No Frame of Reference (New Knees!)

Like riding a bicycle, one simply couldn't forget the basics of this, could one? Her fingers flew. Her imagination soared. And in a very small number of minutes, she came. For the first time in three decades. And not your garden-variety ten-second orgasm, but a long string, muscle-knotting and sweat-popping in their intensity.

Relaxed now, she drifted off into a deep sleep, from which she woke abruptly at five AM. She lay there for some minutes, calm, contemplating apparently random items. Why hadn't her knees hurt during her play-session? Certainly her leg muscles --all of them! - had been straining mightily for quite a while. Last night's orgasms -- in the light of day 'plural' for sure! Robert in his Speedo, hence almost naked, his package changing as she watched his muscles working. Changing because of HER? She certainly hoped so. Thirty years of abstinence. New knees.

Then it was Robert's looming arrival this morning. Her mind had shifted gears entirely from its earlier frantic state, seemed like a millpond -- superficial calm overlying deep, fast water. Crystal clear waters -- transparent. You could see for huge distances through such waters, to the very core of a problem. Lovely!

She slid out of bed and headed --stepping carefully- for the shower. Knees were working well at the moment. She stood in the steaming spray for a while, then throttled the flow back and reached for her razor. Running it over pits and legs was more 'female-symbolic' than necessity-driven: age had almost eliminated the need on those parts. Not so her crotch: its thatch was sparser now, but still had visual and tactile potential. Potential that she didn't allow to be realized. Completely naked pussy --not merely trimmed to neatness- had been one of Hubby's primary letches. She at first had thought it silly and merely humored him, but it didn't take long before she was an enthusiastic convert. Hubby was her only barber and quite skilled -- years and years without ever a nick or scrape despite the persistent ever-present slipperiness.

When he died, she'd let things revert to nature for a year, then in a mild fit of "in-memoriam" she'd realized that she didn't like the re-growth, taught herself his skills, and had ever since maintained "ultra nudity" -- Hubby's expression. An asexual nudity -- too bad! Five minutes' work on the week's stubble-field sufficed to bring her vee back to her approved level of silky-smooth -- namely, absolute hairlessness.

Drying herself was a good balancing exercise. Feeling strangely cocky and very confident, she toweled off while standing alternately on either foot, delighted with herself when it worked well. Inspired and much more self-content now (Orgasms! Balance! Walking!), she poked through the bathroom cabinetry until she found the cut-crystal bottle. She hadn't looked at it for over thirty years, just like the photos. Probably for the same buried reasons.

As she hefted it, she muttered "Hey! Wake up! It's resurrection time, bottle!" Heavy and hand-filling, its faceted surfaces glittered, the amber contents were still perfect, a thick, dark, lushly sensual, overtly erotic scent - redolent of musk -- extraordinarily expensive and expressive. A gift from Hubby.

She smiled at herself in the mirror, knowing that he would have heartily approved. "Well lah de dah, you silly old bat!" she thought: but that didn't stop her. Just six tiny drops, mere touches -- pits, deep in the under-crevice of each breast, jugular, and far down between her legs, right on her perineum where, according to Hubby, it would persist for many, many hours.

Irene set the bottle down, peered into the mirror, addressed herself out loud, hands on hips: "Good GRIEF, Old Woman! Who are you trying to kid, anyhow? Talk about some kind of HUBRIS!" Then, more softly, "But we all need dreams, fantasies, don't we?! And one can never, ever know if one doesn't try. No venture, no chance of gain. And absolutely nothing whatever to lose!"

She stepped back into the bedroom, looked at the navy-blue linen all rumpled from her last-evening's adventure. "Self-abuse" she thought -- what an idiotic term! Robert had liked her hair against that color, but the sheet was now totally disheveled. Red ought to do equally well, she decided, and fetched the good 600-count sheets.

She spent some minutes changing the bed, hugely enjoying the swing of her breasts as she bent and stretched. Robert's obvious interest in her boobs had certainly reignited her own appreciation of them! She made sure that her nipples got an adequate dose of gliding caresses from the linens during the process, and chortled in amusement when she realized she was actually humming out loud, as she muzzily contemplated the upcoming joy of once again being beside Mister Robert --he of the beautiful bum and other attributes- as he worked up a sweat, always in his Speedo (meaning nearly naked!), always available and more than willing to lay hands on her in whatever way might help with her exercises.

Mentally, she grinned slightly: right from the very first she'd asked for far more such help than she needed: she was positive that however hard she pushed on that option, she would get no objection from him!

After finishing the bed, she went back into the big closet, to the section that held what remained of her lingerie -- the special stuff from so long ago. She thought about the upcoming exercises, considered the clothing changes she had run through so far, then chose a short, high-thigh gauzy blue-gray "robe" -- so-called only because it had a robe front and a little waist-belt. And it was as close to transparent as one could get without being merely cigarette smoke. No underwear could be allowed beneath such a garment.

She returned to the bed, lay down atop the sheets: in some ways, the robe was better than nudity. The fabric was driving her steadily crazy, maintaining and even adding to her nipples' nearly painful erection. She studied her mental mill-pond again: the clarity was still there.

Minutes later the phone rang: Robert's now-"usual" call, warning her that he would be over in half an hour. And how was she feeling after a night's sleep? "Better!" she told him -- and prepared for some exercise despite yesterday's workout. She'd be ready when he arrived.

And in truth, she HAD also been contemplating the new dual-bolster exercise in the interstices between spasms of mental erotica: whatever else might happen, she might as well begin the day by trying out the new programme. A long 'resting' session would be a good compromise between her remaining non-interest in exercising and Robert's desire not to skip a day. "Besides!" she told herself, "Consider the other possibilities!"

When Robert gave his double-ring on the bell, she had already slipped under the top sheet, carefully arranged herself half-sitting, making certain that one nipple was above the sheet edge, although "hidden" by the robe.

She heard the front door open, then close. And there he was, standing in the doorway of her bedroom, attired as expected -- Speedo, sandals, and a tee-shirt wrapped around his neck. Nothing more. His eyes scanned, his face lit up. He stepped closer, dropped the shirt, kicked off the sandals, stared down at her in silence. His pupils, she noticed, were huge -- he liked what he saw! And already -- instantly! (how complimentary!) - there was a pronounced change in the configuration of materials contained by the suit.

Finally he found his voice: "Um. That's... some exercise outfit, Madam..."

She stared up at him, played coy, pulled the sheet up to her chin and said "Frankly my dear young and very MALE friend..." She glanced at his crotch (more accurately, it was an overt ogle) - at his now more than significant bulge, watched his reaction to her being blatant, liked it -- he was genuinely, and deeply, flustered!

"I'm afraid I'm suffering a bit of sartorial insufficiency. Or inadequacy." She dropped the sheet back down to her waist, pointed at the robe whose front wasn't quite closed -- putting the inside edges of both breasts on display. She got the bemused, distracted, almost embarrassed goggling she had hoped for.

"I'm still not sure I want to exercise" she told him. "Especially the new one my PT prescribed. It's a version of adho mukho virasana." She gestured at the bolsters: rather than looking that direction, he studied how her breasts moved as she waved her hand. She almost laughed, tapped her swollen nipples with her fingertips and said sharply but softly "Not HERE, silly man... these are just my boobs. The yoga bolsters! Over THERE!" She waved again: this time he glanced that direction, nodded, returned his eyes to her face.

Demurely, she blinked at him: "Professor Robert needs to pay much closer attention! As I said, I'm not sure I want to exercise, and that's why I'm wearing this -- and why I'm still in bed. So, I'm afraid that, like I said before, I truly am suffering from a serious sartorial deficiency. This outfit is nice -- at least, I hope you like it -- but it hardly constitutes exercise duds!"

He finally got some semblance of self-control back, except for how his eyes kept returning to her boobs.

She thought silently, "They're ancient and saggy and can't possibly be that attractive, but he keeps after them!" she mused: "...what in the dickens does he find so interesting about the poor dear antique things?"

Robert snorted in amusement: "Nonsense. From my point of view, although it certainly is sexy with you in it, that thing is an OVER, not an UNDER-abundance of clothing. Besides, who cares? Whatever we choose to wear, who's to see? And so what if they did? We could perfectly well exercise ala Greck, in the nude. Although doing so might hamper me in some poses! And believe me, for pure sexiness I vastly prefer simple nudity to any lingerie! I'm VERY easy to please."

He had recovered fully from the shock and gave her an intentionally ludicrous lewd stare, under which she turned bright pink. "You've complained several days running about your clothes being too confining -- too binding, even though they've gotten progressively skimpier." She reddened -- caught, just as planned! He grinned again, held out his hand: "We've been pretty close to naked -- you in that incredible transparent leotard and me in this running Speedo! And no damage done so far as I can tell." He raised an eyebrow. "I've always felt that the Greeks had it right, athletics and exercise should be done nude. I'd certainly like to watch Olympic women's gymnastics done that way! Now come on -- You're hardly NAKED with that nightie on. It's gauzy, sure, and I love it for what it lets me partially see, but you ain't nude, damn it."

He sighed, grinned, and waved a hand towards the bolsters. "Come on over here and join me... I'll help get you into whatever contortion your PT ordered."

She smiled softly, made a show of surrendering. "OK mister, but should you happen to not like the view, just you remember - you asked for it!" She flashed back to adolescence, reloaded her late-teenager programming: fully aware of her body and his eyes, her movements were subtly but perfectly calculated to give him glimpses of forbidden territory. As her legs swung over the side, an unobstructed look at her completely naked pussy went through him like a shot. She smiled to herself, delighted at the obvious and very complimentary reaction. She of course couldn't know that a properly shorn pussy was perhaps his greatest visual turnon, but the reaction made her silently thank Hubby.

Carefully, with his help, she stood: unconfined and unsupported, her breasts swung smoothly under the thin drapery as she moved, wobbling at first in perfect synchrony, then breaking step and going syncopated, nipples erect, obvious, verging on huge. 'Why...?' she had often asked herself, '...why such prominent nipples when I've never been pregnant, much less nursed?' But none of her men, nary a one, had ever seen fit to complain -- quite the contrary.

She watched his eyes: intense fascination, exceedingly positive. 'Thank god for the infinite libido of men!' she thought: "... one of the most dependable things in the world.' They stood there wordless, face to face, until she suggested "You can help me get into my new pose. I'll show you -- just hold my hands and keep me from falling."

She settled exquisitely slowly, he stood astraddle the bolsters, facing her: she was concentrating, eyes closed, lip in her teeth, gently forcing her knees to bend as she leaned forward. Gravity politely opened the robe, giving him an unobstructed view of her soft-hanging boobs with their inflated nipples standing up proudly. Her closed eyes let him stare uninterrupted: his crotch nearly exploded -- he found this particular pair to be unique in his experience, and extraordinarily sensual -- they got to him in ways the ordinary Playboy-tit never did.

The only "visibility problem" was that her crotch was out of view. After perhaps thirty seconds, she was in position. He released her hands: she sagged down onto the bolsters, then looked up at him and said "Thank you! Now -- please, what I really need is for you to stand behind me, put your hands on my hips and lower back, and apply some downward pressure to help get my butt down, which in turn flexes my knees, don't you you see!? Start gently and increase gradually, and I'll let you know when to stop." She giggled. "Maybe with some luck that'll be a long time!"

He stepped behind her, took his first glance downwards and was instantly mesmerized. The robe had ridden up her back to expose her entire naked bottom. There was no possible way that she could NOT know! Her pelvis and buttocks, and the backs of her thighs and calves, were utterly beautiful, with almost-translucent skin all smooth, snug, unwrinkled. Between her bolster-spread thighs lay an absolutely gorgeous pussy with its taut, excitement-swollen outer lips; long delicious protruding inners; a gleam of moisture on the exposed brighter-pink inner tissues of her split; a perfect, dainty anal pucker; and the tiny fore-and-aft ridge of tissue on her perineum which once again documented human bilateral symmetry.

Lovely indeed, her solid calves and buttocks and thighs -- the position was perfect for showing off those assets. And enormously arousing... to them both, for Irene had always found being exposed and vulnerable to her men this way a huge turn-on. He swallowed silently, settled his hands gently atop her buttocks, stroked with fingertips only -- which produced an immense swarm of lower-back goose-bumps.

She said nothing: it took a minute for him get started. Politely, quietly, still not quite sure of himself regardless of how clear the situation might seem, he asked "You're... rather exposed down here, Irene. Frankly, I'd hate to lose this view, but are you completely sure of things? If you'd prefer, I can adjust your robe for better coverage..."

Irene slowly, sensuously waggled her bottom at him, watched over her shoulder as his eyes fastened for long seconds on her privates. His hardon was now complete and brutally obvious -- any real movement on his part and it was likely to poke its head out for a reconnaissance.

"I don't mind things the way they are" she said. "In fact, I rather like the current state of MY coverage -- but I can't really say the same for YOURS! And although you seem to have a roaring hardon under all that obnoxious, obstructive nylon, I cannot imagine why the sight of my decrepit old body in this spectacularly ridiculous position would excite you."

Then, after a long moment, she asked softly "Robert... I need to understand something. WHY are you here with me? Some particular fetish for old women, perhaps? Whatever it is, it'll be okay with me. I just want to know. Why are you here, with me, in this most delicious way?"

Robert settled his palms to cup her buttocks, squeezed gently, tilted his head sideways, thought for a few seconds; "Good question. I guess the answer is in several parts. First, NO, there's no fetish for old women in my makeup! To be honest, there aren't any of them in my family, so you're the first older woman I've gotten close to. Ever. In fact, I don't believe I've ever even dated a woman older than myself, not so much as a day. Second, you fascinate me -- I find you great fun to talk to, and especially to flirt with... I really do LIKE you, sexy stuff aside. Thirdly, I think you are genuinely pretty. And also thoroughly sexually attractive -- which has surprised me about myself, but it's great fun exploring this whole new aspect of my own sexuality. And forth, I'm just hornier than hell and if I could combine all the above in order to be the ultimate Good Scout by making you happy sexually, well, that'd be perfection -- wonderfulness itself."

He stopped, shrugged. "So - this whole arrangement, our interaction, it's all brand new to me. Poor biology evolutionarily, but great sociology? I guess you're my experiment in this area. Now -- if that's satisfactory, perhaps I could return to my study of your beautiful bottom and pussy? Would that be okay?"

She thanked him, then opined that a return to previous business was more than merely okay -- more like a requirement! He ogled her bottom: he found it genuinely lovely and told her so, enumerating and touching detail after detail, until she was almost convinced. "If I didn't KNOW your age already, I seriously doubt I could tell your butt and pussy from a teenager's! Certainly not without a detailed up-close comparison. I'm astounded! Not to mention pleased!"

She sighed: "That's very complimentary, but hardly believable. My boobs have sagged and so, I suspect, have other things. But I love being told such nice white lies!" She sighed again, more deeply, waited for renewed eye contact before resuming, bantering: "Maybe Ben Franklin was right -- maybe we need a sack?"

Robert was puzzled, just managed "HUH? Ben Franklin?"

"He wrote, somewhere, that if you put sacks over their heads, you can't tell women's ages. And also that the older ones are nicer to fuck because they are so GRATEFUL..."

Robert snorted derisively, said firmly "No damn bag, and no damn dark needed here! And gratitude goes both ways if things are done right!"

She let him finish, waggled her butt again, continued: "A very nice sentiment, Robert. Now, my dear, dear, lovely, sexy young man - if anything you see from back there should happen, for god only knows whatever improbable reason, to inspire you to some sort of action, I strongly urge you to pursue the inspiration. I can pretty much guarantee a lack of objection on my part. No matter exactly where the Muse may lead you, chances are very good that I've been there, done that, and would thoroughly enjoy a stroll down memory lane with you..."

He stroked her bottom, letting fingertips slide down her slippery slit. This trip, they located and fondled her marble-hard clit. She squirmed and groaned happily. After a few seconds he queried in a very quiet voice "You're quite sure of that? That's a very broad permission. Or invitation!"

She took a deep breath: "I'm not some ingénue, Robert my dear, nor have I yet gone entirely senile, I assure you. Of COURSE I understand what I'm doing! Carte Blanche is what I'm offering. Indulge yourself, if you wish -- but ONLY do so if the concept truly pleases YOU. God knows the very thought pleases ME extravagantly! As if you couldn't tell: my ancient, rusty pussy is positively swimming in her own juices -- and it's entirely YOUR FAULT!! Although I certainly can't see why this wizened old carcass would provoke anything save the most academic interest on the part of a beautiful young man like you, much less provide any inspiration to action, I'm nonetheless perfectly capable of gracefully and gratefully accepting largesse from the gods."