Two Bathrooms to Go!

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Double Penetration

The tsunami of lust and need was utterly unexpected.

It came out of nowhere to crash over Helen with the force of a collapsing brick wall, leaving her literally gasping. Between her thighs the sudden gush of moisture took her fully aback – it had to have been twenty years, and women her present age weren’t supposed to be capable of that. So much for received wisdom and textbooks!

The cause was Howard, her new friend and remodeler/handyman, lying on his back on the floor of her master bathroom, head hidden beneath the countertop, jousting valiantly with the plumbing. Despite the open window and best efforts of a small fan, the bath was sweltering. Howard was down to his short-shorts and work-shoes, his body glistening with sweat, runner-lean muscles straining. Male pheromones filled the murky air, battling –successfully! – for her attention, the fact she was long past child-bearing age apparently immaterial.

That was bad enough, but as she stood over him, handing down tools on request, his movements gaped the legs of his shorts -no underwear! -and gave prolonged glimpses of the first real, live cockhead she’d seen in person for way over a decade.

“Big screwdriver!” he said: his hand reappeared. “Big screwdriver, indeed!” she thought! Her belly knotted still more- he had Michelangelo’s-David hands and forearms, a particular weakness of hers. She managed to pass him the driver without dropping it.

Howard’s arrival on her scene had been a delightful surprise. Half a year ago, he’d bought a fixer-upper five doors down. They met a few weeks later: she was working in her front yard, he was walking past in cool-down mode after his daily 10k run. New-neighbor introductions established that he was 28, single, a new grad student. He’d taken several years off after his BA and become accomplished at home repair and remodeling: it was how he was paying for his return to school. Helen’s vanity led her to admit to only 70 of her actual 78 years. And why not? Socially, she routinely passed for middle or late sixties, and every physiological test –as a retired nurse she had access to them all- returned “functional age” numbers in the low fifties, even the high forties. She didn’t feel bad at all about the fibbing.

Helen was intrigued by Howard’s explanation of his trade: she’d been intending for ten years or more to gut and update all three baths. She invited him to dinner – she hadn’t cooked for a man for years – to discuss remodeling possibilities.

They got along famously, even (amazing!) flirting a bit. It has been such a hoot! She’d studied him closely but secretly as they talked. And she was sure she’d detected an occasional glimmer of masculine interest in his glances – something she found puzzling and amusing, nothing more – the fifty year differential demanded such neutrality – didn’t it? Anyhow, ages aside, there was mutual platonic attraction aplenty, centered around the brain. Intense conversations came up over the damnedest subjects, something for which she thirsted. Even at that first dinner they’d discussed a wealth of topics – foreign affairs, emotional connectivity between the genders (amazing squared!), DNA, street repairs, age vs youth.

Over the next few weeks they spent considerable time together discussing designs and shopping for materials. He would do the master-bath first – no hurry, quality over speed always. Meanwhile, she would use the guest bath downstairs. She gave him a house key, and he worked a couple of hours most forenoons, usually arriving covered with sweat after his run, still in running attire; he kept work shorts and shoes stashed under the sink. Delighted to have the company, Helen took to preparing lunch for them both, and as the work progressed she would occasionally help in little ways, as today.

The minor flirting continued, but she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – believe his carefully-modulated but apparently genuine attraction to her: after all, at 78 any resurgence of sexual interest – much less of activity! – seemed unreal enough, and 28 vs 78 seemed way beyond the merely ridiculous! She could easily be his grandmother, and without much stretch even his great-granny! That disquiet didn’t prevent her from having fun and pushing a bit – even (maybe ‘especially’?) at her actual age, a chance to do a little teasing was impossible to refuse.

One morning she arose after a night of intensely realistic, well-remembered erotic dreams about Howard, and undertook the first of several fits of vanity-driven early-morning naked self-examination. She quickly decided that by far the oldest-looking parameter on her entire body – including face and boobs and butt and all the usually-wattled places – was her wide-spreading, grizzled, sparse and frankly scraggly bush: it was actually upsetting her even though always hidden.

She didn’t need reminders, even private ones, of her age, thank you very much, and if there was anything about her naked body that screamed canlı bahis her age, that was it. Something had to be done. And it wasn’t complicated. Certain that the ultimate in nudity was bound to be much more attractive even to herself, she’d immediately shaved all the way down to baby-butt smooth, every single hair gone from every plane and crevice below the collarbones. Just the way she’d kept things through so many years of intense activity: shades of yesteryear – ancient traditions revived!

Then, having shaved, her imp popped up and took control. How about ratcheting up the flirting? Just for fun, of course. “Some old women wear purple…” she rationalized, “…but I have a much better idea.”

Out came her white one-piece swimsuit of paint-thickness Lycra, her “worn in privacy only” suit. A new razor blade and steady hand made short work of the inner crotch panel and minor bosom-padding,, leaving the entire suit completely unlined. Well wetted-down to ensure near transparency, she had “accidentally” been lying by the pool when he arrived. The suit flattened her boobs (they needed no help in attaining flatness these days!) but also put her fully erect nipples – not to mention the details of her newly-nude crotch anatomy- plainly on display.

The suit worked its magic – his eyes flickered repeatedly to her clearly-visible nipples, swept to her pussy several times. He did the truly gentlemanly thing – namely, ogled her overtly, then grinned and whistled: and he certainly seemed serious enough – no signs of teasing or being cutesy. “Wow and double wow, Helen! You really don’t look over 50, you know! I like!”

Turnabout being fair play, well, of COURSE she’d admired his runner’s body in return and just as overtly. It was a body hard to ignore because he was in superb running shape, and (especially!) because he ran in a very small Speedo and shoes, nothing else. But hers was almost – not quite – an abstract admiration. Not quite, indeed. Nevertheless, she was certain – and pleased – that the bulge in his suit had expanded while they bantered. But then –dammit anyhow!- Howard had quickly disappeared into the bathroom to change and go to work. She lazed there in the shade, her brain softly awhirl, finished her lemonade, then changed to a tennis outfit, and trotted back to see if she could help. Hence the handing-down of screwdrivers, and the view.

The hand and driver disappeared to do some under-sink magic.

“And now THIS!” She practically yelled at herself – What was she to make of this incredible, instantaneous rebirth of raging desire? Whence, in all of Heaven, Hell and Earth, had it come, altogether utterly disconcerting, simultaneously scary and delightful? And just what in the name of all things holy was she going to DO about it? If anything, other than conceal it? Or hide from it? Standing there with her insides shivering, she simply HAD to do something!

He couldn’t possibly see any part of her above her knees, and besides he had to be looking up into the maze of pipes as he worked. Her hand slid under the waistband of her tennis skirt, down over her electrified clit to check – the moisture was not only real, but more abundant by far than she’d thought.

She bit her lip in desperation, told herself to quit dithering. “I have to leave for a few minutes, Howard” she said, “But I’ll be back shortly.”

He grunted “OK, no problemo!” as he shifted his butt again, gave her another, better view. She wondered if he were truly as unconscious of that exposure as he seemed? Or was it an intentional tease? Turnabout? What a lovely concept! But dream on, lady! Wasn’t it presumptuous of her, verging on idiotic, even to WONDER if – just maybe – he was interested enough to tease? To actually HOPE that he really was teasing, which would indicate at least a glimmer? Her brain screamed at her, “QUIT IT, BEFORE YOU EMBARRASS YOURSELF FOREVER, YOU EGOTISTICAL, PATHETIC OLD BAT!” But her body declined to receive the message, kept right on yammering.

Belly twisting frantically, she retreated to the basement guest room, locked the door, threw herself on the bed. It had been years, yes, but her fingers remembered. In terms of ingrained muscle-memory, riding a bicycle has nothing on masturbation.

She wondered later whether it had taken a full minute to come the first time? And, too, just exactly how many times had she managed? She had no real idea!

Still puzzled and confused by her reactions both emotional and physical, she rose from the bed, stepped to the full-length mirror, and stripped completely. What she needed was a brutally objective self-evaluation. She tried to put her brain into ‘young y-chromosome’ mode as she stared at her reflection, took inventory as best she could from a male point of view.

Striking clear light-blue eyes in a symmetrical face: yes, she had certainly been good looking back when it counted – and perhaps not too bad even yet. If you liked old women! The body? bahis siteleri Well, fifty years of yoga helped greatly, as did near-daily swimming and workouts. Still bolt-upright erect, no signs of osteoporosis – she fought that every way known, and it seemed to work, although genetics undoubtedly helped – Mom’s spine had been straight until she died. Helen’s short silver hair (once strawberry) was still reasonably thick, well cared for. Her own teeth, too – pretty, even, surprisingly white. No little-old-lady simian verticals in her upper lip, and the lips still nice and full. Body covered with parchment-like translucent red-head’s skin, a plentiful network of fine wrinkles, but no sun damage and no liver-spots – she’d always been UV-leery and it paid!

She lifted her arms overhead: no pronounced arm-wattles, that was good. Studied her breasts, breasts that had for decades been her pride and joy. Not big, but certainly adequate, incredibly sensitive – back in her heyday, she could even come just from being touched there – if the man knew what the hell he was doing, knew how to read her properly. Too bad so few of them had the knack! They hung longish now instead of firmly upright, gravity was winning, but much more slowly than on most women. At her gym, she saw many other women with much less shape and tone in bodies thirty years younger, which made her feel good. Besides, droop be damned, it was nerve function that truly counted, and in that department she was just fine. She shimmied: they wobbled, producing delightful sensations of weightiness, momentum. She liked her nipples – especially as they were right now, erect, full, standing up atop crinkled areolas, asking for attention.

Belly and front? Some skin sags and bags, but not bad – no kids hence no stretchmarks or caesarian scars – and no belly, thanks to situps. She turned sideways, studied her butt and legs. No saggy-baggy old-woman [old-man?] butt – it was substantial, more so than she liked (of course!), and carried some age-spread, but firm. The legs she was proud of – gallons of lotion, miles of walking – taut despite swarms of tiny wrinkles in the parchment. Age had eliminated any serious need for a razor on pits and legs. The renewed pussy-shave was in perfect repair, her hidden secret – the ultimate in exposure, nudity, blatant sexuality. “And it was certainly easy and fun to fix the “bush” problem!” – she thought, then giggled at herself. “Sure! And for whom and for what reason, My Dear? Are we suggesting that all your systems still know how to operate – and can do so?”

Satisfied for the moment, she dressed, returned to the bath.

Howard was on his hands and knees, still under the sink, working on the floor. His butt pointed upwards straight at her: he was concentrating and didn’t notice her reentry. His cock and half his scrotum were protruding into plain view, his legs were taut, making the knee-back tendons stand out, defining his calf muscles.

An ‘ohmigawd’ sight. Fists in her bowels, squeezing.

And in those few seconds before she let him know she was present, a plan leapt into her mind full-blown. She certainly had the experience to carry it off – if she could whip up the nerve. Married for lust at 19, she’d escaped unscathed at 21. Intensely sexual and perpetually horny, she’d experimented with scores of men (“tried them on” was her private term). She had married again at 29 for much better reasons, to Bruce, a much better partner.

At age 47, seeking relief from the inevitable 20-year-itch of marital sexual ennui, it was she who had tentatively proposed opening up the marriage. Hubby agreed: for a decade they enthusiastically explored the swinging, swapping, open-marriage scene – it was huge fun, and it greatly improved their own sex life as a couple.

Then, when Bruce was 65 and she 58, he disappeared overboard from a friend’s yacht in a midnight squall that dismasted the boat: his body was never found.

Year 1 of widowhood she spent in real mourning, celibate and disinterested. That couldn’t last forever – but when eventually she tried to reawaken her sexuality, she discovered how hard it was to do on her own. After all, Bruce had been the initiator, the seeker-out of new targets, the arranger: she had no idea how to go about it for herself. Years two through five included a few desultory liaisons, generating in her very little enthusiasm or satisfaction as she faced a commonplace problem – the vanishingly small proportion of men who were (a) at least roughly her own age, and also (b) capable, (c) attractive and (d) available. In short, simple demographics over-rode her own superb health and physical condition and genuine good looks, and Helen remained without a lover for the next few years. She could still read with enthusiasm the occasional bodice-ripper, even masturbate successfully to the infrequent truly well-done scene. But even those little episodes came to seem more and more as if they were happening bahis şirketleri to a distant, disembodied image of herself. They grew less satisfying, more widely separated, until finally her mind, body, and even her favorite vibrator, had simply slowed to a sexual halt.

That was over five years ago.

Now, she was both puzzled by, and utterly delighted about, her developing personal renaissance.

She hung around for a few more minutes, being helpful, then finally excused herself and headed to her study, where – to her amazement – she indulged in another half-dozen orgasms in rapid succession.

That night she finished her little plan, laid her trap. First to the drugstore– the one which always had that nice young woman at the actual pharmacy in the back. The store was nearly empty, the woman – her badge said “Judy” – was alone. Helen got her attention, and boldly asked “What’s the best lubricant?”

Judy looked surprised: “Well – that depends. For what purpose?”

Helen grinned at her: “Sex, of course. I don’t believe I need it for some of my planned activities, but will certainly want it for others!”

Judy understood perfectly, reddened, stepped to a counter, handed her a tube of superlube. “This will do nicely – for almost any activity. Far slipperier than old-fashioned lubes – really fun to use, actually. It’s water-based. Can’t hurt cloth or plastics or condoms.”

Helen thanked her, then they stood eye to eye for a moment before the condom display. Helen shrugged: “Condoms seem unnecessary. He’s young and clean and I’m certainly not very likely to go preggers, am I?”

Judy smiled, shook her head, hesitated, then finally asked “Not meaning to be rude, but may I ask your age?”

“Not rude at all, dear – seventy eight. And going on about fifteen in some ways, I do believe.”

Judy briefly tee-heed and patted Helen’s arm. “I am thoroughly impressed! I hope I can live up to your standards! How old is the lucky guy? We do have non-prescription little blue pills available if…”

Helen’s turn to giggle. “Not at all necessary! He’s twenty eight – but believe me, age and experience win every time! He won’t even see it coming. So to speak. And I need some AA vibrator batteries, too. It has been a LONG dry spell!”

Judy simply gawped, swallowed, then finally managed “Jeez! Lucky you! And, I’ll bet it’s lucky HIM as well!”

One more stop – her local computer and electronics store. She was perfectly comfortable with modern e-gadgets, just not overly self-indulgent – most were simply expensive un-needed gewgaws. In five minutes she left with her final purchase, a battery-powered wireless TV camera – an inexpensive, tiny (6 grams plus battery!) “Keep an eye on the baby’s crib” special.

At home, and in no particular hurry, Helen located, then reloaded and tested the vibrator, found out via finger-test that superlube lived up to Judy’s description.

Then, the bait.

She retrieved a box from under the bed – a literal shoebox, stuffed with photos. Her private stash. Detailed photos of her and various partners in exceedingly compromising positions, often engaging in activities profoundly illegal in many US jurisdictions. Candid, some genuinely artistic, all pornographic. And displaying her body and sexual talents from age 19 to over sixty.

She selected a couple dozen particularly nice ones spanning that range, put them into the forms-compartment of her aluminum clipboard. On the top sheet of the yellow pad she scribbled a quick list:

ABOUT OLDER WOMEN AS LOVERS

Advantages in general: then [MYSELF]

Available, usually lonely: [YES!]

Enthusiastic: [And how – if I had a partner!]

Experienced: [Very – anal, mouth, pussy, groups, toys]

Safe: [Yep – no jealous hubby or lover: also no STDs now or ever.]

Sterile: [Only for 30 years!]

Solvent – no support needed: [Certainly true]

Want sex, not new hubby: [Certainly true! Like being single, not celibate!]

Discreet: [Of course – no gossip needed, just lots of orgasms with a good man!]

Plus, they are so GRATEFUL!: [Of course – but man, am I worth it!]

Disadvantages in general

Physical attractiveness often somewhat low: [MYSELF? – Still okay underneath – good physical shape, healthy. Appropriate levels of wrinkles. Decent tits, tight pussy, no saggy butt or other big parts, nice mouth and teeth.]

Sex capabilities/interest may be low: [MYSELF?- Sorry, Mister Ben Franklin, but I am EXTREMELY interested and VERY capable – Howard makes my pussy DROOL and my mouth and bottom tingle just by being near!]

Could there possibly be anything closer than that to a “Come fuck me!” invitation, without actually using those words?

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