Mature sex

Right now I am having the best sex of my life. If you'd told me when I was twenty that the sex I had back then would pale into insignificance by the time I hit my stride decades later, I'd have laughed at you. I thought my youthful escapades fulfilled all the important criteria: adventurousness, enthusiasm, quantity… you name it. But although I was lucky enough to share hot nights with a number of competent lovers, that all feels like a shadow of the kind of sex I have today. That's down to two key things, neither of which I could ever have achieved with a twenty-five-year-old on a one-night stand, no matter how eager he was. The first is connection, and the second?

Confidence.

George and I have both of these things in spades. His feeds into my own and vice versa—his self-assurance gives me a boost, mine does the same to him, and each time this happens it makes our bond stronger. By now I know his gorgeous, powerful body so well it feels like an extension of my own. When we're making love we instinctively know how to heighten each other's pleasure at the same time, using gestures and whispers and glances. Almost like we're reading the other's mind, but not quite. Perhaps it sounds absurd to say it's like masturbation: where you know how to make yourself feel good, without the shame of an audience. Yes, I think it's closer to that. When you slough off all the worries about whether you're doing things 'right', and fuck someone with whom you can experiment and play without worrying that one wrong move will have them laughing or leaving, sex becomes as pure and pleasure-seeking as solo masturbation. But you have a teammate to work with while you're doing it.

The morning after an exceptionally sexy night, I watch George making coffee. It's such a simple act, rendered sexual purely by the precision with which he does it. His strong hands—so recently employed to tease me to more than one bone-shaking orgasm—are now applied to measuring out the perfect amount of ground coffee, the precise quantity of water, and then boiling to the right temperature before deftly pouring it into matching cups. There is something about the way he does everything which makes me feel calm and safe. I've fucked a lot of boys in my lifetime, but George is unquestionably a man. Balanced, capable, calm, assured. For want of a better word: an adult.

He embraces his adult looks, too: that's another thing I love about him. It feeds into the confidence I mentioned earlier. Salt-and-pepper shades in his short back and sides, plus beautiful greys mingled with the darker hairs on his chest and arms and elsewhere. On this particular morning he's wearing nothing but boxers and a dressing gown—the latter pulled casually around him and secured with a belt. His hands neatly tying the knot with exactly the same firm precision that he uses to make and pour coffee.

For me it isn't just the look of him—though I know he's beautiful, of course—but the way he carries himself too. A good friend once told me she couldn't get on with dating sites, because she could never tell if she was attracted to someone until she watched them walk across a room. At the time, that confused me: I'd been instantly drawn to George just from the pictures on his profile. Muscled, tanned, smiling in a way that hinted at passionate sexual depths. But when we met for the first time over brunch, suddenly I knew what my friend had meant. George carried himself with lithe, easy confidence—walking across the room in a way that owned but did not dominate. Pouring my tea with steady hands. Reaching out across the table to brush his fingers against mine with a fabulous casual assuredness. Just thinking about it, that morning, makes me rub my thighs together, grinning involuntarily and hoping he'll come in to drink his coffee beside me in bed.

When he enters, playfully snatching my book to see what I'm reading, I can't help but reach out and grab him. I wrap my arms around his broad chest and hug him tightly to me. My thighs and legs too—enveloping the lower half as well as his broad shoulders, so he's surrounded by my whole body. This kind of playful intimacy is impossible to separate from the connection I talked about before. I can only do this because I have the kind of certainty that comes from knowing George so well. I understand exactly what it is that will ramp him up from a lazy, cosy Sunday morning mood to one that's a bit more X-rated. My red manicured nails contrast beautifully with his soft cream dressing gown, and when I reach inside to stroke his chest, then move lower to caress his already-stiffening cock, I am only confirming what I know already. This is going to go in exactlythe direction I'm aiming for.

We kiss deeply with the eagerness and enthusiasm that I've always been lucky enough to have, combined with George's relaxed pace that is a newer revelation. It's to die for. I wonder why I always used to be in such a rush! Kissing was just a step, or even an obstacle, on the road towards sex: almost perfunctory, like unlocking a door. The unlocking wasn't important, only what was revealed when you opened it. Nowadays, though, this is part and parcel of the whole thing. Sex doesn't start where kissing ends. Kissing is sex and sex is kissing. All steps in the exact same dance. The wet, soft, sensual pleasure of his tongue against my lips and the small moans and sighs he lets out as I stroke his exposed skin at the neck of the dressing gown: this is not something I want to rush. He grips my legs and strokes too—enjoying the subtler pleasures of skin-against-skin. This is a man who knows he doesn't need to hurry to get my clothes off. He tells me "oh yes" as I kiss his neck, and—deliciously—I can feel the pulse of my heart beat in my crotch where I press it against him. That yearning thud gets faster as our kiss grows more intense.

He teases me for being horny, and you bet I am. How could I not be? I open his dressing-gown to reveal dark cotton boxers with a white waistband that stretches neatly across his taut stomach, and my gesture functions almost as a retort. Like, "look at yourself! Of courseI'm this horny!" I can't resist dipping in and gripping his thick dick gently, rubbing it oh-so-slowly with a light grip so he makes more of those fabulous gasping moans in the back of his throat. Teasing him like this, giving him just enough pleasure that he's eager for the next stroke, that's the most surefire way to build him into the same horny state that I'm in right now. By the time he stands up and turns around, I know he's there.

I ramp things up a bit, using both my hands to grip his cock, and then back-and-forth a little with one of them teasing his balls. Connection is key to us, always, so we make lots of eye contact—him pressing his forehead against mine so I can look into his eyes and see the little sparks of pleasure there when I stroke him especially well. He whispers "I love that" and I hear a slight crack in his voice which is even more telling than the words he said aloud.

Leaning forward, I take him into my mouth, using that same gentle-yet-eager approach that we both take now to kissing. I am not sucking him to try and make him come, I am simply enjoying—worshipping—his cock, the fun is in the act of unlocking the door, not solely in where it might lead. As I pause occasionally to look up at him, I revel in the sight of him biting his lip and closing his eyes, and in the sound of him moaning and gasping. A thin line of drool traces the link between my busy lips and the shining, dampened head of his dick, a physical connection we share, not to mention a prompt to notice just how wet my pussy is getting while I go to work on his prick. As I say, we take our time, but taking our time doesn't mean I'm not excited for what comes next: I can feel myself aching, almost empty. Like my body has prepared a space for him and it's almost painful to not have him fill it. When he reaches forward, murmurs "let me help you with that" and removes my bra, I shuffle out of my clothes to expose my now-dripping cunt.

We lie on the bed, bodies entwined and warm skin pressed up good and close. Spreading my legs, he keeps his gaze locked on mine as he pushes my thighs back, giving himself room to work. This instinctive move towards comfort is something that's only come later in my life, with George. Just as he'll automatically take my hair and brush it out of the way when I'm sucking his cock, so I'll grab my thighs and hold them in the position that makes it easiest for him to dive into my pussy. And he really does dive in. Even if he hadn't told me before just how much he adores doing this, I'd know it from the way he completely buries his face in my wetness. Fully making out with my bare cunt. Licking and flicking at my clit with his tongue, dipping into my pussy to taste the juices. Alternating those gorgeous fluttery motions and long, wide strokes with the flat of his tongue that moisten me all the way from ass to clit. He's not just eating me out, he's devouring me. Settling in for a meal that comes serenaded by my own moans. Both voluntary ones, to let him know when he's putting pressure in just the right place, and involuntary noises too, because I simply cannot help myself. Kneeling forward, he grips his cock in one hand and slides it back and forth against the right-hand side of my clit—the side he knows is most sensitive. And my thighs twitch I let out a few small gasps. There's no need for me to spell it out. To say "that's it, right there"—he knows already. He's enjoying the opportunity to toy with me. He knows all about that ache and he wants me to cling onto it for a joyous extra few minutes. Tonguing my clit and rimming me until I'm frantic with need and desperate for him to finally slide his cock in.

With the sunlight shining in through the windows, I imagine I'm illuminated by joy as well as daylight. I can't see myself but I think I must look exactly how I feel: positively shimmering with anticipation for what comes next. I throw my head back with pleasure, gripping bedsheets, covers, pillows, anything that's in reach. He's kneeling on the floor just beside the bed, grabbing my thighs in those firm hands and calmly and steadily and easily annihilating me with his mouth. By now the intensity of what he's doing with his lips and tongue has brought me so close that I'm physically shaking with it, but I don't want to come just yet. Not before I've had the chance to tense myself around the glorious smooth length of his cock. By the time he climbs back onto the bed and pushes my thighs apart, I am looking at him with so much lust and need that I swear it's written onto my face. It probably doesn't need to be though—he can already read my mind, and he knows that what my mind is saying is "fuck me now".

Wait—not just "now" but "nowplease". Please.

He's desperate for it too. Slides in deliciously slowly so I can feel every atom of him stretching me out, then immediately starts to fuck with the hunger of a man who cannot wait to come himself. My breasts bounce and my thighs spasm under the power of his fervent fucking. Folded almost in half like this, he penetrates so deeply—right to the back of my pussy, so hard that I am breathless with it. I know he's going to come soon and I urge him on, feeling his cock twitch harder as he gets close to those final strokes.

It feels almost unfair to compare him to other lovers in this way, but I don't care: one of the things I love about George is that he can come more than once. I know how some people complain about partners who spill over much too soon—I've been one of them in the past—and although there's more than a little delight in being the one to make someone lose control, overall I pity their misfortune. But with George, I get the best of both worlds: that first rapid orgasm, spunk pouring out of his cock and all over me as if to show me how horny I make him, then later an extended run. More movement together, more fucking, more time to spend luxuriating in the detail.

And I do so love his cum itself, too. Love the way it squirts out in hot, thick helpings. His cock twitching in his hand as he pulls out and paints me with it, covering my pussy and stomach in the evidence of just how intense his orgasm was. He smacks me gently with the head of his dick, knowing how I love to revel in those wet slapping sounds. Not to mention the neat sparks of stimulation that trip my nerve endings from my clit right up my body to the base of my skull. This kind of post-orgasm play has been rare in my past relationships. Perhaps, again, because the confidence and connection just haven't quite matched up. With George there is no sudden, abrupt break between sex and what comes after. No awkward shy kisses, giggling or hurried moments when one of us swiftly reaches for our clothes to cover up. Perhaps that's what makes it possible for him to simply keep going.

On this morning I decide that I want something a little extra from him. As he teases me again gently—dipping his still-solid cock in and out of my cum-filled pussy—I wonder how it would feel to have him in a different hole instead. How good it would be if his cock were twitching inside my ass next time. And, of course, because this is George and I have no shame when he's beside me, I decide that it's time to find out.

"My turn now," I think greedily as I open the bedside drawer and reach for the condoms and lube, plus a small bullet vibe which I know will come in handy. "Now you're mine," I muse as I grin at him, nudging him onto his back so he lies splayed and vulnerable and ready for my use. Sucking his cock while I take the condom out of the packet only serves to make me hornier, as I realise just how hard he still is. By the time I start to roll it down I am almost drooling with anticipation to sit on it.

Later he'll tell me that this is one of his favourite parts too—that he enjoys the sight of my hands fondling his cock in the foreground, while my breasts frame it behind, nipples hard and taut. All topped off with my wicked smile, the one that he so rightly interpreted as meaning "my turn now".

The beauty of condoms—and I know many people are averse, but I like them—is that the very act of rolling one on is cock worship in and of itself. Getting to see and feel every detail of his shaft up close, not just covering it but caressing it. Giving me the chance to notice every single detail, from the shape of the ridge at the head to the way it stretches the latex. Feeling those features with your fingertips as you apply protection cannot fail to make you anticipate exactly how that texture will feel when it slides inside. To make the last part easier, and also because it's fun, I drizzle lube onto the head. Liberally, like it's ice-cream sauce and his dick's a delicious treat. Smothering the lubricant with the pads of my fingers and transferring some to the tight hole of my ass until I'm ready to receive the full, glorious, condom-clad length of him.

When I sit astride him, I feel powerful, but not so much that the dynamic between us has changed. We meet as equals, always. I've made us both so slippery with lube that he glides inside me with ease, and I can ride him just as skillfully as I can when he's inside my pussy. Only now, the feeling is far more intense. It's stretching out the unyielding ring of my ass, which I can feel getting even tighter as it meets the fatter base of his fabulous dick. Greedily feasting on the sensations, I ride him in a kind of rolling motion—forward and back, with a sway to the side as well, like I want to get him touching every single nerve ending that's clustered just inside me. He puts his hands on my hips, occasionally reaching up to squeeze my breasts. Never controlling or pressing or shoving, just riding it all out like he's surfing on the waves that I'm creating with my motion. This isn't me fucking him or him fucking me, this is the pair of us joining in a dance together—grinding in time with each other.

I can't get enough of that wonderful filling sensation—so much more acute when he's inside my ass. I lean backwards, letting my hair fall down my back and balling my hands into fists that I press into his thighs for balance. He moves with me, reaching up for my breasts and my hips, face twisted in ecstasy as he murmurs encouragement—"yes, oh yes, yes"—he's close now again, I can feel it, but so am I. It's my turn and I want to come. I can feel the head of his cock nudging deep inside my body and I know all I need is a bit of extra sensation on my clit to push me into a seriously powerful orgasm.

As if he's inside my head, George swiftly flips us over so I'm on my back, giving me the chance to apply the tiny silver bullet vibe to that oh-so-sensitive right hand side of my clit. It's blissful: the buzzing sensations travel through my flesh to meet his cock, where he's slamming it in and out of me, and his cock in turn adds rough harsh nudges inside me which make those waves more powerful. Meanwhile, we're staring so intently into each other's eyes it's like I can see almost nothing but his expression—his white-hot passion—as both of us fuck our way swiftly upwards towards climax. Each one of these things individually would be enough to get me there, but together they become something else—a whole so much greater than the sum of its parts. It doesn't just work because he has the confidence to fuck me good and hard the way I like it, it works because each element layers a new kind of connection. New flavours that are so much richer than those I tasted when I first tried sex.

And I'm close now—so close. So very close. I tell him—almost beg him—"fuck me more please"—and he obliges. Firm, consistent, strokes that are just the kind to tip me over the edge. Feeling the vibrations running through my cunt and his cock pounding my ass, the two together melding into a sensation so powerful it's impossible to tell where it begins and ends. I'm gasping and panting and feeling so utterly in tune with him that when I start to come I wonder if it's him. If those waves that begin with taut clenches in my cunt actually herald the start of his own orgasm, until I feel them crash up my body—shuddering and tingling and eventually washing over me in a tide of sated exhaustion.

It's not over yet though, the best is yet to come. It's as if my own climax has set a fire inside him, and he grips one of my thighs with both hands so he can get a purchase to fuck my ass harder. The telltale signs are happening—his dick getting just a bit harder as he pounds it in, his pace increasing and his breath quickening—until those first twitches begin at the base of it.

And then, oh yes, the hottest thing of all. As George comes, he remembers how much I love to watch it. How eagerly my gaze drank in the sight of him pouring spunk all over me earlier that morning. After one or two powerful spasms inside me, he pulls out. Grips his dick tight in one fist, holding the condom on tightly, and together we look down and watch as he pumps the rest of his cum inside the taut tip of it. Stretching the latex, filling it up, showing me the evidence of just how much he enjoyed that, and how urgently he still needed it even after the first time. We both look on with horny curiosity—in that moment like experimental teenagers enjoying these filthy things our bodies do. I want to rub my thighs together with glee, but he's between them, and it doesn't matter, later on I'll have plenty of opportunity, as we hold each other close and dissect every detail of the fuck. Which parts we enjoyed the most, and what mental images will stick with us forever.

For me, it's that one: when he pulled out halfway through coming. That he instinctively knew I would want to see, and had the confidence to show me: that's what I mean by connection. The fact that both of us can curiously embrace whatever's on our mind, like a pair of frotting youths, yet do it in full knowledge that the other will never turn away or laugh. Both of us comfortable with who we are, and what we want, and eager to share every aspect of ourselves with each other.

The End