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I laid out the rest of the outfit with deliberate care: a pair of black lacy-top hold-ups that would sit high on my thighs, a simple black thong so minimal it was barely there, and a pair of heels that made my legs look longer and more elegant than they really were. I decided against a bra. The dress would sit low enough that the soft curves of my breasts would be visible at the neckline whenever I moved or leaned forward. I left everything arranged neatly on the bed like a promise and went back to the bathroom for a second shower.

This time I took longer. I let the hot water run over me in slow sheets while I shaved carefully, legs first, long smooth strokes until the skin was completely free of stubble, then underarms, and finally, with deliberate, almost ceremonial attention, my pubic hair. I shaved until the skin was completely smooth, then ran the razor gently over the soft skin of my backside as well. I wanted to feel polished, every inch of me prepared and sensitive. When I stepped out, the towel was soft against newly bare skin. I dried thoroughly, taking my time, then began the process of getting ready properly.

I dried my hair and styled it into the loose, shaggy look that framed my face and made me look a little wilder, a little more approachable. Make-up came next: foundation blended carefully so it looked like skin rather than product, eyeliner sharp and precise, mascara to darken my lashes, and lipstick a deep red that matched the nail varnish I had already applied to my fingers and toes. When I slipped the hold-ups on, the lace tops sat high on my thighs, the contrast of black against bare skin striking. The thong followed, settling between my legs with a soft pressure. Then the wrap dress. I tied the thin black sash at my waist, adjusting the fabric so that the neckline dipped just enough to hint at the soft swell of my breasts. Sitting on the edge of the bed to put on the heels, the dress parted slightly, showing a flash of lace-topped stocking and bare thigh. I stood and looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

The woman looking back at me was polished, deliberate, and quietly hungry. If this doesn’t get him hard, I thought, nothing will.

I said it out loud, smiling at my reflection. “Yes, Lacy. Go get him.”

A three-quarter-length coat went over the dress, hiding most of the deliberate display for the journey. Keys, purse, phone. I locked the flat and walked down two flights of concrete stairs to the underground car park. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint smell of oil and concrete. I opened the car door, slid in, and felt the dress ride up slightly as I settled into the seat. Legs on show even in the dim light of the car park, I started the engine, set the phone on the dashboard, and typed in the address.

Driving through London at that hour was the usual slow crawl of brake lights, crowded junctions, and impatient taxis. The city felt restless around me. I kept catching glimpses of my own legs in the windscreen reflection, the hold-ups and the short hem of the dress a constant reminder of what I was heading toward. Eventually I found his road. Parking was easy, only a few doors down from the house. I locked the car, smoothed the coat over my hips, and walked the short distance. Before I could knock, the door opened.

He stood there in a shirt and tie, dark trousers, and polished black shoes. He looked completely different from the man I had met in the pub, more formal, more carefully put together, the kind of man who still took care with his appearance even at sixty-one. His eyes moved over me once, quickly, taking in the coat and the hint of the dress beneath, and then he smiled.

“Wow, Lacy. You look stunning.”

I thanked him, feeling a small flush of pleasure warm my cheeks. He took my coat, hung it carefully, and closed the door behind us. The hallway was warm and quietly elegant, the lighting soft. I could smell something cooking further inside, fish, herbs, white wine.

“Please go through to the lounge,” he said.

I walked ahead, taking in the room. For a man living alone, the place was impressive, soft lighting, carefully chosen furniture, a sense of calm order and quiet good taste. Nothing flashy, but everything considered. He offered drinks.

“What’s your tipple? Don’t tell me, vodka and Coke with ice.”

I laughed, surprised and pleased. “You remembered.”

While he poured, I asked about the dog. He explained that his neighbour had taken her for the evening so we wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Lady or man?” I asked, curious.

“Lady. She lost her husband three years ago.”

“Are you close?”

He shrugged lightly, handing me the glass. “We’re both sixty-one. We enjoy each other’s company, but I’m not looking to start another relationship at this stage of life.”

“You’re not old,” I said, and meant it. Then, realising the gap that still existed between us, “And by the way, what is your name?”

He looked faintly embarrassed, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. Damn rude of me. I’m Jerry.”

We shook hands, both of us laughing at the formality of it after everything that had already been said and the invitation that had brought me here.

Dinner was at the kitchen table. He had cooked fish, simply and well, the flesh flaking perfectly under the fork, and opened a bottle of Chablis, my favourite, that was cold and crisp and tasted of summer, that went perfectly with the fish. We sat close, me to his left, and talked easily. The conversation flowed without strain: light observations about the city, about the pub where we had met, about nothing in particular. Our hands brushed more than once as we reached for glasses or passed plates. Each small contact left a trace of warmth that lingered longer than it should have. When the plates were cleared he remained seated. I shifted my chair, turned to face him more fully, and crossed my legs. The movement made the short dress ride higher, the lace tops of the hold-ups clearly visible against my thighs. I watched his eyes flick downward and then return to my face with deliberate control. He was well-mannered, asking about my job, where I lived, whether I lived alone. I answered everything honestly, watching the way he listened.

At some point the conversation paused. The air between us had thickened. He leaned in and kissed me, softly at first, testing, the taste of wine still on his lips. I moved closer, lengthening the kiss, and let my hand rest on his knee. His fingers covered mine, warm and steady.

“Shall we go into the lounge?” he asked quietly. “It’s more comfortable.”

“I’d love to.”

He stood and guided me through, his hand settling at the small of my back, the pressure light but unmistakable. Halfway there I stopped, turned, and kissed him again, more firmly this time. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me against him. The kiss deepened. His hands slid down my back, over the curve of my backside, pressing me closer until there was no space left between us. I felt the unmistakable press of him against me through the fabric of his trousers, already half-hard. Heat bloomed low in my stomach and spread outward.

“Let’s sit down,” he murmured against my mouth, voice rougher now, “before we fall.”

I sat first on the sofa, crossing my legs again so the dress fell open just enough to keep the hold-ups in view. He settled beside me. The next kiss was slower, deeper, more certain. His hand traced the line of my collarbone, then lower, over the soft swell of my breast through the thin fabric of the dress. I made a small sound into his mouth. Encouraged, he slipped his fingers inside the neckline, finding bare skin, finding the tight peak of my nipple. Another sound escaped me, softer this time, almost a sigh. The contact was electric, sending a clear pulse of arousal straight between my legs.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes darker than before.

“Lacy,” he said, voice rough, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a beautiful young woman like you.”

I reached up and touched his face, feeling the slight roughness of evening stubble. “We have all night. Just go with it. You’ll be fine.”

I could see the outline of him straining more firmly against his trousers now. The air between us had changed completely. Whatever careful distance had existed earlier was gone. I felt the first real, insistent pulse of need settle between my thighs, warm and wet, and I knew the evening was only just beginning.

I stood and fetched one of the kitchen chairs, placing it deliberately in front of where he sat on the sofa. Then I sat facing him, crossing one leg over the other so the dress fell open along my thigh, the black lace of the hold-up stark against bare skin. His eyes followed the movement and stayed there for a moment longer than politeness usually allowed. The quiet between us was thick with awareness.

“You remember Caroline?” I asked, keeping my voice light. “The girl I was with in the pub.”

“Yes. The landlord’s daughter.”

“That’s her. She asked me if you were trying to get into my panties. I told her you were. She said if I didn’t let you fuck me, she was going to.”

A slow smile spread across his face, something almost boyish breaking through the careful composure. “Two lovely young girls, just for me?”

“Is it true?” I asked softly, leaning forward a fraction. “Are you going to get into my panties?”

“I really hope so.”

I leaned further. My fingers found his belt, worked the buckle open with steady hands, then drew the zipper down. The sound was loud in the quiet room. I eased the trousers over his hips, taking the boxers with them. He lifted slightly to help, his breathing already changing. Shoes came off next, then the trousers entirely. His cock rested against his stomach, only half-hard, the skin smooth and flushed a deeper colour. I could see he was a little self-conscious, the vulnerability of being naked while I was still mostly dressed sitting between us. I closed my hand around him gently and began to stroke, slow and steady, feeling him thicken under my palm.

The shirt came off a moment later. He sat completely naked in front of me while I worked him with my fist, watching the way his stomach tensed with each stroke. Pre-cum beaded at the tip and then spilled in a thin, clear line down the shaft. I bent and licked it away, tasting the faint salt of him on my tongue. “You taste nice,” I murmured, and kept stroking, twisting my wrist slightly on the upstroke the way I knew most men liked. His breathing grew heavier. His hips shifted. Within another minute he tensed hard, a low sound escaping his throat, and came across my hand in thick pulses, more than I expected, the warmth of it startling. He started to apologise, the words half-formed. I pressed a finger to his lips.

“It’s fine.”

I lowered my mouth and cleaned him carefully, taking him deeper until the head brushed the back of my throat. The taste was stronger now, saltier, the residual warmth of his orgasm still on my tongue. When I sat back he was still soft, but already beginning to thicken again under my gaze, the recovery quicker than he had probably expected.

I leaned into the chair, untied the sash at my waist with deliberate slowness, and opened the dress fully. My breasts were bare, nipples tight from the cool air and from everything that had already happened. The thong was dark with wetness, the thin fabric clinging to me. I spread my legs so he could see everything, the smooth skin, the soaked material, the clear evidence of how ready I already was.

“Take it off,” I said. “With your mouth.”

He slid forward to the edge of the sofa. His face came between my thighs. The first touch of his breath against the damp fabric made me shiver. Teeth found the thin material of the thong and tugged. In the process his mouth brushed my clit through the fabric. The contact was sharp and perfect, a jolt of pure sensation.

“Fuck....yes. Do that again. Bite me.”

He did. The pressure of his teeth through the wet material made my thighs tremble. I almost came right there against his face, the edge so close it was dizzying. Then his tongue pressed flat against the soaked fabric, tasting me through it, slow and deliberate. My hips rolled forward without permission, seeking more pressure.

“Jerry… you’re turning me on so much.”

I looked down and saw him hardening properly now, about seven inches, not thick, but beautifully shaped, the head flushed and already glistening again. He finally managed to pull the thong free with his teeth. I kicked it aside, bent, and kissed him hard, sharing the taste of myself on his tongue. His hand slid between my legs at once, fingers gliding over slick folds, circling my clit with careful, precise pressure. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming, every nerve ending lit up.

“Inside,” I whispered against his mouth. “Put your fingers inside me.”

He did. Two fingers slid in easily, the wetness making the entry effortless. He curled them and found the spot that made my breath catch and my thighs tighten. I came hard, clenching around him, a broken sound leaving my throat as the pleasure rolled through me in long, pulsing waves that left me shaking.

When I could speak again I asked, voice still unsteady, “How do you want to fuck me?”

“Here,” he said. “On my cock.”

I smiled. “I’d love to.”

I climbed onto the sofa, straddling him, and guided the head of his cock to my entrance. The first inch stretched me in a slow, perfect burn, the fullness immediate. I sank down until he was fully inside and his balls rested against me. We both exhaled, the shared breath shaky. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and began to move, small circles at first, feeling every inch of him, then longer rolls of my hips that let me take him deeper. The wet sound of my body accepting him filled the quiet room.

“Oh God, Jerry… that feels so good.”

We stayed like that for a long time, kissing, breathing into each other’s mouths, my body rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I could feel him swelling further, getting closer. His hands gripped my waist harder, guiding me, holding me. When he came it was deep and prolonged; I felt every pulse of him emptying inside me, the heat of it spreading. The knowledge that he hadn’t been with anyone in years only made the moment richer. I stayed seated on him, still full, and stroked his hair while our breathing slowly evened out.

“Could you manage two girls at the same time?” I asked eventually, still joined to him.

His eyes opened. “You mean Caroline.”

“Yes. Would you like to fuck both of us in your bed?”

The answer was immediate and honest. “Yes. That would be a dream.”

“I’ll arrange it,” I promised.

We stayed joined a little longer, soft kisses and quiet touches, the mess of us warm between my thighs, before he finally softened. I lifted myself off. He took my hand and led me upstairs, the evening still far from over.

His bedroom was simply furnished, the bed large and neatly made with clean white sheets that looked inviting in the soft light spilling from the hallway. We didn’t bother with the main lights. Clothes that remained came off without ceremony, my dress slipping from my shoulders, his already discarded downstairs. I lay back against the pillows and watched him look at me, really look, as if he was still trying to believe I was there, naked and waiting in his bed.

We started slowly this time. Hands mapped skin with deliberate care. Mouths followed. He spent a long time at my breasts, sucking and licking until the nipples were almost sore and hypersensitive, the pull of his mouth sending fresh pulses of need lower. Then he moved down my body, kissing the soft plane of my stomach, the insides of my thighs, lingering. When his tongue finally settled between my legs I was already wet from the earlier round, his seed still inside me. He licked me with careful attention, circling my clit with the flat of his tongue, dipping inside, returning, learning what made my hips lift and my breath stutter. I came a second time with my fingers tangled in his hair, thighs tight around his head, the orgasm rolling through me in slower, deeper waves than the first.

When I pulled him up I rolled him onto his back and took him into my mouth again. He was fully hard once more, the recovery impressive. I sucked him with slow, deliberate pressure, taking him deep, until his hips began to lift and his breathing turned ragged. Then I stopped and straddled him. This time the entry was easier; I was already slick with his earlier cum and my own arousal. I sank down and rode him with longer strokes, leaning back so he could watch himself disappear into me, the visual clearly affecting him. His hands cupped my breasts, thumbs brushing the sensitive nipples in time with my movements.

We changed positions without speaking. He turned me onto my hands and knees and entered me from behind, one hand on my hip, the other reaching around to rub my clit with the same careful pressure he had used earlier. The angle was deeper, the stretch more pronounced. I pushed back to meet every thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room along with our breathing. When I came the third time it was with a broken cry that seemed to pull him over the edge with me. He buried himself to the hilt and finished inside me again, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his body shaking with the force of it.

We lay tangled afterwards, sweaty and quiet, the sheets kicked halfway down the bed. His fingers traced idle patterns on my stomach, over the soft curve of my hip, up to the underside of my breast.

“You’re sure about Caroline?” he asked eventually, voice low.

“I’m sure. She’ll be more than interested. I’ll talk to her.”

He kissed the side of my neck, the touch soft. “You’re something else, Lacy.”

We dozed for a while, bodies still close. When we woke it was fully dark outside the window. He was slowly hardening again against my thigh, the evidence of renewed want clear. I reached down and stroked him slowly until he was fully ready, then guided him between my legs. This time we stayed on our sides, facing each other, moving in a slow, almost lazy rhythm. The pleasure built more gently, less urgent, more intimate. When we came it was together, quieter, longer, the shared release leaving us both soft and spent. Afterwards he stayed inside me until he softened completely, the connection lingering even after the physical act had ended.

Sleep took us both eventually, limbs tangled, the scent of sex and clean sheets surrounding us.

I woke to pale morning light filtering through the curtains and an empty bed. The sheets still held the scent of us, skin, sweat, the faint metallic edge of sex. I sat up, found a white shirt of his draped over a chair, and slipped it on. The fabric was soft and still carried the smell of him. The hold-ups were still in place, a little wrinkled now from sleep and everything that had happened. Barefoot, I walked downstairs, the shirt falling to mid-thigh.

The smell of bacon met me halfway, rich and savoury. Jerry stood at the cooker in a dark dressing gown, back to me, the quiet domesticity of the scene almost startling after the night. I crossed the kitchen and slid my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek to his shoulder.

“That smells so good.”

He turned, smiling, the expression soft and unguarded in the morning light. “You smell better.”

The kiss that followed was slow and unhurried, tasting of sleep and the residual heat of the night before. When we broke apart he nodded toward the pan.

“A few more minutes and it’ll be ready.”

I stepped back, leaned over the kitchen table, and lifted the tail of the shirt so that everything was on display, bare ass, the wet mess still between my thighs from the night, the soft underside of my breasts visible as I braced myself.

“I’m ready now,” I said. “Come and get me.”

The dressing gown hit the floor. He stepped behind me, hands settling on my hips with familiar certainty, and pushed in with one smooth thrust. I was still slick from the night; there was no resistance, only the perfect stretch of him filling me again. He fucked me hard and steady, the table creaking under us, the bacon continuing to cook a few feet away, the domestic and the carnal colliding in the bright kitchen. One of his hands slid around to rub my clit with the same careful skill he had shown the night before. I came quickly, clenching around him, the orgasm sharp and bright in the morning light, and a moment later he followed, flooding me one more time with a low groan against the back of my neck.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, breathing hard, his body warm against my back. Then he pulled out carefully, kissed the nape of my neck, and returned to the cooker as if nothing unusual had happened. I straightened the shirt and sat at the table, legs still trembling slightly, the evidence of what we had just done warm between my thighs.

Breakfast was simple and perfect, bacon, eggs, toast, strong tea. We ate in comfortable silence for a while, then talked about ordinary things, work, the dog, the weather, the small details of daily life. The ordinary conversation somehow made everything that had happened feel more real, more grounded.

When I finally stood to leave he walked me to the door. The coat went back on over the shirt and the short dress I had retrieved from the lounge. At the threshold he kissed me once more, slower this time, a promise rather than a goodbye.

“I’ll see you again,” I said.

“Soon, I hope.”

“Soon. And next time I’ll bring Caroline.”

His eyes darkened with clear interest, the memory of the previous night’s conversation still vivid. “I’ll be waiting.”

I drove home through the morning traffic with the windows cracked open, the scent of him still on my skin and in the fabric of the shirt I hadn’t bothered to return. The night had been better than anything I had imagined in those weeks of waiting. And already I was thinking about the next one, about Caroline’s laugh, about the way Jerry’s hands had felt on my body, about how it would feel to share him, to watch and be watched.

That, though, was a story for another time.

From Lacy. XXX

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