Mesalliance
Regardless of how quickly I was moving towards the cemetery, my bed sport rowing partners were usually around 18-20 years old. Once, however, fate led me astray to a woman two years my senior. The end of that story was sad and predictable: that sudden whim ended in full-blown marriage. Therefore, to avoid further sharp turns on life's path, I began to nurture and cherish my innate passion for "Komsomol girls and sportswomen," and it blossomed luxuriantly, allowing me to this day to enjoy nymphets in full compliance with current legislation.
To not scatter my seed
across the belly, I'll immediately cut off memories of the misalliances that occurred with an age difference insignificant to me—10-18 years. I'd rather tell you a love story where I was 26 years older than her, my chosen one was 19, and she was beautiful. Don't strain yourself: yes, I was 45 at the time.By the time of our chance acquaintance, I was already a fully formed personality: a life-disillusioned, cynical misanthrope, hunting for wild chicks in the vast fields of numerous online resources and fishing for eelpouts and other riffraff from the murky waters of entertainment venues, having opened my own nightclub for these base, yet pleasant, purposes.
That Friday, we were having an Indian party. The set of Eastern delights consisted of a belly dancer, a hookah, and semi-live music performed by strange dreadlocked people. To the sound of a tom-tom, they rhythmically and mournfully extracted something from long pipes pointed at the floor. I dressed accordingly: in an Uzbek robe and skullcap, which I had bought at the Tashkent Bazaar several years earlier. I stuck a red teardrop-shaped sequin on my forehead, having discreetly peeled it off the belly dancer's costume while she was smoking in the dark.
Thus transformed into Raj Kapoor and with my hair loose like a "dirty rocker," I wandered around the hall with brushes and paints at the ready. Of my own free will, I was doing free body art for the guests, painting them with Indian Khokhloma patterns. Some asked for a spider on a bare shoulder, some for a flower on the chest—no one was refused. Well, except men, of course: I really didn't want to fondle them—either in general or during the creative process.
Around five in the morning, having felt up a dozen girls of varying degrees of intoxication and used up a considerable amount of special body paint, I was about to head home empty-handed. I hadn't managed to lure any starlet to my lair as a model this time.
Perched at the bar, I asked the bartender to pour me a drink "for the road." Suddenly, a girl I had noticed quite a while ago approached me: she had arrived around midnight with her friend and was dancing so amazingly on the dance floor that she kept distracting me from the graffiti on tits.
The girl was now without her friend and asked me to copy her intricate medallion, nestled in the hollow between two juicy breasts, transferring its image onto one of them. Quickly assessing the possible prospects of tactile enjoyment during the creative torment, I changed my mind about going home and went downstairs with her—not without difficulty—to a cozy hall where there were fewer people.
As it turned out, she was on amphetamines. I found out much later, but that night I thought she was attracted to my person, not my strange outfit and the glitter on my forehead, as it actually was. The girl had been partying at her friend's birthday, with whom she had then dragged herself to the club—fortunately, she lived nearby. At the party, she had overdone it with champagne, and already at the club, some guy offered her a hit. That's where it all started.
I suspected nothing about this and was puffed up with pride that I didn't need to be propped up against a warm wall in a quiet corner, and that one could be interested in me naturally. Her name was Marina. Actually, her name was different, but phonetically it sounded just like that.
I moved the brush over her half-bare chest, having first unbuttoned her shirt as much as possible—of course, to avoid staining her clothes with paint. With my other hand, I checked the firmness of her breast, as if trying to determine how ready she was for motherhood in the future. Marina's breasts were fine: I later had the opportunity to verify this repeatedly. Beautiful in appearance and firm to the touch, though with somewhat enlarged areolae: I prefer a more delicate construction.
The girl innocently gave me the opportunity to enjoy her firmness and chattered nonstop. Sometimes her verbal diarrhea was so interesting and informative that I got distracted from squeezing tits in a sitting position and listened to her ramblings. The party ended, and we moved to a private room. I dismissed the staff, who were heading home and shaking their heads reproachfully. And Marina and I just kept talking and talking. Sometimes breathlessly, interrupting each other, but more often I just listened to her: she turned out to be an amazingly interesting conversationalist, though initially it was pure amphetamine talking to me.
The thing is, that night, as luck would have it, her grandmother had arrived in a red Mercedes. This explained her frequent trips to the toilet during the body art and after. Having used up her entire supply of personal protective equipment, she resorted to toilet paper from the club's restroom, and then paper towels. When Marina guiltily reached for the cotton napkins from the table, I realized it was time for us to part ways for a while. Each had to put themselves in order: she to take a shower, and I—to have a good wank.
Before parting, I managed to arrange a second date with her, which she graciously accepted. However, Marina shamelessly arrived a whole three hours late, almost sleeping through the fateful meeting. I sadly sipped white wine, sitting in the empty club, understanding that when the girl sobered up and came to her senses, my chances of the desired coitus were approaching zero. However, Marina really had overslept, and that wasn't surprising, considering she had been awake for over a day and a half the day before.
When Marina called back in a panic, I was already offended, unhappy, and drunk. I told her she could keep sleeping or go to hell altogether—in short, I behaved like a real capricious woman, which is sometimes characteristic of me.
From the first days, our sexual pleasures suddenly encountered some resistance on her part. During traditional coitus, she chose a behavior model I often observed during log rafting on a river: I constantly had to prod her with a pike pole. But those were just the beginning.
"Not in the butt, because there's poop there!" Marina declared categorically when I first tried to enter her body from the back porch: apparently, she had a solid "A" in proctology.
After Marina refused to give a blowjob, I began to guess why, from her point of view, one shouldn't suck a dick. This was a severe case: I had come across a dense stump that had only recently crawled out from under the closet of sexual taboos into the light of day. Moreover, the girl's body
had wild male-pattern hair growth, and at first, I got lost in her thickets, feeling like a millionaire from the slums: my favorite shaved pussy was nowhere to be smelled here.
I sighed heavily: the path to diverse female happiness was paved with anything but roses, according to the apt definition of the subject herself. I was about to embark on a difficult but pleasant journey with my beloved, turning this Yeti with excellent tits into the delight of my days and nights for all time.
Some like already trained mares, inclined towards demonstration performances in the field of sin and vice, but I have always preferred training. Due to the eternal age imbalance—and experience, accordingly—I love turning unbroken mustangs into circus horses with plumes in interesting places. True, sometimes I came across something like a Przewalski's horse, which was easier to shoot than to train, but those were rare and inevitable costs of the educational process.
The urge to mentor had nested in me from a young age: back in kindergarten, I explained to my potty neighbor how to pee correctly. True, not finding the necessary faucet for the occasion, I remember falling into a deep suspended animation for a while.
Deciding to start with simpler exercises and demonstrating loyalty in the area of oral caresses—by that time Marina was smoothly shaved down to her liver—I brought the girl to a spectacular orgasm using fingers, lips, and tongue, offering my penis (in her medical terms) in return. Having obtained the girl's consent to "try sucking," I brought—Hallelujah!—my moth-eaten, seasoned, experienced dick to the fear-bitten lips of the pioneer girl.
To my amazement, Marina adapted quite quickly and began to suck, constantly glancing at me: "Am I doing it right?" That's the great joy of a pioneering creator! I taught the girl to give a blowjob the way I like it, and over time she became excellent at it, obediently swallowing and gulping or patiently waiting for my release when I simply fucked her mouth.
Unfortunately, I couldn't completely eradicate all her prejudices: technically, her fellatio was impeccable, but to truly love the act, in my opinion, she never managed. Only once did I receive a blowjob from her that wouldn't be embarrassing to post online in the POV section.
Marina had read somewhere about John Falkon and was eager to practice on what was at hand. During her mining of useful minerals, I reached for my phone to capture this historic moment on camera, but immediately got a smack on the head and blissfully quieted down, imprinting on my brain neurons this great miracle of engulfment.
The epoch-making blowjob was forever etched in my memory, especially since she herself was the initiator of this magic, which happened extremely rarely. Marina didn't just suck; she played with it, talked and cooed with the dick as if it were a doll, putting on and taking off its natural clothing, busily exploring every fold and the surrounding area. The charmer also added gentle anus-licking, and wet egg-licking with sucking of the balls and prostate massage. I came just like that, with her finger in my ass, almost departing from pleasure to my forefathers. Her satisfied mug stayed before my eyes for a long time: at that moment, I was entirely in her power, and she knew it.
Anal turned out to be simpler than I expected. Marina approached this issue very responsibly. Realizing that my encroachments on her fifth point were inevitable, she dragged me to an "Intim" shop for a joint selection of lubricant suitable for these purposes. Previously, I hadn't bothered much about this: I'd just grab a universal anal-vaginal transparent odorless lube right at the checkout of some shopping center, making young cashiers blush over the choice of said product.
In the adult store, I felt a bit uneasy, especially under the disapproving gaze of the salesman: in his eyes, I was a child molester looking for additional gadgets to finally finish off the poor child. To my astonishment, the "child" quickly chose a suitable gel and pulled out a discount card for that store.
To my silent question "WTF?!", Marina hastily explained that her previous boyfriend—Armenian by nationality—usually fucked her for three hours non-stop and her natural lubrication wasn't enough. Therefore, she bought lubricants here so often that she was given a discount card.
Hoping that "three hours" was a figure of speech, I still felt somewhat downcast and didn't try to build more bridges between her past and our present: with my average capabilities, I couldn't compare to this giant of the pussy and father of non-Russian democracy.
I deprived Marina of her anal virginity that same night, heartily inserting my national dick and thus putting a bold period on the Armenian question. Before that, I explained to her at length that if a man has only one erogenous zone, and even that one is located outside the body, then a woman is one big erogenous zone: you just need to know where to press. And there can be a lot of interesting things in the butt besides the notorious poop. I saw right through it: her anal hole turned out to be entirely studded with erogenous endings, like lard with cracklings, and from the very first attempt, Marina came so hard that I flew out of her like a cork from champagne.
When the girl caught her breath, I was offered, to my amazement, to repeat, which I promptly did, as I hadn't shot yet. Marina came a second time in a row with great flair, adding clitoral stimulation with her fingers. After that night, she fell into anal slavery—to her great pleasure. After a short time, her ranking looked like this: first place—anal, second place—vaginal, third place—oral.
But not everything was so rosy in our peculiar family. Living with a young girl, I began to understand that a large age difference is not acceptable for long-term relationships. Marina was interested in things I had already experienced in my time; she aspired to things I no longer cared about. While I was her "window to the world," everything worked out, and we were both happy. But infatuation inevitably passed, I had already transferred all my sexual experience to her, and all we had left in common was a roof over our heads.
In the last year of our life together, we went to the sea and had a wonderful vacation, as if our feelings had found a second wind. There were several amusing sexual adventures (which I might tell in a separate story), but when we returned to our native hearth, our love, having given a hoarse cry, fell silent forever.
For the last six months, we sat in different rooms, glued to our monitors, and could utter no more than a dozen phrases all day. Where did those nine hours of endless breathless conversations go?! We still slept together, but nothing united us except a shared blanket. I no longer wanted Marina, and she, over time, stopped insisting.
About a year after our separation, Marina made an unsuccessful marriage, another year later she successfully gave birth to a daughter, and now, when things get really bad for her, she calls me and asks for advice on what remedy is best to feed her husband, drawing information for these discussions mainly from the section "Poisons and Their Application in Domestic Conditions."
Sometimes I feel sad, remembering her on lonely winter evenings, and scroll through a slideshow on my monitor of our cloudless past, not even having the opportunity to bring new sensations and emotions into my sadness: I've been a confirmed left-hander since childhood.
Getting closer to the Creator with each passing year, I think with sadness that it's time to start playing on my own field, so as not to evoke perplexed and contemptuous glances from others when I once again walk down the street arm in arm with a young mistress, shaking my graying beard over her like an accursed Satan.
By the way, I had one sudden experience of intercourse with an active member of the "For Those Over Forty" club—it was even amusing when we shook in a paroxysm of a shared runny nose, mistaking it for mutual orgasm.
But I'm still drawn to a young body, and I'm not yet ready to exchange freshly squeezed orange juice for fermented (sometimes towards me) homemade wine...
November 2015