Wrinkled, Ripe and Randy

I waited nearly a year after getting the come-on from the woman next door before getting inside her knickers. A year wasted? No doubt!

The fact that Pat was 75-years-old was not the reason for the time lapse. I love old pussy. If I were to compile a list of my all-time top 10 fucks, at least seven or eight would be with women over 60. Pat, it would transpire, was a top three lady.

The proposition I had ignored for so long and to which nearly ignored completely, came at the back end of a long evening function being held on the wedding day of another neighbour's daughter.

The combination of energetic dancing and too much to drink had taken its toll. Pat had to more or less drag me on to the floor, thrown her arms round me and pushed herself close. Her newly-styled short, tight-curled white hair matched a close-fitting white blouse which housed two large, enticing breasts. Her perfume was expensive but way too powerful.

To this day I have no recollection of the three songs to which we danced, though I can clearly recall what she whispered into my ear.

"I really like you," she said.

"And I want to show you how much. Come round sometime and I'll give you a nice big thank-you for being such a lovely neighbour."

Looking back, I should have asked her to elaborate but her words had come as such a surprise, I was close to being speechless. I did, however, have an erection. Given how close we were, she could not fail to notice my state of arousal. Without moving sufficiently to draw any attention she pressed herself firmly into me, rotating her hips ever so slightly. Through the fabric of our clothes, her cunt was warm.

I felt an almost overwhelming urge to respond with a string of four-letter words, impress on her my strong wish to fuck her.

When our dances were over we went separate ways though, before she left, Pat gave me a knowing smile. It made me feel embarrassed.

I did not see Pat at all the following day and the day after that, when we spoke briefly, she was still nursing a hangover. Neither of us mentioned the dances nor the conversation.

I assumed it was the drink that had been talking and she was probably keen to forget the whole episode. Later that week, I had my first wet dream about Pat.

Leaving aside the mess, I guess there's no such thing as a bad wet dream; though if you wake up to sticky sheets with no recollection of a dream it can be frustrating. Pat, however, was at the centre of a very vivid and extremely intense dream.

It was a warm, summer evening. The two of us were side by side, naked in long, dry grass. We were close to a gypsy style caravan and the air was filled with exotic scent.

Gnarled fingers with cracked nails took a firm hold of the protruding sex flaps to reveal the bright pink interior. Then it was pink on pink as my tongue made long strokes along the length of the old lady's vagina. The sound of wind blowing gently through the long grass and leaves in the trees was eclipsed by moans of pleasure

Slowly, I eased myself on top of Pat's naked form. Entering her warm wetness was effortless and as soon I had penetrated her to the hilt, I refrained from movement.

I remember trying to remain motionless, setting myself a challenge of stopping myself attaining orgasm. Although she was underneath, Pat was the one doing the fucking. And how! Her warm, wet grip enveloped the whole length of my shaft, her steady deliberate rhythm sending my whole body into a state of ecstasy overdrive. Even when I sensed climax was inevitable I tried to summon all my mental powers to hold it at bay.

As often is the case with my wet dreams, I woke as my orgasm was about to take hold. I was half asleep, laying on my front, my cock pointing upwards. The intensity of the first spurt took me by surprise and hastened my waking. The first ejaculation was followed by three or four of almost equal force. When my climaxing finally ended, I found myself laying on a warm, wet patch the size of an irregular A4 sheet of paper.

Four hours later and half an hour before the six o clock alarm was due to ring, I rolled on top of my wife and recaptured some of the magic of the reverie.

Pat's vision, erotic or otherwise, never entered my night time inner imagination again though she became high up on my list of favourite fantasy masturbation sessions

Some 10 or 11 months passed before my dream came true, so to speak.

Gordon, better known as Jock, was the third husband of twice-widowed Pat. Ten years her junior, he was generally a very personable man, but given to sporadic bursts of extremely heavy drinking sessions, after which he usually became violent. He also made several trips each year to Scotland to spend time with family.

It was during one such excursion, I made my move on Pat.

Working from home, my workload tended to vary considerably from one month to the next. I was in the middle of a particularly quiet spell, bored and horny.

When Pat answered the door, she didn't look surprised to see me but a warm smile gave a strong hint she was pleased I called round.

She offered me a seat before settling alongside, keeping a foot of space between us.

"Did you come round for any particular reason," she asked, making eye contact and holding it.

I was half tempted to blurt out that I had come over for a fuck.

"I felt a bit lonely and enjoy your company. No other reason," I replied.

She was still staring into my eyes when I continued.

"Do you remember the time we danced together?"

"I remember it very well."

Pat rested her hand on my knee.

"And do you recall what you whispered in my ear?"

"I can remember very clearly. And I can assure you it wasn't the drink talking.

"I told you that I really liked you and how I wanted to show you how much."

Her mottled blue eyes were still fixed on mine. She edged a few inches closer and traced the fingers of her right hand up my thigh, gently touching my erection which was straining hard through my trousers.

"I can see you like me too."

Her voice was low and clear with no indication of any nerves. Any nervousness in the atmosphere belonged to me.

Despite her often brash manner, Pat seemed to appreciate a gentle touch, so, taking my cue from her, I traced my fingers gently across the outside of her left breast. I lowered my head onto her lap and pushed my left hand up her skirt. Her legs parted wide, I lay the palm of my hand on the underside of her knickers and massaged her flesh through the thin cotton material.

Her breathing quickened and she started moaning. The urge for me to use four letter words was becoming increasingly strong.

"Do you mind if I talk dirty?" I asked.

"I'd love you to talk dirty," Pat replied.

I stuck my tongue in her ear before whispering,

"I want to fuck you. I want to fuck your cunt. I want to lick your cunt and fuck you. I want to lick your cunt till you orgasm in my face."

"Go on then. Go on you filthy bastard. Lick my cunt, make me come. Then take me upstairs and fuck me, fuck me in my bed while my husband's away."

Ten minutes later, moans and groans turned to squeals and screams. She shuddered and her body went rigid. If that was a fake orgasm, Meg Ryan owed her an Oscar.

"Upstairs." hissed Pat.

We both stripped quickly and unceremoniously. Having drawn the curtains, Pat sat down on the bottom edge of the bed, lay back on the pink patchwork quilt and opened her legs wide, wider than I had thought possible for a woman in her seventies.

Keeping both feet on the floor and placing my left leg slightly forward, I guided myself in. After a couple of minutes of long, slow gentle thrusts, I hooked my arms under her thighs and stated to fuck faster.

The bedsprings were echoing to the rhythm of our passion. I was shocked how wet Pat was and surprised how expertly she was able to control her vaginal muscles and heighten the sensations around the tip of my cock. Several times I thought I was going to lose control but each time, Pat, who seemed determined not to allow me to come first, tightened her grip.

Pat did come first, but only just, her climax triggering mine. By then, I had taken my legs off the floor and had slowed the pace. A whimper, closely hollowed by a fierce scream pushed me over the brink. Leaving just the tip of my cock inside, I erupted powerfully inside, setting off another scream. I kept on shooting, shooting and shooting.

Panting hard, Pat declared,

"I've never come so hard in my life."

"It was bloody damn good for me too."

The words were scarcely off my lips when Pat started to fellate me.

Her hands firmly massaging the base of my cock, Pat moved her lips around the tip, her tongue teasing the underside. Her expertise soon had my erection fully restored whereupon she ceased her action, rolled over and moved onto her hands and knees with her back slightly arched.

"Now fuck me doggy style," she implored.

As Pat took a pounding from behind her large breasts swung backwards and forwards, gathering a momentum of their own as I went at it with quick, hard strokes. Dropping forward onto her shoulders and aiding support with her forearm, Pat used frenzied fingers on her clit to enhance her pleasure.

Sweat was running down my face and dripping on to Pat's body which was already covered with perspiration of her own. When we climbed under the duvet to rest, I pushed two fingers into Pat and took one of her nipples into my mouth.

I was close to drifting into sleep when I was aware of Pat disengaging our contact and getting out of bed. From the corner of my half-open eye I watched her slip into a robe and leave the room, quietly shutting the door.

When, half an hour later, Pat re-entered, she was carrying a tray with a large mug of tea and a handsome plateful consisting of fried egg, sausages, bacon, fried bread and mushrooms.

"You'll have to keep your strength up," she said, as I spooned three sugars into my tea.

"How was that, she as asked after I had swallowed the final mouthful.

I shot her a cheeky grin.

"Superb. It went down even better than sex."

Pat laughed.

"Cheeky bastard."

I dressed, said a quick goodbye and returned home feeling comfortable and satisfied. I went straight to my study and settled down to do some work before the inevitable pangs of guilt set in. On the headphones, Rachmaninov's third piano concerto helped me focus.

That evening, complaints of a severe stomach ache prevented my having to eat a meal when not hungry. It was also a plausible of explanation for giving bedtime marital relations a miss. I knew, however, from experience, that when normal service was resumed in that department, my libido would be going up a couple of gears.

By mutual agreement, Pat and I, who both had other commitments, agreed not to see each other for a few days.

"Come next door for a fuck," pleaded the early morning voice on the telephone.

"That's an offer I'm not going to refuse." I said.

Five minutes later, we were carrying on where we left off earlier in the week, this time under the duvet and with a little less urgency. The sex was sublime. I came four times. Pat lost count.

In the meantime, Pat had made provisional arrangements of how we might meet after Jock's return. Having ruled out the back seat of the car as a viable option, she had contacted Hannah, a sixty eight year old widow living on her own who had agreed we could slip round and use her bed.

"There is a catch," said Pat after I had told her it was too good to be true.

"She wants you to fuck her as well."

Hannah was shorter and slimmer than Pat, wore thick glasses and had a great pair of tits.

"She's been without sex for nearly five years," continued Pat.

"I feel sorry for her. I told her I don't mind if you don't. My suggestion is that we could make it a regular Monday meeting"

I'd already spunked off twice into Pat's mouth and twice into her pussy and I was starting to get hard again.

My decision? Put it this way; unlike for many others, Monday is now my favourite day of the week.