With Age Comes Wisdom Pt 01A

I like cocks! I like to suck on them, to feel them growing in my cheeks and that anticipatory feeling when you sense that the balls contract in their sack and that slight vibration of the slithery column in your mouth, that signals the impending storm. Even when those cocks are sliding between my ample cleavage, eased on their path by own saliva as I suck them into my mouth with each upstroke, shivering and tingling with hunger to see them shoot their prodigious load right onto my tits and grace me with a "pearl necklace."

I especially like them between the silky labia of my pussy. The intensity builds as the powerful rocket increases its speed and its thrust. Just that sharpness as the rounded head pushes open wide, the narrow channel, creating a tightened groove where a thick, sturdy organ can begin the rhythmic assault that brings-out the writhing submissive partner that my body is willing to extend to the right man. And since I had to try it atleast once, I had even learned that with the correct approach, I can offer my nearly virginal backside to the stud who is man enough to demand it. Now, having missed it for so long and understanding that it is the ultimate surrender to have a man shove his thick piston into my most private orifice, I pray for the day when a confident man just flips me onto my belly and rams his mighty tool into my waiting ass.

These days though, most of my sexual satisfaction I regrettably have to say, comes from pornographic videos and my two favorite partners; the vibrating wand that I call "The Dynamo" and the ten-inch long, beer-bottle thick dildo named "Mountain." I am far from the coquettish, little tease that thrilled the boys when I was in my late teens. I am much closer to Social Security status now, but my mind still holds its vivid imagination and my cunt continues to moisten when those erotic thoughts cloud my brain. And if the man still exists, who can literally sweep me off of my feet and pin me down on the sheets, and assert his sensual dominance over my quivering frame, he can do whatever he desires, and I'll be his sexual slave for as long as he wants me.

My name is Elizabeth, all of my friends and most of my paramours called me Beth but my family always referred to me as Liz. I still have long brunette waves with the natural auburn highlights from my time spent in any available sunshine mingling with just "a touch of grey," but it no longer sweeps down to my petite waist. Those hippie-girl days with the wreath of flowers in my hair and the shapeless free-form dress, are a thing of the past. I was a rakish, free-spirited, (meaning that I would have sex at anytime, with anyone,) single girl embarking on a new career and having fun with my body. It was called an age of "Free Love," but it wasn't free, we all paid a price.

My thick, reddish locks will still lay gently on my back and in the front, will conceal my pert, pink nipples. The tie-dyed shirts have been mercifully retired to the garbage bin though I see them rearing their ugly heads again, in fashion mags and in thrift stores. And I now shave my underarms and my pussy. My sex-life has lagged in the interim, infact nearly dried to a barren desert, due mainly to my own selfishness. After these many years, I am confined and content that I will need to supply my own sexual pleasure. I don't feel the need to please others anymore, when my own desires are often left unattended. I know that this sounds foolish and hits like a self-inflicted wound, but the things that turn me on make for uncomfortable conversation on a first date.

I am also no longer petite. My waist has expanded though not nearly as much as my ass. But I don't imagine that my butt would draw too many complaints, if a guy was sticking his prick into it. My legs are thick at the calves, but they look just fine in heels and my muscular thighs are shapely, though I would value a little more height than my 5'7." In my youth, I was a bit of a tomboy. I played ball with the boys and rolled in the dirt with the animals. I was once described as a young colt, being all arms and legs, while being able to run all day. I thought that puberty had only dabbled with me, when I woke-up one morning with a gift that all the guys would soon enjoy. Almost overnight, I sprouted a bodacious pair of 34Ds that meant that my days of running with the boys, (or practically running at all,) would cause such a commotion under even a sports-bra, that oncoming cars would swerve into traffic.

My tits became my ticket to any event and I noticed that even the most well-mannered gentlemen, couldn't keep their gaze at eye level if I was wearing a plunging neckline or any blouse that hugged my generous curves. For some guys, reaching "first base," was almost as good as a homerun. I instantly became a very popular girl and I'll admit that I used them to my advantage. "Hey, they were mine, so why not?"

I was now more likely to roll under the sheets and to entertain the boys in more adult activities. In the summer of my junior year I fully explored my new body and by the time I had reached nineteen, I was ready to try it out with others. Actually, I was a "good girl," only allowing "heavy petting," and the occasional dabbling in oral sex, until I was old enough to be (legally,) served in bars. I was asked-out on most nights and some guys were mature enough to try to seduce me with romantic getaways. Obviously, I knew what they after and fortunately for them, I accepted quite a few invitations.

I enjoy the sex and I cherish the thrills and not to toot my own horn, but unfortunately most guys couldn't do "it" for me. When we were young, I found that regardless of how experienced or "manly," that my suiters claimed to be, we were just fumbling around like any young couple and they all seemed to fall asleep as soon as they came. A typical evening if we could escape having a Twister-like sexual carnival in the back seat of a car, was to check-in to a cheap motel, never expecting to spend the night. My tits would become the main attraction and always the first course. I had to keep my arms over my chest if I wanted a kiss on the lips, but atleast one of his hands was always working on my bra snaps.

Like a kid opening birthday presents, their eyes would light-up and I could literally see them drooling as I exposed my tits to their ravenous clutches. I could just lay back and relax for a while as they needed nothing more from me than some insincere moans, as they pawed, squeezed, chewed and slobbered on my buoyant bosom. The FBI could powder my chest and get a list of "distinguished citizens" from the purplish fingerprints left behind by my pursuers. After a few minutes of mentally going over a shopping list in my head, I needed to wean them away from my sore nipples and set them to something more constructive in the false hope that one of them held the magic key.

From there, my pants or skirt would be pushed down my legs with the tenderness of a bulldozer. Glimpsing my moist cunt, they temporarily lost interest in my tits. I would be almost compelled to have been diddling my clit while they were playing with my boobs, because they didn't know how or didn't care to prepare my pussy for the sudden intrusion. Foreplay to most of these playboys meant getting me drunk.

Then his pants would come down, sometime displaying a clumsy attempt to imitate the Chippendales or to remind me of some serious breaches of sartorial splendor. I still laugh at the thought of a naked man wearing black calf-length socks. Atlast, the great unveiling. These poor guys would exhibit their sorry instruments as if entering a '64 Mustang at the Auto Show. Some of them had preposterous names for their cocks while others whipped their tool around as if it were a Waring Blender. They looked at me watching their futile displays as if I should be genuflecting in reverence that they had deigned to allow me the use of their magnificent organ. I simply smiled and wished to say, "C'mon, let's get on with it so I can go home." And to further build his confidence, I would recite the menu of descriptive phrases that would emphasize his unique proportions even though they all seemed about the same to me.

Then came the battle over protection. Even in the "Free Love" days, I wanted to leave the room in the same condition that I entered it. A lot of guys carried musty, old leather wallets with the tell-tale ring symbolizing that they bought a rubber two years ago and hadn't used it yet. Other guys would tell me that we didn't need to worry about "that." I assured them that I worried about it, and if they expected any type of action beyond playing gin-rummy, they had better run to the all-night pharmacy and hope that I found a good movie on the TV in the meantime. For those who came equipped, we then had to hassle over who should put it on, as if they were too "special" to apply their own condom. "I can tell you now, that I ain't doing it. You want laid, figure it out for yourself!"

We would spend the next three minutes grinding together and just about when I was getting used to his energetic routine, he would dribble a couple of teaspoons into the condom and yell like Tarzan. They would then- like it was the next step in some gameplan- want to shove their greasy appendage into my mouth. Laying there after dislodging him from on top of me, with my clothes wrinkled and finally being able to breathe freely again, I would gladly offer to suck their rapidly deflating organs, but on one condition. Never comprehending that they had joined a long line of men who failed once again to satisfy my libido, I would bargain my skills at fellatio for their obligation to try some cunnilingus. I wanted something more for my effort. That was usually a non-starter and so, then we would click on the TV and get dressed.

I know that this sounds awful and that I must have been a bitter broad but that wasn't the case at all, I was just disappointed that there was an element missing.

I always managed to have some fun and I learned some interesting tricks as I matured. Even though I could achieve orgasm through their tedious exertions or most-likely, after they'd fallen asleep, discovering that for what I gained, I was sometimes better-off alone, I never had that mythical climax that was written about in the women's magazines. The sex was mostly enjoyable, I was hetero-, and I usually got dinner and drinks beforehand, then why could I always do just as well, with two little fingers?

Then ofcourse, there was the incident. One of those old condoms that had spent its more useful days, tucked inside the old wallet had apparently lost its grip. Because a few months later, I noticed the weight gain and the absence of my monthly periods. A few months after that, my daughter came into the world, never having any idea of who her father might be. Almost overnight, I became a MILF. The term might be sexy to some women, but what it meant to me was that young guys were now wary about touching me for fear of being trapped into supporting a family that they had not created. I was required to set new goals while still wanting to enjoy my life, and my first priority was to supplement by day job with another money-making scheme.

I hate to even look back on those carefree days of my youth and probably when my lusty body was at its peak efficiency and find that I was almost sleepwalking through many sexual capers. There were times that though I was horny and he was cute, I could see in mere minutes, that I would have a better time curled-up in bed with a good book and my kitten. I would often repeat a phrase in my head while some Lothario was doing his best to prove his bona fides, and wondered if perhaps I had spoken it outloud, when I saw the disappointed look on his face after all of his troubles, I kept hearing that tiny voice saying, "Okay, just feel them briefly, fuck me and go home!"

I knew that I was looking for something new and exciting, a sensual experience that would not my socks off and truly ring the bells. And possibly not for "Mr. Right," but just for Mr. Right Now, if he could bring-out the inner-slut that the magazines alerted me, was lurking very deep inside of every supposedly "good girl." I did really like having sex and exploring or playing games. But even when I did achieve an orgasm it was seemingly frustrating. I just wanted more. The advancing years and a hungry, young mouth to feed made for an expedient decision. The age-old dilemma of conscience versus morality, I could earn a little extra money while laying on my back.

In my thirties I started attracting an older crowd. Usually "Senior Delinquents," who only wanted an armpiece to make their friends or their exes jealous. They would buy my drinks and splurge for dinners on holidays and slip a fistful of cash in my purse to keep-up my interest, but they wanted another kind of experience. I was often expected to wear slinky outfits or to strip for their private viewing, sometimes giving head or even getting fucked in the men's room of fancy restaurants. I have nothing against suggestive clothing or public sex. But I often felt like I was performing for adult children. Sex was fun but still not exciting.

Married men or "forever bachelors" posed different problems. The cheating husbands liked me because though I was not college-educated, I was smart and able to hold a day job. They knew that I understood how to play the game, and that "dating" me required a higher level of maintenance. If they wished for more than a call-girl, then they'd have to ante-up. I can't say that I was pleased with what I was now doing, but single moms with relatively shapely figures had to make allowances. Neither the sex nor the hunger changed, so I was forced to "hustle."

I would smoke the same brand of cigarette and be careful about lipstick and perfume. I didn't need to meet families, make phone calls to their homes or mind that we mostly slept in motels, where I usually woke-up alone. These guys wanted me to just get them off, they were already horned-up when I got there, and the sex was the same, cold routine. It was almost a business agreement. An envelope on the dresser or a new bracelet under the pillow, sufficed for a while but eventually I got tired of it. I wanted to please myself.

Single guys after forty were nearly pathetic. They wanted a mother- someone to cook and clean for them but yet be a hooker in the bedroom. I could do all of that, I make a great Italian supper and I love to a suck a big cock if the guy will take even a few minutes to lick my clit, but I usually found that I was doing all of the work- especially the blowjobs- with very little appreciation. I don't look down on prostitution (or being termed an "escort" if you're making big money,) but its not for me. I only wanted to get as much out of the exercise, as the man did. I just could not understand, why that even if I had an orgasm, that I sensed there was something lacking.

It took way too many years for me to figure-out what was holding me back. A man got a little aggressive with me one night in his apartment, he was drunk and angry about something work-related and started calling me names. I was experienced enough to handle myself and knew that he had nosy neighbors on both sides who would call the police at the drop of a frying pan, plus he had spent a considerable amount of money that evening. But after a half-hour of being called a "worthless whore" and a "scheming slut," he began tearing at my clothes and pulling my hair. He was big enough to be dangerous and in a sullen, malicious mood, so through various rooms I was chased, cornered or tackled. He tore my expensive dress and scraped a few long, bloody gashes down my back as he tugged at my bra and ripped my panties.

He finally pushed me onto the couch and climbed aboard. I was shaking and an unaccustomed twitching feeling, was sparking strange phenomena in my pelvis. My hair was a tangled sweaty rats-nest of auburn waves. Makeup smeared my face and my body was hot from the energy of wrestling him, but there was a fire burning in my crotch. If he hadn't been such an ignorant bastard, this would have been a kinky seen. But as I was unfamiliar with this particular situation and my erotic response to the stimulation, my first impulse was to just get the hell out of there.

His eighty-proof kisses left sloppy bruises on my neck and when his limp cock couldn't cash the check that his big mouth was writing, he roughly fingered my wet cunt and got steamed when neither of us managed to cum. The black and blue marks on my hips were the only real outcome of our sexual circus and when I spotted his drooping dick and smothered a smirking laugh, he swung at me and luckily missed. I kicked him in his blue balls and hustled to the door before he could rise from the floor.

As I swung open the door and just as he grabbed my wrist, the other apartment doors were alerted by my scream. Half naked with obvious signs of a struggle, I didn't need to say anything more. I cautioned them that I was unharmed and was leaving on my own, but that they should remember me if something would happen. He was chastened enough that the night ended with no further problems. I realized that I had placed myself in this position, so I didn't exactly feel like a victim, but I was ready for a serious change.

In the cab ride home, I made a promise to the image in my compact mirror. It was time to slow down and learn that I'm not going to find what I want like this. Exiting the cab while holding up the shoulder strap of my dress and limping on one broken four-inch heel, I was suddenly concerned to feel a warm trickle of fluid oozing down my inner thigh. I thought that maybe I was bleeding from a wound on my leg or that his incessant fumbling in my pussy had caused an internal problem. I asked myself if this is how I wanted my life to be. My daughter was a married woman now, with the first of two kids on the way. I would soon be a GILF, and I didn't want to be a half-naked grandmother being chased out of apartments by drunken, lecherous assholes. A new plan was called for, but first things first, what was running down my leg?

When I undressed in the bathroom, I was surprised to find that my raw, badgered cunt was dripping with my juices and that my perky nipples were still as hard as diamonds. That sudden burst of adrenaline that caused me to fight back in the idiot's apartment may have been fueled by some other sort of hormone. The frightening situation aside, the forceful, domineering display of authority was a real turn-on. Instantly, even before I showered, I climbed into bed and played with my pussy. There was a tingle in my cunt, just picturing that big oaf forcing me down on the couch.

Recalling the physical struggle and those fearful moments when I had lost all control, my heart started racing and my pulse soared. Sweat coated my slithering anatomy with a glistening sheen. My extended clit was rubbed raw but still straining to be abraded and my swollen labia was flayed open waiting for something, big, hard and long to stretch it out. My legs spread wide anticipating that my fingers were soon to explore this fascinating discovery. I was beginning to understand, the reason that nobody could ever meet my standard of fulfillment is that I didn't realize that I was such a submissive and willing partner.

The years drifted by and I found myself basically alone. I had family nearby, my daughter and her husband, plus my twenty-year-old grandson. His older sister lived many states away and was pregnant with my first great-grandchild. I was not rich but considering my modest living arrangements and being by myself, I was comfortable. My daughter's family struggled, but they were all hard workers. I lent them a little money so that they could travel across country and stay with their daughter when the time came.