The Not So Invisible Woman (16 page)

Do you like older men?'

I was sitting in the Angel Inn, a gastro pub in Highgate, having a post-work drink at the request of someone who'd read and liked my book. I was used to male readers asking to meet me, and equally used to declining their invitations. Most of the guys seemed interested, not in me, but in auditioning for a role in my next book.

Tonight's drinking partner was a double novelty – a fan who wasn't interested in a star fuck and a fan who wasn't a man.

I'd been checking out a handsome executive leaning against the bar, one of many young suits on view that I half-hoped would catch my eye. So Emma's use of the word 'older' clashed with the visuals.

Emma and I met through a mutual friend, Emily. The two women were journalists and, like most journalists I knew, they were savvy, witty and opinionated, as able to talk about sex and culture as about the court diary and current events. They met at a media bash and after a few glasses of wine discovered they'd both read my book. When Emily mentioned she knew me, Emma asked her to put us in touch.

'I LOVED your book,' she wrote. I loved her capitalisation. 'I found it unputdownable.' I found her vocabulary appealing. 'I would really love to meet you to compare notes and literary experiences.' I wanted to meet a fellow writer who not only liked my work but who didn't want to fuck me.

Half an hour after meeting at the pub, Emma and I were talking like old friends. Quickly, we discovered we were both Jewish girls, both 'cockists' – as Emma liked to describe girls who liked big cocks – and both had our share of dating disasters. There's nothing like swapping cock tales over cocktails to bond two women. We'd begun the night talking a bit about my book, then slipped into a chinwag about our jobs, but after a couple more drinks, the girltalk quickly turned to boytalk.

'Do I like older men?' I said. I thought of Max. 'Well, I went out with a youngish fifty-four once, and that was OK.'

Emma smiled.

'How about you?' I said pondering Emma's question. 'How old is "old"?'

'Sixty,' she said, adding quickly, 'a very
young
sixty.'

I had been expecting a generic riff on the wonders and horrors of going out with geriatrics, but it was clear Emma wasn't talking generics. She had a specific man in mind.

'I suppose I could stretch to sixty.' I laughed. 'What's he like?'

'Well,' she said, leaning forwards on her elbows and launching into sales mode. 'He's handsome, quite well known, very nice. He's a gynaecologist, so he knows a few things about women.'

'Funny?' I said, intrigued and hopeful.

'Um,' she said. 'I suppose he can be.'

'In other words, he's not funny,' I said, hopes dashed. 'Not a laugh a minute, not quick witted.'

'Well, no,' she admitted. 'He's not hysterically funny. But he's interesting. I think you'll like him.'

'Have
you
fucked him?' I asked. 'Does he have a big cock?'

'No,' she said.

'Which one is it? No, you haven't fucked him, or no, he doesn't have a big cock?'

'No and I don't know.' Emma laughed. 'We almost got there, but it didn't happen. We just had a bit of a snog.' Emma paused a second and arched her eyebrows. 'He
says
he has a big cock. But he's a bit too kinky for me.'

'Kinky?' I said, suddenly interested. I hadn't heard that word in a while, not since before Paul anyway. 'How kinky?'

'Well, that's for you to find out,' she said and laughed.

'I don't like peeing on people. I can't do that.'

'I'm sure if you tell him you won't pee on him, he'll be OK with that,' she said. Suddenly serious, she added, 'So, can I give him your email address?'

'Go ahead,' I said. 'Why not?'

'Great!' said Emma, genuinely excited. Her inner Yenta had surfaced and scored a hit. 'I think you're really going to hit it off. Will you let me know what happens?'

'Of course!'

The next day I found an email from Christopher in my inbox.

'Dear Suzanne,' I read. 'My adored friend Emma says you wouldn't mind horribly if I invited you out for a drink/coffee/tea/dinner sometime soon. I hope this is not one of her practical jokes, because you sound so delightful. I am around for the next few days if you think our paths might cross.'

I Googled Christopher's name and checked out the photos that popped up onscreen. Distinguished bald top, boulders for cheekbones, saucer eyes. I could do older, I decided.

'Dear Christopher,' I wrote back. 'No, it's not a practical joke. I really am delightful. © And this is my kids-free weekend. What about Sunday lunch?'

We arranged to meet at the Wells Tavern in Hampstead, one of the many recently refurbished gastropubs in the heart of Hampstead village. Christopher had booked a table in the posh upstairs dining room, I discovered on arrival, and I was delighted at what promised to be a rare treat. I was slightly taken aback when brought to the table, as the man who introduced himself to me looked at least a decade older than any of the photos I'd found on the web. He was about six-feet tall, medium built, with bright blue eyes. He was not unattractive, but I'd never been out with anyone in his sixties before and suddenly found myself thinking I might not be ready to, either.

I sat down as Christopher ordered a bottle of burgundy from the waiter. Then he pulled out a dog-eared copy of my book.

'I see you came prepared, sir.'

'Yes, and it was an interesting read,' said Christopher. 'I've made a few notes.' As he opened the book I noticed pages where he'd highlighted sentences. I'd expected a casual lunch, but suddenly it was beginning to feel like work.

Is this guy going to interview me? I wondered. Something in my expression must have tipped him off, because as soon as he'd picked up the book, he'd put it back down.

'We can talk about this later,' he said. 'Let's order, shall we?'

I ordered the Sunday special – roast beef and Yorkshire pudding – then settled into the leather chair. I was wearing a clingy chocolate-brown dress and matching heels. The dress was low cut, but I noticed, halfway through the roast, whilst glancing down at my plate, that it revealed a little more cleavage than I'd wanted Christopher – or the rest of the diners – to see. And see he did.

'You have lovely breasts,' said Christopher, leaning over the table to whisper close to my face. His voice was intoxicating, a classic BBC radio voice – smooth and deep and confident and lush. I hadn't even noticed its allure until the comment on my breasts. Suddenly Christopher went from an old man to a sexual man. He became as different to the eye as to the ear.

'Thank you,' I said and smiled, staring into his pale-blue eyes whilst thinking that perhaps sixty wasn't
so
old after all.

His was a voice I could have listened to for hours, and that afternoon, I did. Four hours after my arrival, suddenly aware ours were the only voices, we looked around and saw there was no one else in the dining room.

'Shall we go back to mine for a coffee?' Christopher asked.

'Lead the way,' I said, standing up, smiling, and taking his arm.

Christopher lived in a cosy two-bedroom flat at the back of a large mansion block that looked out onto Hampstead Heath. It was furnished just as one would expect of a man Christopher's age – a mixture of antiques and flowery upholstery, with vintage horticulture prints on the wall and worn Orientals on the floor. I walked towards the love seat in the front room.

'Why don't you take your shoes off,' he said as I eased into the two-seater.

I removed my lace-ups. Christopher sat at my feet and began massaging them.

'That feels lovely,' I said, leaning back into the sofa. I opened my legs to reveal my pussy to him. As usual, I'd foregone the underwear when dressing for our meeting. 'My feet were killing me. You're bringing everything back to life.'

'Every woman needs a man in her life who can rub her feet,' he said.

'I couldn't agree more. A man at my feet. I like that.'

One of Christopher's hands travelled up my leg, massaging my muscles as he did so. When he reached my pussy, I looked down just in time to see his bald head disappear up my dress.

I sat back and let him continue. I spread my legs further apart and felt his tongue rest against my clit. I knew from Emma that Christopher was an experienced lover. Her parting words were about Christopher. In his prime, she said, he had been a real player and had slept with hundreds of women. I soon learned she was probably right. After our initial email exchange, Christopher had sent me photos – almost as old as his furniture, I now thought, guiltily, bitchily – that dated from when he was in his twenties. In his prime, Christopher had been magnificent – long dark curly hair, a lean, toned body, model-handsome. Judging by the way he used his tongue on my clit, I knew he'd put in some time on the stud farm, too.

'Oh, Christopher, that feels so good,' I said. 'You've obviously done this before.' I laughed in between moans.

'Just a few times. Why don't we go into the bedroom?' he said. 'It's more comfortable there. And we can take off our clothes.'

I got off the love seat and followed Christopher to the bedroom. It was dominated by a massive king-size bed with an antique brass bedstead. The sheets and pillows were forest green, very masculine. A built-in wardrobe ran down one side of the room and a narrow chest of drawers stood beside the bed.

I pulled off my clothes and Christopher pulled off his, revealing a tight hairless body and a medium-sized, medium-width, hard cock. Not a monster, not what I had expected, based on Emma's PR, but not tragic either.

I climbed on the bed, lay on my back and spread my legs. Christopher joined me and returned to position between my legs. He lapped at my clit and around my pussy, teasing me until I was dripping.

'Please,' I begged after fifteen minutes, after I'd felt my pussy expand and demand that it be filled by something or someone. 'Please put your fingers inside me.'

'Oh,' he said in a teasing tone. 'I think you should wait.'

'Pleeeease,' I begged.

'How much do you want it?'

'I want ... I want it . . . I . . .'

'You're going to have to wait.' He continued rubbing his fingers on my clit.

'No,' I was moaning like a porn actress, except I wasn't acting. 'I don't think I can wait.' I loved that a sixty-year-old had me moaning. And I loved what he was doing.

Suddenly, Christopher stood up and opened a drawer next to his bed. I looked over and saw inside an impressive range of paraphernalia – nipple clamps and needles, dildos and butt plugs of various shapes and sizes. He opened another drawer and pulled out a dildo the size of my lower arm.

'What about this?' he said, smirking.

'For me or for you?' I said, half joking. I hoped he wasn't serious about using that gigantor on me. 'I couldn't take a thing that big.'

'Oh, I've taken this,' he said. 'It's actually very nice.'

Christopher's tone had turned smug; his expression straight faced. He had merely voiced a fact, and displayed his toy chest as if expecting me to be impressed. Which, I had to admit, I was. I'd never met a man who could take an entire rubber forearm up his ass.

'This is nice, too,' he said, and pulled out a torpedo-shaped butt plug that was two-thirds the length of a beer bottle and twice as thick.

Emma's words came back to me: 'He's a bit kinky'

Oh, God, I thought. He's even kinkier than I am.

I wasn't particularly interested in the rubber arm or the military-issue bum blaster. 'What about your cock?' I said. 'That would do.'

'No,' said Christopher, firmly. 'You'll have to wait for that.' He reached over to his toy drawer and pulled an eight-inch dildo from his stash. I was grateful that he had found my preferred size.

Christopher climbed back onto the bed, grabbed a tube of KY from the side cabinet, and lubed the dildo. Then he gently, expertly, eased it into my pussy. Meanwhile, his tongue resumed working my clit. I lay back and enjoyed having a pussy-professional in bed with me. I was no longer thinking about Christopher's age. I was thinking about his cock and how nice it would feel inside me.

Yet Christopher seemed to be in no rush to fuck and, after another fifteen minutes licking my pussy, I was in no rush for him to fuck me either. If he was happy down there, so was I. He was a master at oral, and feeling his tongue between my legs, circling my clit and massaging my pussy, the dildo moving in and out of me, sent energy surging through my pussy. I could feel myself dripping all over the dildo as Christopher pushed it in and out, in and out, in and out.

'I really want to feel your
cock,'
I said at last. If something was going to be inside me, I preferred the sensation of something warm and human to the chill of rubber.

Christopher pulled the dildo out. 'You want this?' he said, sitting up on his knees, holding out his hard cock and aiming it in my direction.

'Yes.'

Christopher eased himself into me, first one inch, then one inch more.

'And this?' He eased in another inch.

I moaned. 'Yes. Please.'

He eased himself in more, then a bit more, until he was fully inside me. I moaned loudly as I felt the intense pleasure that comes from being filled by a man.

'You want to be my slut?' he said.

'Yes,' I moaned. I lay back and spread my legs in a V. 'Yes. I want to be your slut.'

'You'll have to do what I tell you to do, then,' he said. 'Think you can do that?'

I said I thought I could and, at that moment, I wanted to. Christopher was a challenge to me. I'd never played the submissive role so completely before, but I'd fantasised about it often enough. I was invariably the one in charge at work and at home, the one who had to tell others what to do. For a change, I wanted to relinquish that control. Christopher, I figured, might be the perfect master. He seemed to like playing the big top, and I liked the idea.

Christopher and I continued to connect every few days following that first afternoon together and, each time, we played out new kinky games. He knew I was chasing my kink and was happy to help put me on the path. Each meet pushed my boundaries a little farther, progressing from simple teasing to tantric to role-playing to pain.