Two Bathrooms to Go!

She set the clipboard carelessly – and unmissably- on her bedroom night-stand, only three feet from the bathroom door. Then the TV camera: clipped inconspicuously to a painting and properly oriented: she made sure that she could see the whole scene on the guest-room TV – bed, night-table, bathroom door. A bit of cardboard and a marker pen produced a sign: "Make all deliveries via rear entrance". She eyed it, decided it was adequately instructive.

Part of her mind produced a conversation with an imaginary doctor who looked remarkably like an older Howard: "After all these years, you want to resume sex, and start off with anal?"

"Yes, Doctor – unless there are serious contraindications. That was always my favorite! Why not start up again with a bang – so to speak?"

"Hmm – any history of hemorrhoids? Serious persistent constipation?"

"Not a trace, Doctor."

"Well then, Ms Helen, done right you can't hurt anything – but you know that already. So - you are cleared to resume – but with some caveats. Choose a knowledgeable, careful partner. Lots of really good lubrication. And the patience of Job – go slow, and enjoy!"

Then, preparations done and breathing heavily, she went back upstairs, dropped into her bed and tested the vibrator and superlube together. Repeatedly. It was a wonderful combination.

Morning – no hurry, Howard wouldn't arrive until about 11. Downstairs for a leisurely shower, a complete touchup of her shave – including that most useless of exercises, lathering and running a blade over her pits and legs. She ended with a thorough enema and douche – unnecessary but enjoyable and good insurance. She was tingling all over as she toweled dry. Washed inside and out, dried, powdered, subliminally scented in all the right places, she dressed in her tennis skirt and a thin blouse underlain by a little-nothing bra that hid nothing whatever of the hang of her breasts – or of her nipples. Then upstairs to wait.

Howard arrived on time, at full sweat. She told him that she'd be busy downstairs, working in the guest bedroom, for at least a couple of hours. After that she could perhaps help him if needed.

He strode off towards the master bath: she trotted downstairs. As she entered the room, the monitor showed Howard looking about, still in his Speedo. Her crotch brittled, twisted, as he spotted the board, picked it up. His body language was priceless as he read through the list. Especially the way his hand went down inside his suit! He flipped the clipboard's compartment open, stared, then set the clipboard on the bed and picked up the deck of photos. He went quickly through them with an absolutely entranced expression, stopping to closely study several: Helen wondered which ones, but couldn't see. Perhaps sometime (soon?) she could ask him? Then he replaced everything as carefully as if he were handling land-mines.

His bulge had gone from significant to positively huge: she almost giggled when she wasn't holding her breath. She watched eagerly as he stripped off the suit and running shoes – he sported the most incredible, beautiful full-scale hardon! It was the work of mere seconds for him to stuff it – unfortunately – into his work shorts: even there it made a more than respectable bulge.

Helen waited until he was actually working – another five minutes - then called him on the house's built-in 1960s-era intercom system. "Howard... Can you hear me okay up there?" She watched as he jumped, looked about guiltily, then realized where the sound came from. He still had a huge bulge, she noted with considerable satisfaction.

"Yeah, sure, I hear you. What's up?"

A deep breath: launch time! "I'm down in the guest room and need a bit of help. If you could stop for a few minutes and come down here, that'd be grand." Onscreen, he straightened his shorts, glanced into the mirror and shrugged with a silly grin on his face. "I can stop right now. Be there in a few seconds."

All of a sudden things were happening almost too fast. Helen stripped in under five seconds flat, tossed the clothes into the corner. She reached for the light dimmer, intending to douse them completely, then changed her mind. No! She would dim them slightly, but not enough to be accused of trying to hide anything – full disclosure (or exposure!?) was the best policy. She knelt on the bed with her bottom towards the door, the sign between her feet, vibrator and superlube in plain view beside her. Raised her butt high, set her knees widespread, settled her face against a pillow, and finally let herself relax and sag.

Footsteps on the stair, then coming down the tiled hall.

She literally shivered, partly urgent need and desire, partly fear of rejection.

She'd left the door a foot ajar. There was a slight tap of knuckles on it as the footsteps ceased: she muttered "Come in." The door squeaked slightly as it swung: she held her breath, senses hyper-acute. Out of sight behind her, he stopped breathing, then inhaled deeply. One, two, three almost-silent footfalls, each closer.

Goose bumps rioted on her arms and the backs of her thighs. For several long seconds there was perfect silence: it didn't help her nerves.

But then there came a slow sigh and the tiny pop of a snap being opened, followed by a zipper's soft purr.

She breathed again: those were hardly the sounds of rejection, were they? More quiet noises, identifiable, tension-building. The tik-tik of shoelaces being undone, the whisking of coarse shorts fabric on skin.

Still not a word – the suspense was cuttable.

Strong, gentle, warm hands settled on her buttocks: she could feel him kneeling.

The tiniest whisper: "Lovely! Absolutely lovely, this view!"

Warm breath against her coccyx, above her buttocks-split, hovering momentarily, then lips and tongue made contact and her pussy clenched, juices flowed. Lips and tongue ran at glacial speed down her crack, investigating, probing. Far up into her bottom went something alive and warm and active - his tongue, deeper, stroking.

What a rush! By pure dumb luck she'd somehow, at the very last possible living instant, hooked into a serious student, an accomplished practitioner. Hallelujah!

She pushed gently back at him. He abandoned that opening, slid his mouth downwards, used his fingertips to hold her tissues wide to give his mouth access to her clit and its surroundings. He positively inhaled the clit and inner lips, rolled them about with the right combination of firm control and delicate touch. An expert thumb slipped full length into her bottom and moved in languorous circles, identifying her G-spot immediately, treating it properly.

And still he nursed on her hypersensitive clit, without overpowering it.

An artist, she thought – he really knows what he's doing, thank you whatever gods may be! The inside of her skull seemed to have gone iridescent, day-glow, electric.

He brought her up, up, up... and then, teasingly, his mouth vanished. She felt him pick up the lube, heard the tiny click of the flip-top as it opened. He stood, then the bed creaked gently as it took his weight behind her. The cool of the gel was a surprise. Moments later, his cockhead settled against her anus: no hesitation, no searching about, it made bulls-eye contact, precisely the right spot, the right angle, the right pressure. "No novice, this man" was her brief concession to coherent thought. He leaned forward against her – pressure only – and let her be in charge, do the moving. As she took him in, his hands never stopped moving, sliding forward along her flanks, over ribs, caressing her spine, then dipping symmetrically down into her underarms, teasing, tickling. They didn't stop even when he was bottomed out, pubes to buttocks, her insides squirming around this lovely intruder – had she ever in her life had a better fit? She doubted it.

Grinding slowly against him, using his erection to stir her inner cauldron, Helen sighed and lifted on her arms to let her boobs hang completely free, wondering if he would take up the invitation. He did. His hands cupped, hefted, then captured her nipples in the Dr Spock vee deep between middle and ring fingers, massaging, tugging, making lightning. Whatever misgivings she'd had about his possible reaction to her boobs instantly evaporated with his touches. Not the slightest doubt – he KNEW! She could tell from how he modulated his touches that he was reading her perfectly. Between that realization and the long, slow, ecstatic glide of his cock into her butt, she knew that she was in doubly-delightful trouble. Her husband Bruce had had the right saying – "Quit it some more... it hurts so good! I'll give you ninety minutes to stop!"

Ten strokes, full-length, perhaps ten seconds each: it felt like a full mile of penetration. Then a long, wordless pause while his hands directed her: together they rolled her over, pivoting expertly about the axle of his fully-embedded hardon, until they were face to face, her ankles crossed behind his back. "We should watch one another come. Can you keep your eyes wide open?" he whispered.

"Not a bad idea!" she thought as she nodded. "Better and better!" He strained his face towards her breast: she lifted it in offering, he inhaled it, the soft tissues flowing until they filled his mouth. He captured the nipple far back between his palate and tongue, nursed firmly, rolling, sucking. She was instantly close to exploding.

He resumed stroking her bottom as he nursed: down in the depths of both her pelvis and brain simultaneously there was building the great grandmother of all orgasms. He released her boob, balanced on one arm, handed her the vibrator, tilted his pelvis just so, giving her room to ply it properly. As the buzz filled the air, they stared into one another.

Thirty seconds later, she was hit by a second, much more interesting, tsunami, the explosive arrival of GrandMother Orgasm.

Amidst her wrenching spasms they suddenly found their mouths fully occupied with one another, tongues making their own special brand of love whilst her bottom milked jet after jet of hot semen from his cock. She was surprised and delighted – by the kissing, not his coming. The coming was totally predictable, the kissing not. Long, deep kissing had always been near the top of her list of "Best Erotica" and she'd been worried he might not indulge her, worried whether 28 could possibly find 78 (or even her white-lie 70!) erotically kissable. All that worry for naught!

Settling, she took his ears gently in her hands and stared up into him for a long time. "Thank you! It's been way too many years, Howard. But even after coming so strongly, you're still hard inside my butt, which is another unexpected treat. A teenager's cock on a fully adult man! I should try to make up for some of my lost time. Do you suppose we could interest one another in an encore – or twenty? And maybe in some other games as well?"

She could tell immediately from his expression that there were going to be several, perhaps a great many, and with no holds – or holes – barred.

"Helen..." he said softly, "... you really didn't have to bribe me or put out that bait. No complaints, mind you – the list and pictures are enticing. But I've been trying to work up the nerve to proposition you since the day we met!" He paused, twitched himself deep inside her.

"And by the way – if you want to keep your age a secret, you shouldn't date photographs so carefully. Miss 78-year-old-Helen! In case you haven't noticed yet, I make love to the person, not the body, and certainly not the calendar! The body is just the vessel for the important stuff. I personally couldn't care less about such numbers – and you have a perfectly lovely vessel!"

She grinned slightly to herself: she had always thought having three full baths rather profligate, but not now. Thank heavens, there were two more baths to go!