Sixty something

Be warned, this story has a strict 18 certificate. It has scenes of an adult nature. Do not read on if you are easily shocked.

There weren’t many people in the hotel bar, just me with my pint of beer and the British foursome at the next table, plus a crazy Austrian tourist chatting up the bar staff who looked about as interested in her as a vegetarian would be in a bacon roll. The British foursome were two oldish couples, extremely middle –class, braying like little hungry donkeys. One of the women got up to go to the bar she was 60 if she was a day but her body was lithe and agile and she moved with the grace of finishing school. She smiled at me as she passed, I smiled back. Was I imagining things or was there something in that smile?

As the evening wore on I felt her eyes on me, we exchanged glances two or three times and a smile or two more, but I was tired and it was late and she was with her husband, so there was no future in this game. I decided to pay my bill and call it a night.

Just as I was about to pay I had a thought, a naughty thought, a mischievous thought.

‘Can I put it on my room?’ I said loudly to the waiter.

‘Of course sir.’ he said. ‘What’s the number?’

‘605’ I said clearly, too loudly.

As I walked out of the bar I caught her eye again; was there the slightest nod of understanding in that goodbye smile?

              

Just over an hour later there was the gentlest of knocks on my door. I looked through the peephole and saw the woman standing there. I opened the door and smiled. She said nothing, just put her arms round my shoulders and kissed me. I responded in kind, my hands on her spine, on her neck, in her hair, exploring her aging body, finding the spots than made her moan. Her hands were unbuttoning my shirt and struggling with my belt, fumbling, over-eager fingers.

She made love like an experienced virgin; the keenness of the first time, the knowledge of many times before.  She whimpered and moaned and climaxed so loudly that I thought my neighbours would be knocking the walls in complaint. After we were done she held me tightly, sobbing gently, guilt? lust? satisfaction? frustration? I didn’t know and didn’t care.

‘I better go.’ she said. I realised it was the first words either of us had spoken. I kissed her nose tenderly and let her go, she got dressed and needlessly tip-toed  away, leaving me thinking I didn’t even know her name or where her husband thought she was.

I slept soundly and the following morning took a shower washing her off me, wondering if it was all a dream. But it wasn’t. I went down for breakfast smiling a sweet smile to myself. As I stood at the coffee machine yawning, I felt a shadow over me and a voice in my ear.

‘I hope my wife didn’t keep you up too late.’

If you enjoyed this, you might well enjoy my novel Maggie’s Milkman. Click here for more details.