It's around 9am Sunday morning. I got home from Jane's Roman costume party about six hours ago and haven't been able to sleep a wink. I have to get what happened out of my head and into words. Once that's done, I'm going to punish my body at the gym. I feel I deserve to be punished!
Tom and Jane have a nice, rambling old country-house. Lots of verandas and patio areas; a beautifully tended garden filled with trees, large shrubs and the scent of flowers; and they've recently knocked out the wall between their formal dining and living room areas - as a result they have a huge reception room. It overlooks the pool and much of the garden and is probably large enough to house a medium-sized wedding breakfast.
It began as a most decorous party. Almost everyone wore some variant of a toga, ranging from the obviously hired to the amateurishly pinned-together bed sheet. I was not the only guest who'd gone a bit alternative. There was one rather ancient-looking gladiator. He was not greatly convincing - he looked as though even the daintiest Girl Guide would take him out in an arm-wrestle! - and he appeared to be wearing bike pants under his tunic. There was also a woman in a wheelchair who'd made an attempt to make her conveyance look somewhat chariot-like. And then there was a strikingly elegant woman who had made no attempt whatsoever to go Roman, unless, of course, the Romans were in the habit of wearing little black frocks when downing cocktails. Who knows? After all, they were a decadent lot. Maybe we just haven't excavated far enough to discover their cocktail bars yet!
(If I seem to be dragging my chain here, it's partly because I want to give a full account of last night, but it's mostly because I'm dreading having to 'fess up to the bad part. So, bear with me. Okay?)
Anyway, the food was excellent and the booze flowed freely. One thing I realised for the first time was that people in their sixties and seventies now have no compunction about using the "f"-word and even, occasionally, the "c"-word. I can't imagine any of the oldies I knew as a lad ever uttering such words out loud. Maybe it's another aspect of seventy being the new sixty and so on. Maybe you have to swear a lot to prove you've moved with the times!
The music was mostly horrendous. Lots of disco and even the Macarena! I perked up a bit when they gave the 60's a whirl. I quite like the music my parents once played and I was more than happy to do The Twist. I figured it fitted in well with my fitness campaign. And, speaking of fitness, I must admit it's a real turn-on to scan a room and figure you're the youngest person in it and one of the few who hasn't had a knee or hip replacement! Next time my ego needs a boost, I might just visit a retirement home or two and feel pubescent once more!
Eventually there came a time when the guests began to show signs of tiredness or intoxication - probably both. Maybe this is a good time for me to come clean and admit that I don't really "do" booze. Haven't been drunk even once in the last twenty years or more and my average annual consumption is around six glasses of wine. It's not because I disapprove of alcohol. It's just not for me. So, when this account takes a dark turn, I can't even use the time-honoured excuse that I was overcome by booze.
As the party began to slow down, fewer and fewer guests were dancing. Some had moved to outdoor areas where the music could still be heard, but most were sitting down and having a good chat, pausing only when their glasses needed re-filling. The woman I mentioned earlier - the one in the black cocktail dress - was left without a partner when her husband sort of passed out in an armchair. She and I conversed a little while slow-dancing. Her name is Helen. The semi-conscious guy in the armchair is her husband, Trevor.
I'd say Helen is at least sixty-five years old (and probably more), but she's not giving in without a struggle. Her figure is still excellent - and we were dancing close enough for me to know that this was not the result of being trussed into a girdle or a corset - and I'd say she's had some discreet but effective work done on her face. It's the neck that gives her away. The rest of her seems to be in tip-top condition. This assessment may sound a little cold-blooded on my part. In my own defence, I should point out that she was pretty obviously taking inventory of me too!
Somehow, as we swayed to a succession of moody ballads, I was briefed on Helen and Trevor's marriage. He - allegedly - is much older than she is. I'm not fully convinced of this, but I compliment her on how good she looks and how well she moves.
"You'd never guess I've got four grandchildren, would you" she asked.
Well, there's only one polite reply to that question and, dutifully, I gave it.
We swayed our way out to the patio and I said: "Actually, I outdo you there. I've got five grandchildren."
She drew away momentarily. "My" she said. "How old are you?"
It's amazing how women feel free to ask that question of a guy but shy away like a startled gazelle if a guy asks them the same question. Anyway, I told her and she commented that I looked much younger and had kept kept myself in very good shape. I love compliments but I'd not previously realised what an aphrodisiac mere words can be when you're wearing a skirt!
We swayed some more and I learned that Trevor is a diabetic and hasn't been able to do "the deed" for several years.
Now there's no excuse for what happened next. It slowly reached my consciousness that we were holding each other closer and tighter. She seemed to be deliberately brushing up against my groin. Deliberate or not, my cock made up its mind independently of its owner. As Bette Midler crooned a sensual "Do You Want to Dance?" my dick rose majestically and sought to peer over the waist band of my briefs.
"My" she said again, and somehow steered or pulled me deeper into the shadows of the garden.
I can recall looking frantically over my shoulder. Surely everyone at the party - except poor Trevor, of course - would be there, noses pressed up against a figurative window pane and all aghast at what Helen and I were up to. Alas, there was neither a voyeur or a critic in sight. The main party was continuing without us. Helen was intent on a little party of our own out here in the shadows. Nothing could save me. I was lost.
And then Helen was on her knees before me. No fussing about with zippers or buttons. Those Romans knew a thing or two. Up went the skirt of my tunic and down came my underwear. I think there may have been another "My" before Helen's mouth was occupied with something greater than words. She polished my knob for a while, then disengaged for a brief period during which I was dimly aware of a strange clicking noise. Immediately she returned her assault on my unprotesting cock. She deep-throated me and then, even more unnerving, when she drew back and started on down the full length of my shaft again, I realised that she had taken her teeth out! I was shocked. For the first time in my life, I was receiving what is colloquially known as "a gummy"!
Now, I've absolutely nothing against dentures. I intend to take my own teeth with me to the grave but I accept and understand that this is not possible for everyone. And I'm here to tell you that there is nothing quite so morbidly and bizarrely exquisite as a gummy! Well, that's my excuse anyway. That and the fact that it's been a long time between blow-jobs. What with the furtiveness of this encounter and my recent preoccupation with getting laid, it wasn't long before I errupted in Helen's mouth. She swallowed it all. She milked my shaft with lips and gums, teasing out the very last drop of cum.
Then I heard my name being called. It was Jane. I hurriedly packed my junk away and emerged from the shadows, hoping that my still semi-erect dick would not be too noticeable and that Jane would assume that I, like so many of the guys, had merely been taking a quick leak in the garden.
"There you are" cried Jane. "I thought we'd lost you. We're just about to announce the prizes."
"What prizes?"
"For the best costume and the funniest one. Come on. I don't suppose you've seen Helen anywhere, have you? We've lost her too."
Using the truth somewhat economically, I told Jane that I hadn't actually seen Helen for a while and she accepted this at face value, grabbed my arm and steered me back into the party. Helen came into the room later via the entry hall so I assume she'd walked all the way round the house and re-entered through the front door.
Much to my embarrassment, I was selected as having worn the best costume and received a huge box of Belgian chocolates for my trouble. It was turning out to be one hell of a night - spurting protein down a toothless crone's throat one minute; and being handed a trillion calories the next!
The party eventually ground to a halt. I said my goodbyes. Helen and Trevor had already left. I'd noted with some relief that the black dress bore no Bill-and-Monica-style stigmata.
As I said goodnight to Jane, she said she hoped Helen hadn't made a pest of herself. I feigned innocence and Jane said: "She's our local nymphomaniac, dear, but I knew she'd get nowhere with you."
The darkness hid my blushes. I drove home, singing all the way: "Gummy, Gummy, Gummy, I Put Cum in Her Tummy". You're never too old to be juvenile!
So there you have it. It's truly appalling, I know. At one party I fucked a "corpse" and at the next I made out with a Senior Citizen!
What next? A visit to the morgue? A petting zoo ...?
Tom and Jane have a nice, rambling old country-house. Lots of verandas and patio areas; a beautifully tended garden filled with trees, large shrubs and the scent of flowers; and they've recently knocked out the wall between their formal dining and living room areas - as a result they have a huge reception room. It overlooks the pool and much of the garden and is probably large enough to house a medium-sized wedding breakfast.
It began as a most decorous party. Almost everyone wore some variant of a toga, ranging from the obviously hired to the amateurishly pinned-together bed sheet. I was not the only guest who'd gone a bit alternative. There was one rather ancient-looking gladiator. He was not greatly convincing - he looked as though even the daintiest Girl Guide would take him out in an arm-wrestle! - and he appeared to be wearing bike pants under his tunic. There was also a woman in a wheelchair who'd made an attempt to make her conveyance look somewhat chariot-like. And then there was a strikingly elegant woman who had made no attempt whatsoever to go Roman, unless, of course, the Romans were in the habit of wearing little black frocks when downing cocktails. Who knows? After all, they were a decadent lot. Maybe we just haven't excavated far enough to discover their cocktail bars yet!
(If I seem to be dragging my chain here, it's partly because I want to give a full account of last night, but it's mostly because I'm dreading having to 'fess up to the bad part. So, bear with me. Okay?)
Anyway, the food was excellent and the booze flowed freely. One thing I realised for the first time was that people in their sixties and seventies now have no compunction about using the "f"-word and even, occasionally, the "c"-word. I can't imagine any of the oldies I knew as a lad ever uttering such words out loud. Maybe it's another aspect of seventy being the new sixty and so on. Maybe you have to swear a lot to prove you've moved with the times!
The music was mostly horrendous. Lots of disco and even the Macarena! I perked up a bit when they gave the 60's a whirl. I quite like the music my parents once played and I was more than happy to do The Twist. I figured it fitted in well with my fitness campaign. And, speaking of fitness, I must admit it's a real turn-on to scan a room and figure you're the youngest person in it and one of the few who hasn't had a knee or hip replacement! Next time my ego needs a boost, I might just visit a retirement home or two and feel pubescent once more!
Eventually there came a time when the guests began to show signs of tiredness or intoxication - probably both. Maybe this is a good time for me to come clean and admit that I don't really "do" booze. Haven't been drunk even once in the last twenty years or more and my average annual consumption is around six glasses of wine. It's not because I disapprove of alcohol. It's just not for me. So, when this account takes a dark turn, I can't even use the time-honoured excuse that I was overcome by booze.
As the party began to slow down, fewer and fewer guests were dancing. Some had moved to outdoor areas where the music could still be heard, but most were sitting down and having a good chat, pausing only when their glasses needed re-filling. The woman I mentioned earlier - the one in the black cocktail dress - was left without a partner when her husband sort of passed out in an armchair. She and I conversed a little while slow-dancing. Her name is Helen. The semi-conscious guy in the armchair is her husband, Trevor.
I'd say Helen is at least sixty-five years old (and probably more), but she's not giving in without a struggle. Her figure is still excellent - and we were dancing close enough for me to know that this was not the result of being trussed into a girdle or a corset - and I'd say she's had some discreet but effective work done on her face. It's the neck that gives her away. The rest of her seems to be in tip-top condition. This assessment may sound a little cold-blooded on my part. In my own defence, I should point out that she was pretty obviously taking inventory of me too!
Somehow, as we swayed to a succession of moody ballads, I was briefed on Helen and Trevor's marriage. He - allegedly - is much older than she is. I'm not fully convinced of this, but I compliment her on how good she looks and how well she moves.
"You'd never guess I've got four grandchildren, would you" she asked.
Well, there's only one polite reply to that question and, dutifully, I gave it.
We swayed our way out to the patio and I said: "Actually, I outdo you there. I've got five grandchildren."
She drew away momentarily. "My" she said. "How old are you?"
It's amazing how women feel free to ask that question of a guy but shy away like a startled gazelle if a guy asks them the same question. Anyway, I told her and she commented that I looked much younger and had kept kept myself in very good shape. I love compliments but I'd not previously realised what an aphrodisiac mere words can be when you're wearing a skirt!
We swayed some more and I learned that Trevor is a diabetic and hasn't been able to do "the deed" for several years.
Now there's no excuse for what happened next. It slowly reached my consciousness that we were holding each other closer and tighter. She seemed to be deliberately brushing up against my groin. Deliberate or not, my cock made up its mind independently of its owner. As Bette Midler crooned a sensual "Do You Want to Dance?" my dick rose majestically and sought to peer over the waist band of my briefs.
"My" she said again, and somehow steered or pulled me deeper into the shadows of the garden.
I can recall looking frantically over my shoulder. Surely everyone at the party - except poor Trevor, of course - would be there, noses pressed up against a figurative window pane and all aghast at what Helen and I were up to. Alas, there was neither a voyeur or a critic in sight. The main party was continuing without us. Helen was intent on a little party of our own out here in the shadows. Nothing could save me. I was lost.
And then Helen was on her knees before me. No fussing about with zippers or buttons. Those Romans knew a thing or two. Up went the skirt of my tunic and down came my underwear. I think there may have been another "My" before Helen's mouth was occupied with something greater than words. She polished my knob for a while, then disengaged for a brief period during which I was dimly aware of a strange clicking noise. Immediately she returned her assault on my unprotesting cock. She deep-throated me and then, even more unnerving, when she drew back and started on down the full length of my shaft again, I realised that she had taken her teeth out! I was shocked. For the first time in my life, I was receiving what is colloquially known as "a gummy"!
Now, I've absolutely nothing against dentures. I intend to take my own teeth with me to the grave but I accept and understand that this is not possible for everyone. And I'm here to tell you that there is nothing quite so morbidly and bizarrely exquisite as a gummy! Well, that's my excuse anyway. That and the fact that it's been a long time between blow-jobs. What with the furtiveness of this encounter and my recent preoccupation with getting laid, it wasn't long before I errupted in Helen's mouth. She swallowed it all. She milked my shaft with lips and gums, teasing out the very last drop of cum.
Then I heard my name being called. It was Jane. I hurriedly packed my junk away and emerged from the shadows, hoping that my still semi-erect dick would not be too noticeable and that Jane would assume that I, like so many of the guys, had merely been taking a quick leak in the garden.
"There you are" cried Jane. "I thought we'd lost you. We're just about to announce the prizes."
"What prizes?"
"For the best costume and the funniest one. Come on. I don't suppose you've seen Helen anywhere, have you? We've lost her too."
Using the truth somewhat economically, I told Jane that I hadn't actually seen Helen for a while and she accepted this at face value, grabbed my arm and steered me back into the party. Helen came into the room later via the entry hall so I assume she'd walked all the way round the house and re-entered through the front door.
Much to my embarrassment, I was selected as having worn the best costume and received a huge box of Belgian chocolates for my trouble. It was turning out to be one hell of a night - spurting protein down a toothless crone's throat one minute; and being handed a trillion calories the next!
The party eventually ground to a halt. I said my goodbyes. Helen and Trevor had already left. I'd noted with some relief that the black dress bore no Bill-and-Monica-style stigmata.
As I said goodnight to Jane, she said she hoped Helen hadn't made a pest of herself. I feigned innocence and Jane said: "She's our local nymphomaniac, dear, but I knew she'd get nowhere with you."
The darkness hid my blushes. I drove home, singing all the way: "Gummy, Gummy, Gummy, I Put Cum in Her Tummy". You're never too old to be juvenile!
So there you have it. It's truly appalling, I know. At one party I fucked a "corpse" and at the next I made out with a Senior Citizen!
What next? A visit to the morgue? A petting zoo ...?