My continuing lust for older women began many years ago, when I was just 18.nnIn those days the sexual revolution as we now know it had not yet happened. My story begins with me having a Sunday morning job collecting weekly draw money from around a hundred houses, and to distribute any prizes won the previous week by my regulars.nnMy area was very large, so I always started at the furthest point and worked my way back towards home, so that I was always finished in time for any sport scheduled for the afternoon. nnThe last house on my round was owned by a married couple in their early forties - he was very strange: about 6' 4", very thin, never smiled and always wore black suits - I nicknamed him "The Undertaker". His wife, Shirley, on the other hand was around 5ft 8", with an enormously well-filled blouse, a slightly large rear and evidence of an expanding waist line. As she always dressed smartly, and always had a huge grin on her face, the overall effect was a definite turn on for any male, let alone a rampant but virginal teenager. nnDuring the first few months of calling at this house a routine evolved: if he answered the door he would simply hand me the correct money, take the weekly newsletter from me, then simply shut the door. If she answered, she would smile brightly, ask me how I was, conduct the transfer of money and newssheet, then say goodbye sweetly before closing the door.nnHowever, this all changed one Sunday when she asked me in for a cup of something. On entering she said that she knew her husband and I did not like each other (news to me - I just thought he was strange) but not to worry as he was out for the day with their children - a family commitment that looked like being repeated often in the future.nnAfter having a drink and answering a few questions about myself, where I lived, etc., I left.nnThis routine continued for a few weeks to the point where I began to look forward to her being on her own so we could spend some time chatting, and also allowing me the time to reinforce the fantasies I was developing about her.nnThen for about 4 weeks, to my intense disappointment, every time I knocked on her door "The Undertaker" answered. nnAfter what seemed an eternity I knocked on the door one Sunday, and there she was - bright, bouncy and looking every bit as lovely as my fantasies had conjured up. She invited me in for a drink, telling me that she had been in hospital for an operation.nnAfter sitting me down and getting us both a cold drink we chatted about nothing in particular for a while. She then asked me if I was in a hurry as she had something she wanted to show me. After saying that I had at least 90 minutes she said, "Wait there, I'll go and get it".
(I must thank not only patricia51 but also a new friend who appears to have a sense of my overwordiness. Enjoy. And please remember this and only the stories on this site are copyright to me.)nnThe messenger service was different than the usual one we use. nnThe bike rider was directed to my cube and stood by with a flat envelope and a clipboard for me to sign. nnI opened the small envelope expecting anything than the single white piece of paper wrapped around an electronic hotel key. nnOn the paper was simply, "11:30 Regency Suite 325". nnI folded the paper and then decided to shred it.nnMy girlfriend and I had been having lots of arguments and yelling lately. I really didn't expect to find myself in a club which used to be my haunt and hunting ground years ago, but I was. nnAnd I met her there. nnYounger, jet black hair cut in a bob, three piercings in each ear and a square tipped tongue piercing. nnWe talked. And danced. And all but made out on the dance floor and at a small table that I used to almost have reserved for me because of the privacy it afforded. nnI asked if she had a place to go, hinting about my arrangements. nnShe looked at me as her hand rode up my thigh and squeezed with her knuckles grinding into my crotch. nnHer answer was no, she was catching the Red Eye to DC tonight, but would be back in about a week or so. Casual for all the heat generated in the past two hours. nnI thought, "You fucking teasing bitch!
The sea was rough, and for the hundredth time on this voyage the stowaway wished she could go up on deck for some fresh air. Catalina had discovered long ago the rejuvenating effects of the sea air on a queasy stomach; after all, she was a sea captain’s daughter. In general she had always been a good sailor, but this maelstrom of buffeting winds and thundering waves was beyond anything she had ever experienced or even imagined. For the first time she was grateful that she’d eaten so little on this crossing.nnShe could hear the running footsteps of the sailors and their frenzied shouts and knew this was no ordinary storm. The ship must be in trouble; this glorious Spanish galleon was being tossed about like a toy in a pond. Well, she’d be deuced if she’d let all her tribulations come to naught at the bottom of the English Channel. Carefully, Catalina unfolded her long frame from its cramped quarters in the hold and steadying herself against the violent pitch of the ship, made her way to the upper deck.nnThere she beheld an astonishing sight. The ship’s main deck was almost vertical, as wave after wave tipped it on its side. The main mast was snapped like a twig, and swarms of sailors were grappling with the remaining sails to right the ship. It was futile. In all the excitement, nobody even noticed that there was a slightly bedraggled woman standing wide-eyed in their midst. The groaning of the once mighty galleon and the sound of splintering wood filled the air as Catalina watched, as if from a great distance, the graceful ship break up into the cold, dark water. Soon she was plunged into this water, which immediately brought her to her senses. She wrestled out of her dress, which was dragging her down into the cold embrace of the ocean, and shed her petticoats. Desperately, she plunged forward to grasp a solid plank of wood from the rapidly sinking Santa Dominica. nnShe knew if she didn’t get out of this freezing water, she would die, but she wouldn’t let herself think about that right now. Instead she concentrated on maintaining possession of that plank of wood, and hoisted herself as much as she could on top of it to spare her body from the clutches of the sea. The storm, satisfied with its destruction for now, seemed to abate, and Catalina rested her head on her makeshift lifeboat and drifted along with the currents.
Jane awoke, alone. Abigail had clearly disappeared sometime in the past couple of hours or so. Jane guessed that the rules for lesbians were no different for heterosexual encounters, but she did miss being able to lie here with the first woman she had had sex with and maybe have breakfast or brunch together. Jane then thought about Tori. Of course, her encounter with her had only been in a dream, not reality and in actuality she may have behaved very different. Jane picked up the little note Abigail had left, 'J, thank you Mistress, your servant, A'. It was clear that Abigail had a clear take on sexuality and was out for someone to direct her. Whilst this had been fine and probably, Jane realised, had lifted some of the pressure on herself to perform perfectly, she did not feel it was something she could sustain beyond a few hours. Maybe that was why Abigail had left so early. Of course, Jane could go back to the club or any other and find another one-night stand. She certainly did not have to worry about getting pregnant as a result. However, she realised, that while it was clear, even if she had not known it before, that sex with women was what got her off, she was coming to understand that what she was needing was a girlfriend; someone not just to wake up with after great sex, but to spend the whole day with.nnWas that unusual? Was that not what millions of women in London were searching for? Well, they might not be searching for a girlfriend of course. Jane idly began thinking about the odds. She had gone from searching a pool of five million men, of course many of whom would be too old, too young, married, etc., but anyway there must be five million men in London, to a pool of one-in-ten women who were lesbians. That meant, say five hundred thousand women that would be interested in a female sexual partner. Out of these, of course, again, many would be too old, too young, these days even married or okay, in a civil partnership.
