Common wisdom is that a post-menopausal woman lubricates less than when she
was younger, and that her sex drive decreases to the point of apathy. Sure,
I’ve seen that happen in a few women. It certainly wasn’t true for Lydia.
Lydia and I met doing online chat. Two years of conversations resulted in a
face to face lunch at a Mexican restaurant, an hour away and halfway between
our homes and our spouses. We sat next to each other in a booth, knees
touching, talking in hushed tones and laughing. She was quiet at first,
then as we both got more comfortable, her personality unfolded.
She was medium height, with flashing blue eyes and brown hair with a hint of
red tint. Her body was, to use a cliché, pleasingly plump, with big breasts
and wide hips and small hands. By the time our plates were empty, we were
holding hands. The conversation lulled, then I looked at her. It was time
to ask. “This was nice. Shall we do this again?”
Lydia smiled. “Oh sure! Mexican again?” She leaned toward my ear and
whispered, “Or something else?” She pulled back, seemingly surprised at her
boldness, and blushed. I grinned at her.
A month later we passed on the tostadas and went straight to the Holiday Inn
Express. We stood at the foot of the bed, undressing each other, exposing
my flesh – some of which was very firm – and her flesh – most of which was
soft and curvy. Toe to toe, we kissed continually and explored each other’s
body. Her breasts were big handfuls, her nipples small and pink. Her skin
was dotted with freckles and moles, smooth and warm in my hands. Her hands
played in my chest hair, with one hand wandering downward to clutch my
erection. My hand found her pussy, shaved down to a goatee of hair above
her cleft.
The bedsheets were white, crisp, and cool, but not for long. We pressed
against each other, face to face, chest to chest. Lydia slid down to engulf
my shaft, humming little noises as she alternately throated me and licked my
precum. “Lie on your back,” I told her, and she complied, thighs spread
open. I moved on top of her, and she lifted her knees and spread them wide,
and she wrapped her arms around me.
My lips and tongue found hers, and my cockhead played in her pussylips. Her
hips rocked up and down, brushing herself against me. I nudged inside her,
gently, not quite wet enough for a smooth entry, teasing her and teasing
myself. Lydia had a nondescript vagina, with no discernible nibbling muscle
at the entrance, smooth, snug because she wasn’t fully wet.
I pulled out and moved down her body. I held myself above her on elbows and
knees, visiting her big, beautiful breasts and small hardened nipples.
Lower, visiting her rounded tummy, kissing freckles as I descended. Her
thighs widened and her lips parted, pink and glistening, and my mouth went
to work. Faster, then slower, nibbles and sucks, sometimes a thumb in her
vagina, sometimes two fingers, but mostly just listening to her body and its
responses and sticking with steady, moderately firm licks.
Lydia’s climb to orgasm was one of those hockey sticks. For five minutes,
ten minutes, she lay there and stroked my head and shoulders and enjoyed my
feasting. Her inner lips started small and grew only slightly, her outer
lips were the same, but her pussy splayed open and juicy. Her modest hooded
clit was a hard little nubbin, and my steady flat-tongued lapping licks
seemed to have only a gradual effect on her state of arousal.
Then it was as though Lydia decided to allow herself to climax and just
flipped an internal switch. I sensed her clit harden another fraction, and
her breathing shifted into another gear. It was time. My tongue quickened
its pace, matched by an increase in her breathy moans, and she went from 25
to 100 in ten second. My eyes glanced upward to see her face redden and
scrunch into that delicious female agony of pleasure. Her hips tilted
toward my busy mouth, her body shuddered, and she exhaled several loud
grunting gasps.
My licking slowed, my job complete, at least for now, and I moved upward
again. We refound our missionary position, my cock refound her pussy, and I
discovered just how juicy Lydia had become. I entered her, effortlessly,
sinking into her now almost-frictionless vagina. Her walls felt like they
barely grasped me, she was so open and soft and liquid inside.
I’d never felt a vagina like Lydia’s. I’ve encountered those that were
overall snug. Some that felt almost muscular, with active kegels. Some
have been textured, others as smooth as Lydia’s, but none as soft, none as
yielding to my shaft, and definitely none as juicy. Inside, she was
flowing. Her juices leaked out and trickled down my balls. When I stroked,
her liquid cracked little noises.
“I feel you,” she told me, “all of you.” My penis jumped.
“God, you are so wet,” I replied.
“No friction,” she breathed. “You just glide. I can’t believe how wet you
get me.” Her eyes were open wide, her mouth in an open O and breathing.
“I’m close,” I told her, and she nodded. “I’m going to come.” She kept
nodding.
I groaned, and then I just let it happen. Thrusting faster and faster into
Lydia’s soft, sweet, incredibly yielding vagina, my instincts trying in vain
to find some small measure of friction of her walls against my cock, but I
didn’t really need that friction. “Here I come,” I told her, but I doubt
she needed that update.
My juices added to hers, one liquid spurt after another. Lydia’s eyes were
glued to my face. I’m sure I was wearing the same goofy expression that
she’d worn a few minutes earlier. My cock throbbed inside her, and my mind
pictured how I was filling her with my come, making her more and more
slippery, if that was even possible. “Warm,” she whispered. “It feels so
warm.”
And that’s how it would happen with Lydia and me for the next three years,
with a rendezvous every month or two or three at that same motel. We were
patterned, she and I, with only the smallest of variations. “I like
patterns,” she told me once. “I know what to expect. I know how I’m going
to come.” Oh, we had our occasional change of pace. Some afternoons she
would go down on me for a few minutes. On other occasions she would get on
top of me and rock. But mostly it was the pattern established on that first
day, where Lydia would climax from my mouth, then I would mount her and fuck
her. We both loved missionary. I loved to fuck her, and she loved to be
fucked.
Some days she would climax a few moments after I slid inside her, when she
was still high on the mountaintop of her oral orgasm, and sometimes not. A
few times, after my orgasm when she didn’t climax from penetration, my mouth
would restart the steady licking that she found to be so effective. Those
second oral orgasms for her came quickly and sharply. And we would always
have time for a second round, sometimes even a third. She was less likely
to climax after her first one or two strong ones, but she didn’t mind. We
both seemed to enjoy the leisurely fucking, with my cock caressing her soft,
yielding, incredibly slippery walls until it just seemed to be the right
moment for me to fill her, again, to overflowing.
