This one was young…way too young for an old woman like me.
But that’s neither here nor there because there he was, gold skin shining in the full moonlight, muscles rippling from neck to ankles, sweat just beginning to break through as he ran his hands over his stiff rod.
The bouquet of roses he’d gallantly brought lent a heavenly scent to the room. The champagne we’d toasted each other with lay chilling in the tureen. The sheets upon which I reclined were scattered with petals. I couldn’t help but smile at him; this situation I never expected any of…this. Nevertheless, I uttered an unheard thanks to God for giving me health and strength through all these many years and especially, a body that had held up to the test of time. And what I didn’t get naturally, the surgeons took care of. Sixty-five and looking forty. They can say what they want, but as I see him watching my full breasts rise up from my slim waist, I can swear it was worth every dollar.
"Ella," Pinolo whispered as he tore open the condom wrapper, "slip this on for me, baby."
Pinolo. Thirty if he was a day. When he first began sniffing up behind me, I ignored him. Just a baby, I told myself. ‘Get on, you still got milk rings around your neck,’ I’d told him. Over time though, his protests that the rings I thought I was seeing were really ‘love johns’ neck chains became a joke that slowly and insidiously morphed into a challenge…and here we are, steaming up the room looking for a sunset ending.
I lazily lifted upward and exchanged places with him. His hands grazed my breasts and lingered. His fingers pulled at the erect nipples, stoked the fire in my belly. His head leaned up from the pillow and caught a dark circle in his mouth. Though I hadn’t produced milk in decades, his suckling caused a pseudo-milk letdown and my breasts swelled from the attention of his magnificent mouth. I sighed in contentment as I watched the cheeks suck in and out. In and out.
After long minutes of exquisiteness, he released my nipples. Hands massaged my stomach as I shifted between his legs. He slid one hand under his head, the other stroked my long, color-rinsed mane as I unrolled the condom down his blessedly long shaft.
"I love watching you do that." Pinolo smiled, showing his chipped eyetooth. "Come here." The hand in my hair joined its twin on my waist and lifted me high. Succulent lips parted before his tongue entangled with mine. My eyes closed against the luxurious sensation. Time ceased as this moment loomed larger than the day just commenced.
My mind committed every detail of his body, his being, to memory. From the curling hair, his whisker shadow, the bobbing Adam’s apple to the taunt muscles of his neck, chest and his I-want-you-to-hold-me-forever thighs, I remembered. His hands did the same with my body—a slow caress from hair to lips to nipples to belly to bush to thighs. I felt his fingertips pausing, clogging the neural pathway with information as they imprinted me onto his brain. One thing for sure, if I never again ride this road, I will at least have the memory.
Pinolo’s hands cupped a hip, squeezed and released. Ahhhh. A man with a slow hand. That song was so true. A man with a slow hand might be ugly as homemade sin, but his ways will take him a long piece down the road. Pinolo wasn’t ugly but he was definitely a slow hand man. The hand inched its way past my butt cheeks and around my thigh before slipping inside my KY Jelly assisted nether lips. The "jellied" fingers stroked and swirled deeper and deeper in my juices.
I claimed his lower lip before nipping decisively on the upper. He reciprocated with sharp teeth on soft skin and in milliseconds our kiss evolved into aggressive lip play. Aggressor. Submitter. Leader. Follower. Dominant. Subservient. Our lip play propelled us closer and closer to dangerous territory…before a well-timed tongue quelled our fervor and the lip play returned to the state of a kiss.
The slickened fingers retreated slowly to the outside world, tiptoed threw my bush before finding my nub. My belly clenched at the first touch and I gasped, back arched in ecstasy from the sensation. The fingers pinched, stroked, mashed, rubbed and pulled at the sensitized flesh. My pelvis moved in an erotic octagon irrespective of my brain. I covered his hand and as my juices trickled down to my fingers, found myself first guiding, then aiding his motions. My eyes rolled in my head. We were definitely drunk on the moment.
His other hand pushed me downward and down I slid onto his love. Our bodies moved in concert to an ancient, innate rhythm, the squishing and popping sounds fueling our movements. He stretched me languidly, my legs becoming liquid in the process. I saw the impression of his rod beneath my navel yet, I never stopped a stroke, never held back from impaling my loins on his staff. Instead I leaned backwards, allowed myself to suction him deeper and deeper into my cavern of love.
As his fingers groped, frissons of electricity zinged down my spine and around to my still distended aureolas.
I couldn’t help myself…I clenched deep within.
His face scrunched into a Frankensteinesque mask accompanied by Wolfman growls.
My mouth opened in an "O" of ecstasy.
His hips trampolined me into the air.
Synapses cross-fired throughout my body.
And blissfully, that "O" became a howl to the moon as his geyser of love erupted…and burned my tissues…over…and over…and over...
In the ashy aftermath, I stroked overheated skin while marveling, once again, at intricacies of life and the rejuvenation of love…no matter what age it finds you.
If I never have another one, this Valentine’s Day has been one to remember.