It's Sunday morning and we turn to each other, as we've been doing since the 1980s.
It hasn't been so frequent in the last few years, the years of my soft cock. I've been disappointed at it for letting down my deep dark desires.
There's been a yearning in me to regain my full hardness, to fuck her brains out the way I used to, but that kind of reliable stiffness is elusive these days. And still, we turn to each other, with love.
Soft touches. She grazes my nipples and I feel a stirring, butterflies in my belly. I'm learning to avert my focus from what isn't happening a bit further down. I caress her the way we both love, remembering not to rush her now that she is over 70. Always focusing on the energy flow, consciously sending love out through our fingertips. Feeling it circulating around both of our bodies. I feel that energy descending, dropping down from my shoulders into my belly. Makes me shiver with desire.
Her mature woman breasts are so soft, so able to just lie there in the comfort of themselves, the wisdom of the ages. I remind myself to worship, not to ambush them. Gently stroking, loving the way they swell outwards as my hand descends from her shoulders. Fullness, richness, abundance echo through the ages of me.
She cups my balls, gently, proprietorially. I love trusting her touch in such vulnerable places. She knows how to squeeze just enough. Appreciating their weight, their lifegiving power. And the power she has in her hands. Power that could crush me - but chooses to love me.
Now my energy is coming from the tips of my toes and the roots of my hair. One of the great joys of my softer cock: the signals from the rest of my body are so much louder.