Jean's Awakening Ch. 04

"You," he said, grinning up at me, "are a bit of a mess my beautiful bride-to-be."

I giggled softly.

"Now get your morning things done and come to breakfast with your betrotheds," he said, the plural "s" creating a whole new concept in my mind.

So I rolled off of him and he rolled out of bed, turned back, kissed me quickly, said, "you're beautiful," and walked out.

I enjoyed watching him walk naked.

I stretched and laid back and thought, "Jean Marie, what have you done?"

PROVED YOU'RE A SLUT! Aunt Marie answered which made me giggle.

"So be it," I said aloud and then rolled out of bed myself, feeling more energized than I had in years.

When I stood I felt warm, sticky semen leak down my thighs.

I liked the feeling.

I walked to my full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door, eyes on the floor, not looking yet.

I took a deep breath and looked.

It was as bad as I had feared but also, on some level, it was good too.

My hair, normally a carefully coiffed strawberry blonde was a rat's nest.

My makeup was smeared, smeared eyeliner gave me a raccoon look, and lipstick was smeared where it wasn't missing.

The wrinkles around my eyes, normally carefully concealed, were highlighted by the lines of the mascara and eyeliner.

My upper lip was crusty with dried snot and my mouth was shiny with drool.

The wattles under my chin jiggled as I touched them.

My breasts, always heavy, sagged, and my pale nipples hardened as I looked, tingling with remembered attention.

My skin wasn't bad, reasonably smooth and pink.

My belly sagged and I had a tiny apron.

My waist was a distant memory.

The triangle of my pubic hair lightly covered the roundness of my mons veneris.

Betty, what I had always called my vagina, peeked out, just a hint of a slit on my outer lips, still swollen.

My thighs were thick although I thought my legs were still pretty good with trim ankles.

So there I was, 72 years old, looking good for 72, and recently well fucked.

I smiled.

I wondered if it could really be love or if that had all been bullshit.

I didn't really care.

I padded into the bathroom, sat and peed, and then stepped into the shower.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when the shower door opened but I still let out a little yell.

There was Bobby, big and handsome and looking like he had just stepped off of a Nebraska farm which was funny because he was probably the most urban person I have ever known, growing up in some neighborhood in New York and never being more than a mile from home before he came here to go to college.

He smiled and said, as the others had, "I'll stop if you tell me to."

And he kissed me.

I didn't hesitate, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him back.

OH JESUS, Aunt Marie said and I could hear her eyeroll.

God, he was big EVERYWHERE.

As I kissed him I felt him harden between us, MUCH bigger than either David or Roger or Chester, my husband had been.

I had never been in a shower with anyone and it was amazingly erotic, kissing him as the hot water sluiced over us.

His hands were strong and the water lubricated, making them slide as he rubbed my back while I held the kiss.

I broke the kiss and looked up at him and my knees got weak again when he smiled, looking almost childish with the water running over his face, and said, "I love you, will you marry me?"

I smiled back, said "yes," and started kissing my way down his body.

This was another first for me, but I do read.

I had been addicted to silly Gothic romance novels since I was a girl so I knew, in theory, how it worked.

But I had never done it.

As I kissed my way down his body I got to my knees, mildly proud that I had managed to not slip or stumble or, God forbid, fall,

I took in him my hands, both fit on his shaft, and looked up at him as I kissed the tip.

He smiled and lightly brushed my hair with his fingers as I took more of him into my mouth.

I've learned a lot since that first time, and as blow jobs go, it wasn't very good.

But it was my first and I was excited, feeling oddly, well, feminine, feeling perfectly female, on my knees before this strong, big, handsome man.

He was obviously ready.

My lips were tight on him and my head was bobbing.

There was no pressure in my belly though, and on some level I realized this was for him, not for me.

NOW YOU'RE A COCKSUCKER TOO! Aunt Marie shrieked, and I nodded my agreement, him still in my mouth.

When he came it was explosive, catching me by surprise, and making me cough and pull off of him.

Which I did just in time for the second wave of his ejaculation to come on my face and in my hair.

His fingers were entwined in my hair and he twisted them with his release, right on the edge of hurting, holding me in place while the third wave burned a little before I could close my eyes.

And God help me, I LOVED it.

There was something about being on my knees before him as he came like that, on me not in me, that got to me deep in the back of my brain.

When his fingers relaxed I stood and turned my face up to him, oddly proud of the semen there.

"Will you still kiss me?" I asked, honestly curious.

He smiled and did.

"Do you still want to marry an old cocksucker?" I asked, smiling up at him, the water washing him off of me.

He laughed softly and then surprised me by going to one knee, looking up at me (looking a little ridiculous if we're being honest here with the water pouring over his upturned face), took my right hand in his, and said, "Jean, I love you, will you marry me."

I laughed softly myself and said, "of course silly, now wash my back."

The shower was a sensual experience.

I had never showered with a man, hell, with anyone, and didn't really know what to do.

But he washed my face, carefully, and then shampooed my hair. When he washed my body it was thorough and sensual and exciting and delightfully intimate. He used the bar of soap like a tool almost, rubbing my body and then following with his hand to wash and then rinse.

We were face to face when he ran the bar of soap down the crack of my ass and then followed with his fingers, his fingertip tracing that sensitive spot, making me giggle as he "cleaned" and tickled me there.

He did the same thing to Betty and it was wonderfully sensual but I didn't get aroused, kind of surprising myself.

When he had me clean (I had damn near fallen when he did piggies on my toes while washing my feet) he handed me the soap and I did him.

He did slip when I did his feet, on my knees with his foot in my lap, and damn near took us both down before he got his hands on my shoulders and his balance back.

He squirmed a little as I did his cock, still big even soft, his balls, and then used a soapy finger to trace back farther and probe him a little.

Drying each other was a strange mixture of sensual, sexual, and clinical.

"I could get used to this," I said at one point as he was toweling my hair.

"Good," he said, kissing me.

"Now," he said, hanging the towel, "look good for your husbands to be."

As he left I felt a soft wave of desire in my belly.

"Husbands," he had said, and that plural got to me.

You are hopeless, Aunt Marie informed me.

I giggled and said, "I know," aloud and then gave a startled little yelp as the door opened.

Steve came in, our fashion plate, looking good as always in light khaki slacks, soft-soled loafers, and a pale blue polo shirt. He was the clotheshorse of the house.

My modesty was gone, though, and I just smiled.

He walked to me slowly, his eyes on mine, took my hand, and kissed it as he dropped to one knee.

The classic "proposal position."

"Jean, I'm head over heels, crazy, stupid in love with you. Will you marry me?" he said.

I was beyond shock and simply smiled and said, "yes."

"Good," he said and stood.

"Now," he said, taking my hand and leading me to my little makeup table, "let's get you presentable."

He was an expert with the blow dryer and brush too, it turned out, fluffing my hair in a style slightly different than the way I usually wore it.

I remembered his proposal and figured I should revisit my assumption he was gay.

But he was expert. I watched as he transformed me.

The wrinkles around my eyes disappeared under his light touch with the foundation pad and then the soft brush.

Cheekbones appeared, almost magically, under his brush.

My eyes got subtly bigger, my lashes appeared, my brows arched, and then, as he worked with eyeliner, they took on a very subtle oriental, exotic, look.

I giggled when he lifted my right breast and then my left, adding just a hint of color to my normally very pale nipples and areolas.

He offered me his hand and lightly assisted me to stand.

Then he led me to the full-length mirror.

I just stared.

Damn, I was beautiful.

I turned to him and said, "where did you learn to work such miracles."

He laughed and slapped my ass hard enough to sting.

"Jean," he said, smiling, "you were beautiful when I walked in, I just, well, highlighted."

"No," I said, "you did more than that. Where did you learn it."

He actually blushed a little and said, "ummmmmm, my mother and I had a, well, let's say we had an interesting relationship."

I stepped closer to him, smiling, and moving to kiss him.

He surprised me by stepping away.

"Nope," he said, but he was smiling, "you ain't ruining my masterpiece."

I smiled back and said, simply, "oh."

He stepped close again, catching my hands in his.

"Jean," he said, "I love you, you're beautiful, but," and here he grinned and gave me a little Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle, "if you keep putting yourself down I WILL spank your pretty ass and trust me, you won't like it."

I smiled up at him, realizing the last shreds of my modesty were now completely gone, and said, "promises, promises."

He smiled at me and said, "I'll remember that."

"Now come on," he said, "time to show you off."

I went to my closet, well, started for my closet.

"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Putting something on," I said.

"Hmmmmmmmmmm," he said, "stay right there."

I watched as he went to my closet and started rummaging through it.

I heard him muttering, "no, nuh uh, oh hell no," things like that.

Finally, as he made it all the way to the back, I heard, "well, this'll just have to do."

He came out with a very sheer black robe, something I had purchased 20 years ago when I still thought I might get my husband interested again.

He held it out in that classic man-helping-a-woman-on-with-her-coat way.

I sort of moaned, "oh God," but I let him put it on me.

He smiled and took my hand again, leading me to the mirror.

"Oh God," I said again, but this time with my head up, actually pretty proud of what I saw.

The material was so sheer you could see my newly highlighted nipples clearly.

Honestly, I was more naked right then than I had been when I was completely nude.

He moved behind me, his hands on my shoulders, looking at me in the mirror.

He kissed my neck very gently, whispered, "you're beautiful," and took my hand to lead me down to my new life.