Lying beside Michael, listening to the soft rise and fall of his breathing, my hand resting lightly on his soft, sticky cock, I feel a happiness so complete it borders on delirium.
Next Thursday we shall be married, in Stratford’s fifteenth‑century Registry Office, a stone’s throw from Shakespeare’s birthplace. What more could a comfortably padded, mature woman reasonably desire?
It is two years since I first arrived in Stratford, fleeing a life that had soured beyond repair. A day later, I was rescued from an awkward predicament by the man who will soon be my husband. From that moment, the sourness began to lift, replaced by the steadfast affection of the man now sleeping peacefully at my side.
He’s satisfied; dawn is breaking, but sleep won’t come for me while my body clock is eight hours adrift. A naughty thought settles in my mind, then I wriggle carefully, sliding below the duvet, his manly odour filling my senses. Carefully, I twist and turn, legs hanging over the mattress edge, seeking my target.
In the stuffy dark, my mouth finds his softness. I lick the tip, tasting traces of both of us. Then, ever so gently, I suck him in.
A searing jolt flashes through my pussy. I need satisfaction. My hand drifts across my pubes, and I explore the softness of my sex. It’s still wet, the remnants of my juices and his cum filling the cleft. I push two fingers inside, then pull them out, laden with slime, and stroke up until they find my little hard knot.
I put my tongue on the head, licking around the opening, sensing his soft skin and amazing scent. I kiss down the length of his hardness, open my mouth to nuzzle, then swallow his balls.
He’s getting harder, expanding in my mouth and taking me beyond my comfort zone. So, I release his sack, kiss my way up and then flutter my tongue under the head. He moans softly and sleepily.
My fingers encircle, then firmly hold the base of his cock, rubbing my lips around the hard head. I open my mouth and let it slip between my lips onto my tongue. I push my hand deep into my cleft, feeling even more wetness, before sliding out to touch my most sensitive place.
My palm wraps around him, a tight grip that guides him deeper. I take him in, hollowing my cheeks to create a vacuum, drawing him in until he fills the space. He tastes of salt and musk, a heady, intoxicating flavour that makes my head swim.
“Don’t stop,” Michael gasps, the words feeling like a distant whisper.
As he pulls the duvet upward, I crane my neck, my gaze locking onto his. For a heartbeat, my world narrows to the intensity in his eyes, before his head falls back into the pillow, and a guttural groan rips from his throat.
Below, my fingers frantically slide over my swollen clit in a blurring rhythm. My hips begin to roll, an instinctive chase to the peak I crave.
Sensing the coming crest, I abandon my touch to redouble my efforts on him. I swirl my tongue around the crown of his shaft, sucking with a fierce, hungry intensity that makes him whimper and moan.
Then, his hand finds the back of my head. His fingers tangle in my hair, his grip firm as he presses downward, driving himself deep into the warmth of my throat.
The tickle of his presence makes my stomach recoil. I surrender to him. My head bobs rhythmically, pushing against his palm before yielding, allowing his pressure to guide me back down, deeper, until I am at the very root. My fingers wander, searching, probing the soft, sensitive skin of his perineum with a slow, deliberate stroke that brings a low growl from his throat.
The shift is subtle at first: a tightening of muscle before his hips begin to thrust, a change that tells me he is on the edge. Driven by his urgency, my hand slides home, fingers diving into the slick heat between my legs.
Michael’s moans break into a constant, jagged series of gasps. He buries himself deeper, his shaft hammering against the back of my throat with an unrelenting force.
Then, it hits – unexpected and fierce – my body jerks, rolling in a sudden spasm of release, yet I cling to him desperately, refusing to let go.
I feel his swollen glans pressing against my lips as my tongue flicks, one last time, across the taut string of his frenulum.
Seconds later, he breaks. He shoots into my mouth in searing pulses, his breath hitching into a series of guttural grunts. I feel every throb, the heat of him delivering his load against the back of my throat, until one final, convulsive thrust buries him deep.
The sensation is too much; my body rebels. I pull back, coughing and spluttering, his thick issue spilling over my lips and splashing across his grey pubes. Michael’s grip loosens, his hand sliding away from my hair to let me surface. I collapse beside him, my cheek pressed against his stomach, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Lingering there for a moment, I stare at his softening cock before my tongue darts out to flick a slow, teasing lick along his length.
The afterglow has faded, but the hunger remains. The fingers trapped between my thighs find their mark, sliding back into my drenched heat. I begin that relentless, circular motion, grinding into the centre of my need until the world dissolves. I heave and roll, my nails clawing deep furrows into his flesh as I power back toward heaven.
Slowly, I crawl along the sheet, trailing wet kisses across Michael’s chest until I emerge from the duvet and our lips meet in satisfied passion.
We need no words, and as my head drops onto the crook of his shoulder, I fall into the deep sleep that I had been denied in the dark small hours.
._.
I glance up at the kitchen clock. Eleven fifteen. How long should I let her sleep? Jasper nudges against my shin, snout lifted, eyes fixed on me with earnest expectation.
I ruffle his neck, rub beneath one ear, and make my decision. “All right, Jasper. I know you’re desperate to see her.”
Rising, I flick the kettle on, take a clean mug from the rack, and spoon in a generous measure of instant coffee. I slice, butter, and spread a roll with marmalade just as the kettle begins to boil.
My thoughts drift back to dawn, to the quiet moment when she took me in her mouth, gently encouraging my body to respond to her desires.
After six months apart, simply feeling her close again – her warmth, her breathing, the way she curled close to me after we made love – lifts my spirits. The memory settles in my head, comforting and erotic all at once.
Balancing her breakfast tray in one hand and gripping the bannister with the other, I climb the stairs slowly, wanting the moment to be right. I ease the bedroom door open, hoping to surprise her with kindness.
Instead, Jasper barrels past me, all restraint forgotten. He launches himself onto the bed in one joyous leap, landing squarely atop Dora’s sleeping form. Her startled laugh breaks the silence, bright and familiar, and in that instant Rose Cottage feels alive again.
She sits up and gathers Jasper into her arms, his tail thumping wildly as he smothers her face in delighted kisses. He’s beside himself, overjoyed to have his missing friend back again, and she laughs – a soft sound that fills the room with something I hadn’t realised I’d missed so much.
I set the tray on the bedside cabinet, unable to stop my eyes from lingering on the way the sunlight touches the bare skin peeking out from beneath Jasper’s furry coat, on the familiar warmth of her presence. “I need to take him for a walk,” I say gently. “Do you want to come?”
Dora’s eyes brighten instantly. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Do I need hiking gear?”
I shake my head. “No. The ground is solid – it hasn’t rained in a month. We’re just going through the woods. The bluebells are out, so you have to see them. They’re beautiful this year.”
She smiles – the one that has always undone me, the one that exudes love. “Give me half an hour to get up.”
I watch her for a moment, Jasper still wriggling in her arms, and the thought drifts through my mind with affectionate exasperation: Women. How does it take half an hour to throw on a few clothes?
But even as I think it, I know I wouldn’t trade that half hour for anything. It means she’s here. It means she’s mine to wait for again.
._.
Dora waits patiently by the front gate, Jasper sitting quietly at her side as I pull the front door shut behind me. She gives me a soft, knowing smile.
“Still don’t lock the door?”
I pause a moment, taking in the two beings who anchor my life. Jasper, shaggy and eager. Dora, eager to shag. The private joke that flickers through my mind makes me smile at myself, but it’s her I linger on – her fine hair catching the morning light, the familiar curls framing the face I’ve missed more than I can ever admit.
Her strappy bottle-green dress is perfect for a warm spring day; the flowery pattern stretches around her, flattering her womanly shape. My eyes are drawn to her décolletage, free of any restraining brassiere, before travelling down her torso.
It’s a bit short on her legs for a seventy-year-old, but a nice display of female flesh never goes amiss in my view. I’m not sure the sandals are the most sensible footwear for a woodland walk, but there’s no mud, no soft ground today.
We set off down the lane, Jasper straining forward with all the enthusiasm he can muster. Two hundred metres on, we pass the entrance to our neighbours’ place, the neat sign on the gate reading 'Woodside Cottage'.
Dora stops and slips her hand into mine. “Do you think Penny and Nigel are in?”
I glance at the empty drive. “Both cars have gone.”
We walk on until the bridleway joins the lane, leading us beneath the trees. I unclip Jasper’s leash, and he bolts ahead, barking with joy. We follow him, hand in hand, ambling along softly on the dry earth.
Deep in the wood, we leave the bridleway to take a narrow path, where we walk in single file, brushing away hazel and brambles.
Further along, we cross the dried bed of the stream where we kissed last year. Beyond it, the trees open out, and beneath the thin canopy of fresh green leaves is a sea of bluebells, their scent filling the air.
Dora squeezes my hand and pulls me to a halt. Her voice is full of wonder. “Oh my… this is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She steps forward, slipping off her sandals, and moves carefully through the flowers. Kneeling beside a mossy log, she rests her elbows on it and trails her fingers through the delicate blooms, touching them tenderly.
My heart aches at the sight of her. As she leans forward, the fabric of her dress rides up her thighs to expose the pale, rounded curve of her buttocks and the dark, shadowed cleft between her legs. No knickers, no barrier.
Dora turns her head, and the smile that greets me lights my life, but it's the hunger in her eyes that holds me. I watch, mesmerised, as her tongue slips through her parted lips, sliding slowly from side to side in a silent, wet invitation. The realisation hits me: this wasn't an accident. The missing bra, the absence of knickers – she has planned this moment.
I stroll toward her. With a slow, possessive motion, I nudge her ankles apart with my foot, carving a space for myself. I sink to my knees between her legs, my palms finding the lush, yielding flesh of her cheeks. I knead her firmly, feeling the radiating heat, before sliding one hand deep into the warmth of her thighs.
She is drenched.
"You bitch," I murmur, my voice a low, guttural drone. "You planned every single second."
Her smile widens, her lips parting further as her tongue flicks against the roof of her mouth. A single, glistening thread of saliva escapes her lower lip, tumbling in a slow, clear drop onto the mossy log.
The sight undoes me. My prick is protesting against the confinement of my clothes, straining against the material. My hands drop to my waist in a blur of urgency, unbuckling the belt, tearing through buttons and the zip, until everything falls away to my knees.
I lock eyes with her, her lids heavy with a lust that mirrors my own. I don't hesitate. I line up with her sodden slit, the tip flicking against her wetness for a heartbeat before I ram home, burying myself deep in her heat.
Dora’s head jerks back, a guttural squeal escaping her as I rip into her. "Take it, Bitch," I growl, the words harsh and demanding, "take all of it."
Her response is everything I want to know. Her knuckles dig into my sack as her fingers slide through her folds in wet urgency. A thrill courses through my body. Dora has taken control of her needs, and I surrender to mine, pounding her hard, chasing my pleasure.
Every time I bottom out, she lets out a low whimper. The sensations are overloading my senses; the slick, sliding friction where she grips me, the heat of her body bucking against mine, and the relentless friction against my most sensitive nerves. It drags me closer to the edge, where everything will dissolve into a single, shattering point of completion.
My fingers sink deep into her hips, bruising the skin in a grip that borders on desperate. I don’t care; I am past gentleness, driven by a hunger that has stripped away every shred of restraint.
Her hand is a blur, flicking frantically over her swollen bud. She reacts in shudders, her body rolling beneath me like an ocean swell. We are in a frenzy, oblivious to the world beyond our needs.
The pressure builds, tightening in my gut, pushing me toward a cliff I can no longer avoid. Dora breaks first. She arches, a half-cry catching in her throat as she writhes beneath me, her muscles clamping around my shaft in a series of contractions. The friction of that tightness sends a jolt shooting through my spine and exploding in my mind.
I drive deep into her one last time as my life surges into her in searing pulses of release.
Then the emptiness of completion comes. I collapse against her, my chest heaving, our skins fused with perspiration as we relax in the wake of satisfaction.
I am breathless, my chest heaving in tandem with hers. The world has narrowed down to this patch of crushed bluebells and their heavy, sweet scent, the silence of the wood, and the shared warmth of the moment.
I reach across, my fingers grazing the damp silk of her hair, tenderly stroking the strands off her forehead. My voice is raw, stripped of everything but devotion. “That was wonderful. I love you, Dora.”
She doesn’t speak at first; she only reaches out, her fingers curling around mine. “And I love you, Michael.”
We linger, suspended in that place where the physical fades into the emotional. I shift back on my haunches, my palm lingering on the curve of her hip, reluctant to break the moment.
A metre away, Jasper sits in content silence, his tongue lolling out as he pants, his eyes blinking slowly in the dappled sunlight. I lean forward and press a series of lingering, soft kisses to the hollow of Dora’s damp shoulder. A sudden, fleeting thought strikes me, and I lean in to whisper against her ear, “God, what would we have done if someone had stumbled upon us?”
She lets out a giggle. “If it had been Penny and Nigel, they would have just joined in.”
I laugh and give her cheek a playful, resounding smack, the sound echoing through the trees. “No way would I have shared you,” I tease. “And no way would I have wanted Penny after the way you looked at me earlier.”
I push myself up, the squashed bluebell stems slippery beneath my feet, and extend a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Dora’s fingers entwine with mine as I pull her up. The moment she is steady, I slide my hands to her waist and draw her against me. Our lips meet – slow, deep, and hungry – as we lose ourselves in a kiss that tastes of everything we are to each other.
