Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
It’s four in the afternoon and I have a hard-on for Maisie. She won’t be home from work for another hour and a half at least. Damn.
Maisie, my former manager at Blinko’s Copies.
Maisie, who became my best friend.
Maisie, a short, heavy, buxom grandmother of three; grey-haired and apple-cheeked.
My Frumpy Dumpling, Maisie Havlicek, whom I have fallen in love with.
What is Maisie’s daughter going to say when she finds out her mother’s shacked up with a twenty-seven-year-old grad student?! My own parents, well, they’ll find it weird — hell, *I* find it weird — but I don’t think they’ll go postal or anything. My sister Eva came out as lesbian a few years ago, and they took that in stride. Welcomed Denise into the family, then Kareesha, then … what is Eva’s current girlfriend’s name? But Maisie’s daughter’s family is another matter. Her son-in-law got them involved in some fundamentalist Christian group, so not much chance of an open-minded reception from that quarter. Good thing they live out in California, safely removed from us here in Chicago by most of a continent. Well, that’s not quite fair: I know Maisie really misses seeing her grandchildren grow up. Anyhow, they won’t be back east to visit Grandma till Christmas. Gulp … that’s only a month and a half away.
I try to refocus on the book I’m reading, about number theory. Korematsu’s Theorem leads to Roeloff’s Conjecture. Which could possibly be extended to the problem I’m working on — or so my adviser, suggests. Except it would have to be mapped into Garber Space. See Wang & Jordan 1998. I find the Wang & Jordan article on the internet, skim it over, look at the references. Can you do that? Does it even make sense to think about coupled oscillators in Garber Space? I sketch some preliminary steps of a proof. What if you convolve them? No, it won’t work. Garber Space and this problem is apples and oranges. Damn. I’m going to have to delve back into the literature on Klein Bottles and Moebius geometry.
I put the book down, rub my eyes, shuffle into the kitchen and nuke myself a cup of this morning’s coffee. I’ve been struggling with this problem for over a month. Exploring various approaches, reading through scores of articles, without making headway. This is starting to wear down my confidence: am I ever going to finish this fucking dissertation? Maisie. It’s almost five now. I need Maisie. Thinking about her now, the softness of her ample, well-aged body, the playfulness and vulnerability in her voice, the frank lust in her eyes when she takes my hard cock inside her and bounces on it, her face crinkled and flushed with pleasure. I’ve got a raging erection again.
OK, this is a bit embarrassing, but … I rummage in the clothes hamper for the panties she was wearing yesterday. Aha, got ’em. Pale lavender, incongruously large. I hold the crotch gusset to my face and inhale. A hit of pure Maisie. A very palpable hit. Slightly acrid, yes, but her pheremones have some kind of pre-arranged high-speed path to the pleasure centers of my brain. Funny, last night I was actually mad at these panties. Maisie came in from the bathroom in them, and I was peeved she wasn’t already naked. They were in my way. I pulled them off her hips roughly as she got into bed, rolling her onto her tummy so I could fondle, kiss and nuzzle at her enormous, quivering, pillowy ass. Our favorite warm-up exercise.
Backstory:
Maisie is my first and only girlfriend. Bizarre to be calling a sixty-three-year-old lady ‘girlfriend’. But maybe not so bizarre that I was a virgin before her. In high school and college, I was a scrawny ultra-geek. I could spin out mathematical proofs with confidence and elegance. But in interpersonal relations, I radiated nebbishkeit. Girls stayed away, as they say, in droves.
Of course, when Maisie and I first got to know each other, at Blinko’s (a summer job for me), neither of us thought of the other that way, not as a remote possibility. During slow times at the shop, we’d sit together in the back, talking about whatever. We were both used to loneliness, in our own ways; consequently, we were amazed and delighted to find someone else with whom we could talk so easily. It started with her telling me about her oldest grandson, Paul. His father was pressuring him to join up for Iraq, and Maisie was frantically trying, by long-distance phone calls and emails, to dissuade him — thank God, successfully. When I explained my PhD research to her, she was able to follow, not every detail, but the gist of it anyway. I turned her on to Terry Pratchett novels: she loves the clever humor of them. Later, bahis firmaları she opened up to me about her divorce: fifteen years previous, but the wound was still raw. Her ex-husband died in a drunken car accident ten years ago.
On her birthday, I brought in a little cake (store-bought, I’m afraid) with a candle. She said what she’d really love for a birthday treat would be to cook a big, traditional Czech dinner again: she had no one to cook for these days — would I like to come over and have dinner with her? That was our first date: stuffed cabbage and knedliky (bread dumplings) chez Maisie, with home-made strudel for dessert. It reminded me of the Jewish food my own Bubbe used to cook on holidays.
Maisie often complained of arthritis in her feet; and so, sitting together on her couch after dinner, sipping schnapps, listening to Dvorak, feeling happier, more comfortable with another human being than I could remember, it seemed completely natural for me to take her feet in my lap and give her a foot massage. She closed her eyes and cooed appreciatively.
Walking home afterwards, thinking about the feel of Maisie’s naked feet in my hands, remembering the look of pleasure in her face, her very-womanly-but-not-at-all-grandmotherly-sounding giggles and sighs, I realized I was sporting a serious hard-on. And I looked forward more than I could explain to seeing her again at work the next morning.
Parenthetical remarks:
Maisie isn’t what you’d call pretty. Her face is just sort of … ordinary. Round and rosy-complexioned, with owlish bifocals. She looks her age. She’s — I could say full-figured, but no point in euphemisms — she’s fat: large breasts, big soft belly, immense hips and thighs. She dresses frumpy: shapeless, dull-colored things that call no attention to her body. She wears her gray hair in a shortish, old lady cut. Somehow, all this makes it even more miraculous and precious: underneath it all, MAISIE IS HOTTER THAN A TWO-DOLLAR PISTOL! And EVERYTHING about her turns me on. Not that I knew that yet, after our first date. Nor did she. (Her ex-husband never had an inkling.) We discovered it together: this wonderful, incredibly vital *sexiness* at the core of her being. And I suppose Maisie has awakened something vital in me too.
She’s awakened something in me all right. My cock is, at the moment, flat up against my belly, poking uncomfortably out of the waistband of my underpants, like a submarine periscope, looking for Maisie. I’m not going to be able to get my mind back on research today. Better clear my books off the table and take a shower before she gets home.
Back to the backstory:
I brought Maisie a rose the next day, to thank her for the dinner, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘My Sweetpea,’ she murmured as she turned away. Our workplace friendship, nice though it had been, shifted subtly into something … nicer. Sitting in the back during our coffee break, I hesitantly took her hand in mine, just for a moment, just an affectionate touch to show I enjoyed her company. I was unprepared for the jolt of joy I felt, holding her hand. Her eyes searched mine with unspoken questions: Are you for real? Where’s this going?
I won’t say there weren’t trepidations, on both our parts. The situation we were getting into was patently farcical, Harold and Maude redux. Could I really bring myself to … to love her … that way, a woman of sixty-three? Was she prepared to cast aside all respectability, to risk the outrage of family and society, to cross that sexual boundary with me?
Hell yes!
She invited me over for dinner again a few nights later. After dinner we worked on a jigsaw puzzle (I hadn’t done one since I was a kid, I used to love them). It was a picture of Niagara Falls, lots of blue and white. Maisie had a knack for finding the edge pieces. I massaged her feet while we puzzled. Her thighs shifted apart slightly; her delicate, womanly scent imprinted forever on my brain. Later, as I got ready to leave, she gave me a goodbye hug. The softness of her body was a revelation to me. I could get lost in that vast softness. I could go *crazy* in that softness. I pulled away, reluctantly, embarrassed, knowing she could feel my hard-on against her belly, afraid I might blow my load right then and there in my pants.
‘G’night Sweetpea,’ she said.
‘G’night Dumpling,’ I replied.
The next night, our good-night hug turned into a kiss: a full-on, mouth-to-mouth kiss that left us both panting. I didn’t go home that night. We we went to bed together — I in my underwear, she in her nightgown. We didn’t have sex. kaçak iddaa The concept was too new, too weird, too wonderful to just stumble into like that. Maisie’s nightgown, however, was a flimsy, low-cut, summery thing, and I was on sensory overload with her heavy, drooping breasts right in front of me. I couldn’t resist lifting them out, marvelling at them, sucking on them hungrily. Well, we didn’t have sex per se, in the Clintonesque sense of the word, but she did show a lot of interest in the tent pole inside my underpants; and when she reached inside to stroke it, I immediately came in her hand. She giggled naughtily. Good thing she brought me off, otherwise I’d have stayed too excited to get any sleep at all.
The night after that, we made love. And every night since.
Today:
I’ve just stepped out of the shower when Maisie comes home. She’s in a bad mood: I can hear it in the way she closes the front door and takes off her shoes.
‘Adam?’ she yells out. ‘I thought you said you were gonna rake up the leaves today.’
Damn, I forgot. ‘Sorry, I’ll do it right now.’ I come out of the bathroom in my towel.
‘Not dressed like that, I hope,’ she giggles, eying me. The tension lifts. ‘I don’t want you advertising that young bod to my neighbors.’
‘Dumpling, nobody says “bod” anymore.’
‘No?’ She wraps her arms around me and we kiss. ‘Well I don’t care — you have got a hot young bod,’ her hands grope my buttocks assertively, ‘… and there’s no other word for it.’
‘Maybe you’d like a foot massage before I do the yard …’
‘Sweetpea, right now I need an all-over massage.’ She pulls away the towel.
‘Even better.’ On the way into the bedroom, I unzip her skirt as she unbuttons her blouse. I unclasp her bra and she shrugs it off as my hands lift and squeeze her pendulous, blue-veined, alabaster breasts, her nipples stiffening between my fingers. Pleased by my excitement, she rubs back against my hard cock with her huge, soft, panty-clad ass. I nuzzle the wrinkles of her neck as she takes off her glasses. She smells good. This is what I’ve been wanting all afternoon.
‘Rough day, Dumpling?’ ‘God, don’t get me started. The Halstead Electronics fliers came out wrong — huge run, Janet had to do ’em all over. And that kid Ian,’ she pulls off her panties, drops them to her ankles, ‘… acts like he knows more about the machines than I do.’
‘He probably does, you know.’ My cock nestles in the deep, warm valley between her ass cheeks. I don’t remind her that ‘that kid Ian’ is older than me.
‘Well, he doesn’t have to be so snide about it.’ She pulls back the covers and we get into bed.
‘Speaking of snide, listen to you, Maisie Havlicek … grousing about Janet, grousing about Ian, grousing at me because of the raking.’
‘You’re right,’ she sighs, rolling over. ‘I’m getting an attitude. You’d better spank me.’
I give her a few playful whacks to warm her bottom up. My handprints show up pink on her jiggling, cellulite-dimpled ass-flesh. My Dumpling. I cup her immense cheeks, palm them, squish them, knead them, and she squeals and coos excitedly. A few more smacks with the other hand. I can’t wait any longer: I’m beyond horny now. Frantic with lust, I climb behind her, pulling her cheeks apart, nuzzling my face down into her deeeeeeeeep ass crack, down in the depths where the sun don’t shine, licking, kissing, sucking, nipping at the little flower of her anus, while my fingers dip into her nectary, fragrant snatch, then begin stroking her labia and clitoris. She starts to come, her anus suddenly opens to my tongue and it surges inside, probing her deeply, deep as it can reach, curling around and fluttering inside her sphincter, rooting in her bowels. I need this, I need her around my tongue: I wish I could fit my whole head in there, climb up inside her and give her anal orgasms 24-7. She’s spasming beneath me, quivering and trembling, huffing and squealing like a stuck pig as a second orgasm washes over her. Then it hits me. We’re a coupled oscillatory system. Maisie’s anus is like a Klein Bottle for me, ageless, timeless, a circle of singularities existing inside itself, without boundary, drawing me into herself in Garber Space. Trembling with excitement (sexual? intellectual? both), I kneel, pulling Maisie’s hips back up against my loins, and I slide my throbbing cock into her warm, wet vagina. She grunts eagerly. I stay buried in her, savoring the feel of her pubic hair tickling my balls. My hand is still wet with her delectable juice, and I lick it from my fingers.
‘For God sakes, Sweetpea. Give it to me.’ kaçak bahis ‘Sorry, I just got an idea for my dissertation. It has to do with Moebius geometry –‘
‘Jesus! If you don’t start fucking, I will.’
And she does, thrusting back at me with her huge bread-dumpling Czech-American grandma ass, doing a big, lazy, figure-eight movement with it, the infinity symbol. And soon we’re both locked into another coupled oscillatory system that’s bigger than both of us. Basic mammalian instincts take over. Grasping her wide-flaring hips, thrusting steadily, I’m able to keep going for quite a while, taking her through several more orgasms. Maybe Maisie’s elderly vagina is a bit loose: I don’t know, I’ve never had anything to compare it to. I’m not complaining, though; neither is she: we both enjoy these long, hard fuckings, even if they sometimes leave her a bit bow-legged afterwards. (As she says, ‘At my age I get aches and pains anyway: I might as well get ’em the fun way.’)
Her whole body ripples violently now, from ass to shoulders, as I pound into her: an all-over massage, just like she wanted. Her tits and belly are flopping around beneath her as we fuck; I reach under and grab those udders and squeeze, while kissing her shoulders and the back of her neck. The pleasure intensifies.
‘Maisie, I love you. God, I love you.’
‘Yes, oh yes, Sweetpea.’
‘I’m coming, Dumpling, I’m coming in you. You too! Come again for me, Dumpling.’
‘Oh yeah, oh yeah … me too … here I come … aaiiiiiiinnnhhhhhhhHHHHH.’
An oscillating Klein Bottle. The outlines of the proof are there in my head. ‘Eureka!’ I gasp, as I spurt my pent-up seed right into her postmenopausal womb.
OK, I don’t actually say ‘Eureka!’: I comes out more like ‘Uhhnnnnngggggghhhh!’
Later, after I’ve raked the leaves up and we’ve had dinner, Maisie sits back on the living room couch, opening her hefty, friction-darkened inner thighs to me as I kneel before her. Tenderly, slowly, I lick her fleshy, well-beloved (and slightly sore) vulva, finally getting my fill of the taste and smell of her, bathing my face in her nectar, worshipping her lovely clit, as I explain to her my latest mathematical insight. Towards the end of the lecture, though, I suspect she’s not giving my words her undivided attention: her thighs are clamped around my head and she’s coming in my mouth.
A week later:
I’m in Sergei’s office — that’s Dr. Ostrovsky, my adviser — showing him my proof.
‘Hmm, back to Klein Bottle, I see.’
‘Yeah, but you were right about the Garber Space idea. See –‘ I point to the relevant section.
He says nothing for a while, his black bushy eyebrows dancing as he reads over my work. ‘My God. Yes. Yes. Hang on, we must show to Raghavendra.’ Soon, half the Math Department is crowded into Sergei’s office, as I talk them through the proof. At last, Sergei breaks out a fifth of vodka and some paper cups and pours out shots.
‘Adam, my God, how you are getting idea of Klein Bottle as coupled oscillatory system?’
‘It just sort of … came … to me,’ I shrug.
‘Well, anyway, is major result.’ He slaps my back. ‘I think we can schedule your defense now, yes?’ The other committee members murmur agreement.
Happy ending:
When her daughter’s family came for Christmas, Maisie presented me as her basement tenant. She was not ready to drop our bombshell on them yet, particularly with her son-in-law still sore at her. I wasn’t particularly happy at being banished from the family circle. On the other hand, I was a bit relieved that I didn’t have to become a grandfather just yet. The grandkids were polite but didn’t show much interest in me (why should they?). The son-in-law is, I’m afraid, a complete schmuck: I kept well clear of him. Maisie’s daughter is quite nice, though. Towards the end of the visit, she told me that I seemed to be a great help to her mother, ‘a good friend as well as a tenant.’ And to Maisie she said: ‘Mama, I’ve never seen you this happy before. You’re looking terrific: I can’t get over it. That hormone treatment you’re on now must really be something.’
If she only knew.
Well, we’re going to tell them this summer. We’ll have to: we’re getting married. Big tax advantage, particularly with me starting to earn a real income. Maisie can retire from Blinko’s now and take it easy.
My own family got beyond the Adam-you’re-joking-right? stage pretty quickly. The are-you-both-out-of-your-fucking-minds? stage lasted a while longer. But by Passover, Maisie was invited to our family Seder. It helped that they had reason to be proud of me: I had finished my PhD and landed a tenure-track academic job, right here in sweet home Chicago.
‘And I could never have done it,’ I pointed out, ‘without Maisie.’ Without going into details, of course.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32