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A MILF's Sex Diary

I'm going to start running some entries to my friend's sex diary (she an older woman but VERY sexually active)

Enjoy!

"Whenever John managed to jerk his poor feeble brain out of neutral, it was always into reverse. Linda tossed her mane of tawny-streaked hair back, dismissing him from her life. She had finally faced up to it, she'd made a mistake in choosing him. Another error to add to her long, long list.

She'd known the first night that she'd bedded him that John wasn't exactly brilliant, but she'd thought that he'd had potential at least. Well, she'd explored the full extent of his potential, and it hadn't taken long. Next to no time.

There were bruises on the fronts of her thighs, where he'd gripped her, and a couple on her upper arms. Those, and the hickeys just under her left nipple - they were it! Did men have NO imagination?

Men were supposed to be the game-players. Oh yeah? Football - bridge - golf - chess. Those were the men's games. All games with rules. Sure men were game-players -

game-players who NEEDED rules. When it came to the REAL games - the real-life games where you had to play right on the edge - the games where you didn't know whether or not a move was a foul until you either got slammed with a penalty or you scored high - men knew diddly!

There HAD to be a man out there somewhere who had that special instinct. Or one who could learn. She'd thought that John was one who could be taught, once. Now she knew better.

She should have known that first night. It'd been a game that she'd used to seduce him, and he'd played poorly. Backgammon! Now there's a game that outsiders think of as dull. It isn't. Backgammon's a game of fast moves and closely calculated risks. You might stake everything that your opponent WON'T throw a six-one combination. If he doesn't - you crush him. If he does - you might as well enjoy your surrender. At first it's just maneuvering - a struggle for the better position - and then - at the absolutely right moment - the risk!

All or nothing~- your calculation against his! The game might drag on, with him squirming, but there was always a pivot point.

Linda usually won, unless she was TRYING to lose.

She'd hired him for his swagger, and the breath of his shoulders - and for the steel in his grip. Even now - even after she'd learned that the only games he would ever learn to play were those that she'd explained the rules of in painstaking detail - that grip still did something to her.

When John took hold of her body, of her thigh, or her breast, and she felt that STRENGTH! That close to CRUSHING strength! It jolted her. Right through her. Linda could have a minor orgasm right then!

But he was so predictable. He didn't have a random move in his nature. That's why losing had been so hard.



She'd bedded him on the night of the day that she'd hired him. If she'd had any sense she'd have fired him the next morning. She hadn't really needed a bouncer. Her tavern wasn't that kind of place. In any case, she had enough 'regulars' in lust with her that any troublemaker would have been mobbed in an instant. It was funny. Those guys, the guys in the bar, they thought of her as a tough broad, unbreakable. What else were they going to think? A woman without a man, owning and running a tavern? The truth of it was, she wasn't tough, she was flexible. 'Flexible' is made to be bent, between strong male fingers.

It'd been a quiet night, an itchy night. Linda wasn't ADDICTED to sex. The addiction only came when she had a special man to fixate on. THAT was when she became totally insatiable.

Linda could go two or three months between men, easy. That night had been the beginning of the twentieth week.

Then John had walked in, looking for a job, and because his eyes were grey and because she'd been hungry, she'd deceived herself that there was cruelty in them. The cruelty that she fancied she'd seen in his eyes, and the obvious strength of his body - it had been an unbeatable combination. She'd hired John on the spot.

There had been nothing for him to do except stand around looking like a quiet threat and drinking beer. Beer! Scotch drinkers were better. Less obvious and more intense. She'd known that. She'd just fooled herself because she needed to be fooled. Her own worst enemy?

Closing time had come and the girls had cleaned up. Linda had got out the board from under the bar and asked him whether he played. It'd almost come as a shock when he'd said yes.

They'd rolled for start and he'd beaten her and then opted to roll again, which was a no-no in her eyes, but his arms were strong, leaning there opposite her, like the bars of a cage. Linda'd never been kept in a cage. One day?

Then he'd thrown double twos and made the dull conservative move to protect himself instead of taking a chance and perhaps aggressive command of the board.

She should have know right then!

Instead, she'd played an unnaturally defensive game, and still'd had to leave blots! It'd taken him an age to beat her.

'Two out of three?' he'd asked.

By that time the girls had locked up and left.

'No,' she'd replied. 'I'll pay up right now.'

'Pay up?' He'd looked startled, like a little boy. God, how she hated men who looked like little boys!

'I didn't know that we were betting,' he said. 'What were the stakes?'

Linda'd been wearing her orange skin-fit toreador pants and the lime-green top - the one that the boys in the bar loved. It was thin and shiny. Thin enough that not only her nipples showed through, but also their puffy halos. No buttons. It tied beneath her breasts in a loose knot, leaving her with a long bare midriff and a spectacular cleavage. Leaving her vulnerable.

Vulnerable! A word that cringed her, deep inside.

She'd leaned across the bar and the board, knowing the view that he was getting, and taken his hands in hers. She'd turned them both palm-up and said, 'This!'

Then she'd half-climbed across the mahogany at him, dragging his hands to her and burrowing them into her neckline so that each hand was full of her nakedness, and she'd slid the full length of her tongue deep into his astonished mouth.

Christ he'd been timid! She'd ravished him with her tongue while he'd gaped. She'd folded his hands into fists around her softest flesh, forcing his fingers to close until her nipples had extruded between his knuckles like squeezes of grape toothpaste, and still he hadn't quite known what to do

A bar is full of bar-stools and benches and tables, and the floor is big. Even so, he'd petted her like she was some silly cheerleader in the back of his car until she'd led him foot by foot up to her apartment. Even there he hadn't done much until she'd got him into her bed.

John was young. A mere youth in his early twenties compared to her thirty-five. And she was older inside, as old as Lilith.

Youth has stamina. Linda wished to God that youth had something else to go with it! She'd read that in Edwardian times there had been young men who'd been depraved by the time they were out of their teens. The good old days?

John had been really proud of himself that night. He'd had six orgasms in the space of an hour and a half.

Linda'd had one. It hadn't been much of one, at that.

He'd rolled off her and fallen asleep. She'd slipped out of her bed and gone to the bathroom. Under the shower she'd checked her body. Not a mark. Nothing. John'd had six climaxes and left not a trace to show for it. Her skin was purest alabaster from head to toe, except for her dark nipples and her tattoo. He hadn't even SEEN that. John made love with the lights off or his eyes closed, or both.

The tattoo might have given him a clue as to what she wanted. That's what it was there for - to give men clues. It was high up inside her thigh, against her groin, where the flesh is sensitive, where just the memory of the tattooist's needle makes the skin creep. A rose. A tiny perfect rose. Linda's kind of perfect. Its pinkness was mottled, as if bruised. One petal was torn. It had two thorns. One was dripping blood. The other had been drawn to look as if it pierced her skin.

Linda had washed, and masturbated. She didn't usually do that. What's the point of playing with yourself unless some man is making you do it, and preferably watching, closely. She didn't usually do it, but after a couple of hours with a man - boy? - who has only given you one minor tremor?

When she'd got back to the bed, he'd been gone. Some men are like that. They can do things to your body, in the dark, but when it comes to looking you in the eye afterwards, they panic. There might be a person that goes with the body."

More To COME-

Denise

Posted: Monday 22nd September 2008, 8:07 PM

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