Mature MILF Sex Story

Jean


Awakening

Hello, my name is Jean, I'm 49 years old. But don't stop reading just yet. I want to tell you about the sex I have with young people.

I'm a well-developed lady, even plump, but I still have my figure. On a good day I still get plenty of admiring glances.

I've been on my own for two years. My husband was a good man, he worked hard and left me well provided for. We had what I thought was a good sex life. He had normal male drives - he liked it every now and again - but you wouldn't say he was really interested in sex. Sex happened in bed at night. Once, in our youth, on a country walk, I was feeling romantic and suggested we made love there and then.

"Don't be silly," he had chided kindly. "We'll do it tonight." He had given me a little kiss and a hug, and I had hugged him back undisappointedly.

Only now do I realise that for thirty years I was a four ring hob running only one ring to match him - the others closed down, suppressed, forgotten. And so I would happily have continued had the smoking not got him.

Of course, I was devastated at first. But after three months I was climbing the walls with sexual frustration. I found myself lustfully watching the boy who cuts the hedges, admiring his tanned torso, those tight little buttocks, the bulge in the front of his jeans.

So there I was, 49, single, naive and desperate. Something had to be done. I had an approach from a long standing acquaintance, a little older than me, but even after a candlelit dinner he was more interested in the contents of my bank account than the contents of my knickers. What does a 49 year old do for sex?

In a hurry? Skip straight to the action!

It all started when I saw an advertisement in a respectable woman's magazine for 'marital aids'. I'd never had anything like that, Harry would have thought it most perverted, but naturally I had heard of vibrators. A poor substitute for a man, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Guiltily, I sent off for the catalogue.

I never thought waiting for the post could be an arousing experience. But it was. Each morning I found myself in a state of high excitement as I waited for the catalogue to arrive.

I had a very traditional upbringing. Before I married I only had sex once, and then only just. And no affairs while I was married. Masturbation was not something that I ever did. As a girl I was told that 'playing with yourself' was bad for you. The fact that I never masturbated was not a self-denying ordinance - it just never occurred to me to masturbate, it simply wasn't something I did.

After ten days the marital aids catalogue arrived. It really was in a plain brown envelope. I tore it open with trembling fingers only to find another envelope inside marked 'warning - sexually explicit material'. I cannot tell you what a surge of excitement those words gave me.

On the front of the catalogue was a naked girl, nothing unusual about that. I turned the page. Well! Even the first page opened my eyes. Vibrators; a thing to go in your bottom; and a thing for men to use as a substitute for a woman. And then more vibrators of all colours and sizes, even little vibrators for your bottom! And clothes - did anybody really wear things like that? I studied every picture, read every word. I had never imagined such things. I wasn't even sure what some of the things were for.

Now, I am not a woman who starts something she does not finish. I plucked up my courage and sent off an order for an 8 inch vibrator, slightly curved at the top. At the back of the catalogue a publication was advertised: 'for people who want to meet people'. That sounded like me, so I ordered that too, not quite knowing what to expect.

I don't think I've ever washed quite so much underwear as I did in those few weeks. I seemed to be in a constant state of arousal.

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I worried that the postman might guess from the shape of the package what it contained. Each morning when he did not bring it I hoped only for the next day. Yes, I busied myself with Parish Council business, keep fit class, singing practise, but there was only one thing on my mind. Then, one afternoon when I was beginning to think the catalogue was a fraud, a van pulled up outside and the driver left a package on the doorstep.

When I realised what it was, my heart raced. This was it! I'm not sure I had thought much beyond the opening of the package. I tore open the Jiffy bag, then the bubble wrap, then the box. And there it was. It looked so big. I touched it gingerly. I stood it upright on the kitchen table and sat back to look at it. Could I really - use it?

The slip of paper showed how to turn it on. I turned the base. Nothing happened. No batteries. In a sense I was relieved. I wouldn't have to do anything with it. I turned to the magazine, itself in a separate envelope.

It was titled 'Experience'. As I started to read I found myself shaking my head in disbelief. It seemed to contain classified advertisements from couples and single people seeking (always 'seeking') other people for, well, sex. At first I thought the advertisements could not be genuine, but as I read on, the sheer repetitiveness, and the pictures, convinced me they were. How could people put photographs of themselves not only naked but in such lewd and revealing poses, in such a public forum?

Batteries. I had none the right size in the house. I drove into town. I was sure the girl on the till in Woolworth's knew exactly what I wanted them for. I walked out stiffly.

At home I retrieved the vibrator from its hiding place in my bedside drawer. I sat on the edge of the bed. I put the batteries in and started the vibrator going. It was so powerful! Should I try it? After weeks of excited anticipation now the moment was here I think I was more nervous than I was excited. But I would try it.

I switched it off and put it on the bedside table. I stood up. I took my skirt off. I took my knickers off and sat down again. I picked up the vibrator and switched it on. I put my hand between my legs and parted the lips of my sex. I was lubricating, though I did not feel particularly aroused. I moved the buzzing thing into position. Its end touched my sex. The vibrator felt cold and strangely numbing. I pushed it so that its end parted my lips, just entering me, then I pushed it in more, then more still until it would go into me no further. It felt good, so good to have something solid, something hard inside me. I lay back on the bed, relaxing a little now.

I began to move the vibrator in and out of me, then from side to side, then I pulled it up towards my pubic hair, then pushed it the other way, just to see how it would feel.

It was having an effect on me. I closed my eyes, imagining a man, a real man, a young man. I caressed my breasts, as a man might. I pulled the vibrator up again, pulling it up against my sensitive spot, luxuriating in its vibrations against me. So this was what a vibrator was meant for. I began to lose myself. Weeks, months of frustration overwhelming any apprehension or guilt at using such a thing.

I was doing myself with it now, in and out, repeatedly pulling it up hard against my sensitive place. I put my hand under my bra and squeezed my breasts. This thing was so good I knew it was going to bring me to climax for the first time in very many months.

Other than with Harry, I had probably only ever climaxed half a dozen times in my life. One of these was during a drive in the country. I was wearing tight fitting jeans and we were on a rough forest track. I had that lovely feeling of well-being, of warmth, of loving (though strangely I never used to associate that feeling with the need for or lack of sex). The shaking of the car must have been rubbing the seam of the jeans against me and before I knew it pleasure was sweeping over me. Of course, I didn't tell Harry, he would have though there must be something wrong with me.

I remember another time when I had been persuaded by our keep fit instructor to do a charity rope climb, and on the fifth descent the rope passing between my thighs was enough to bring me to such a climax that I cried out with the unexpected pleasure, so much so that everyone rushed to assist me, believing I had hurt myself.

But apart from such accidental fleeting pleasures Harry had been my only source of release for all those years.

But now here I was, making love to myself. I had pushed my bra from my breasts and was squeezing myself hard now. I abandoned myself to my need. I was heading for my first real masturbatory orgasm. I pulled my new friend out of me and rubbed it around the lips of my sex, wanting to prolong this new found pleasure. I traced its buzzing tip down between the inner and outer margins of my sex, then up the other side, then round the circle of my sex again, then I let the tip dance on my pleasure spot. Such sensations! I wanted more. I pressed it harder against me, but the sensation dulled, numbness set in. So I plunged the thing into me again, pushing it in until it hurt me, then pulling it up so that its shaft shook, jangled, roughed that best part of me, insistently driving me now to the edge of climax. And I held there, just hovering on the edge of ecstasy, no-one else to consider, just my own pleasure. And then I could hold it back no longer. The extreme of joy engulfed me. I felt the juices running out of me.

But the control I had of my pleasure! Even as I was climaxing I found I could move the machine to intensify, to prolong, to heighten the feeling! It was as if a second climax was rising beyond the foothills of the first. And still I was climaxing, still I was experiencing the agony of extreme pleasure. Could it be prolonged for ever if you did it to yourself, touching everything just perfectly, just as the right moment? That squeeze of the nipple just as it would multiply the pleasure, that pause to enjoy, that gentle touch, then roughness just as the pleasure threatened to subside. This was a revelation.

But even as I thought I could carry it on for ever, it was gone. I sank back, panting, sweating, suddenly exhausted. I lay there, still, for several minutes.

I pulled my new toy out of me. I switched it off. It was shiny and slippery. I wanted to kiss it, but I didn't. I didn't remember ever getting so hot, so sweaty, with Harry. I could smell my perspiration.

I had a bath. I put on fresh clothes, made myself a cup of tea and sat down to come to terms with what I had just done, with what I had just experienced. I think I had glimpsed my true self, the self that had been submerged for so many years.

I felt some guilt, but little of it. I felt satisfied, yet not satisfied. If anything, I wanted more. I felt adventurous, bold! The magazine. I found it. In a new light I read through its advertisements.

So many men wanting to meet women! Could I? Too much of a risk, surely. You read so much of muggers, murderers. Were they even genuine, was there some sort of confidence trick, some danger I was unaware of? But their pictures - fine, muscular, young male bodies, their all displayed. I was intoxicated. I wanted one of these men.

I read the instructions on how to reply - I had no intention of replying. I found writing paper, envelopes, stamps - I had no intention of using them. Just for fun I wrote a long letter, as if I were replying to an advertisement. I read it back to myself. I tore it up. I wrote again. He looked so young, so handsome, so nice. "I'm a mature lady, I need a man like you. Telephone me at any time. Jean." If only I could have the courage to send this letter! But I couldn't, I couldn't. Why couldn't I? Why?

I put it in an envelope. I wrote the address. I put a stamp on it. I held it in my hand. I had to post it now, before I lost my nerve, before reason returned. I walked out of the house. I walked to the post box. I was at the post box, the letter in my hand. All I had to do to get a man was to put it those few inches into the opening. That simple action for a man! But I couldn't do it.

"Jean? Are you all right? You look a little flushed." It was nice Mrs Warboys.

The letter, oh my God! It was gone! I'd popped it into the box so Mrs Warboys wouldn't see it.

I must have been standing there looking shocked. Mrs Warboys took me by the arm and walked me back to my front gate, only letting me go in alone when I assured her I really was all right.

I was terrified. What had I done? My name, my address, my telephone number! So many horrors went through my mind. That night I double checked all the locks, left the lights on.

I have never been so worried in my life, imagining burglary, blackmail and worse. But when three weeks had passed and nothing had happened I began to relax. Then one evening the phone rang.

"Jean?"

I didn't recognise the voice.

"Yes?" I said.

"You answered my ad."

I froze. I mumbled something.

"You want to meet?"

He sounded very confident.

"Well, I, um..." My brain was spinning. What was one to say?

"If I've rung at a bad time, just say 'I think you've got a wrong number'."

"Oh, no," I said. "It's not that. It's just that I, er..." I couldn't seem to collect my thoughts.

"Look, if you want to meet, next Thursday suit you?"

"Er, Thursday, yes," I found myself saying.

"Your place?"

"Er, yes, that would be all right." Had I really said that?

"Sevenish?"

"Er, yes. But..."

"OK, girl. See ya then. Ta ta."

And the phone went dead.

Oh my God! What had I done? I slumped into a chair, shaking. It didn't seem real. I would awake at any moment.

But it was real. I knew it. Had I really invited an unknown man to come and have sex with me, had I? My God!

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