I take my time getting ready. I’ve had a long, luxurious bath. Exfoliated and moisturised. Dried and styled my hair. Put on makeup. Squirted my favourite perfume. And now I’m sliding into my favourite garter belt and stockings.
I smooth my hands up each of my legs, in turn, to ensure the nylon is settled right, and to my surprise, the feeling of the material beneath my fingertips gets me going. I shouldn’t, I haven’t really got time, but… oh, what the hell. I stroke my nylon-clad legs some more, luxuriating in the sensual feeling, then slide my hand between my thighs and touch myself. I’m already a little swollen, a little wet, and it’s not long before I’m rubbing and finger-fucking myself while using my other hand to cup and stroke my boobs.
It feels good, but it’s not enough. I need more—so I pull out my favourite white dildo and a bottle of lube. Slick the lube over the dildo, then rest one foot on my chair and slide it in. Ah, that’s much better. The curves and bumps of the toy hit the right places way better than my fingers can, and I begin to alternate slow, gentle thrusts by rubbing the dildo over my increasingly sensitive clit.
My arousal builds and builds, and I need more still. After another coating of lube on the dildo, I settle onto the bed and carry on what I was doing, soon swapping slow, gentle thrusts for quick, hard ones. Faster and faster until I pass the point of no return, and a delicious climax slams into me, wracking my body with pleasure and pumping happy hormones into my bloodstream.
I only have time for a quick breather afterwards—I have to get my skates on, otherwise I’ll be late.
The dress and heels I practically throw on are sexy, but not too over the top. I’m a woman of a certain age, after all.
Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have given a toss what people thought about me. I had a young, slim, perfect body, and I knew it. I wore what I wanted, when I wanted, and took absolute advantage of how men reacted to me. I had a lot of fun.
Now though, I’m a divorced mother of two, working a nine to five. But, despite what the press would have everyone believe about women my age, I’m not on the scrap heap. Far from it. My job pays well, and I enjoy it. I own my home, my car. I have family, friends, colleagues. A busy social life. I enjoy yoga, hiking, holidays, fine wine, good food.
And sex.
Especially sex. I’d been dreading menopause, the inevitable changes to my body, my emotions, my mood, my state of mind. While I won’t play the thing down by saying it...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Lucy Felthouse
