  So clinging, she had worn no underwear – at all.

No bra.

No panties.

Just her piercings – her left nipple, navel and her clit hood, freshly healed from the piercing just a couple of months since.  The vertical bar that she had waited so impatiently to attach the jewelled ends to had been tantalising her for the last week or so, as the healing process ended and the sensations became increasingly sexual.  The final part of her celebration of divorce and her embracing of her late flourishing sexuality in her fifth decade.

He didn’t know; he probably guessed, she thought.

That wasn’t the case – he hadn’t considered the implications of the dress, almost sprayed on, hugging her body.  All that he had been thinking about was how amazing she looked walking confidently through the restaurant, turning heads.  Some surreptitiously craned their heads to follow her as she passed by, admiring her taut and high ass under the subtly shifting fabric.  Others had been less subtle and had admired her flowing dark hair, the large but shapely breasts bouncing slightly as she sashayed past.

For his part, he had been entranced by the hips and the curves.  Her shoulders, matching almost perfectly the width of the hips and swelling for her bosom, dipping in at the waist, curving around her thighs… he was bewitched and after a number of dates, he was fascinated, desperate.

Obsessed with this much older woman, blossoming in her early fifties, so different to the girls he had been with previously.  So powerful, contained, driven.  Everything about her drove his youthful desire; her perfume, a heady elegant French fragrance again at odds with the more punchy, obvious scents preferred by his exes.

He had limited his intake so that he could drive.

She had drunk one, two, three… so many cocktails and wasn’t anywhere approaching intoxication.  She could drink and remain a lady, he thought.

She had no intention of remaining ladylike that evening.

They made their way out of the bar and into the cool early autumn night air, to make the short walk back to his car.  She enjoyed his company; yes, he was much younger than she was.  Half her age, possibly not even that; she wouldn’t tell him her age.  They had little in common; her innocence had been lost before he was born, and she had married, had affairs, children, before he had left school.  Still, he was sexy, fit and charming in a modest way that played well to her.  It flattered her and where was the harm in that?

She reached out for his hand as they passed a gaggle of young men, on the opposite side of the road.  They shouted across, unintelligible noises in the main, suggestive and leering.  She pulled him close to her and he wrapped an arm around her waist and they kissed, lips pressing together and opening in a passionate explosion of exhibitionism, revelling in the cheers that now rang out from the men and as they parted she kicked a heel up behind her suggestively, winking across at them and blowing them a kiss before they continued on their way, laughing and hugging each other close.

They approached a deeply recessed shop front and she pulled him eagerly into it with her, kissing him again and grabbing his tight buttocks with her hands.

His hands roamed across her dress, feeling the side of her boobs, her waist and her hips.

She kissed him, revelling in the way she could take the lead and overwhelm him; her tongue owned his mouth and she had him obediently responding to her indications; guiding his hands and then returning to his body; this time pressing onto the front of his jeans, feeling for the member underneath.  It was there, excited, pointing upwards, almost parallel to the zip and reassuringly hard.

The touch made him groan – with relief almost – as she had deliberately, perversely avoided it during their previous dates.  Even when they had kissed she had steered him away from her chest and made no indication of being interested in his cock.

He was much taller than her, over six feet tall and she was five foot four, maybe five foot five.  But with heels they stood more equally and their hips were broadly aligned so that she could feel him push towards her in response to her locating and then stroking the pole of his erection.

Good grief, she knew how to handle a cock he thought – stroking with both hands, making a V-shape with her thumbs and pulling them upwards towards his belt, pressing hard against the erection and then releasing, moving back towards his balls and repeating the process.

No girl he’d ever been with had got him this hard, even allowing for the fact he was in his early twenties and his erections were instant and furious.  This was something else.  Her body was fascinatingly taut, her skin obviously aged but still clear and elastic and the muscles beneath firm.  Her kiss was amazing, her tongue roaming his mouth, teeth, tasting the spirits on her breath from the cocktails and enjoying the shared taste.

What would he make of the surprises she had in store for him, under her dress, she wondered?

That he would see underneath was no longer even a question in her mind.  She was sure that they would fuck now.  The only questions were where and when…

[An extract from ‘Erotic Thoughts’ – click the cover to see more]


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2 thoughts on “Driving Home

  1. Very sensual and burning. Only wish it was longer

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