A Brief Time Together
© 2000 by Randi Dixon

Those fingers brushed downwards through her hair towards her neck then followed the line of her jaw to her chin.  She could feel them, feather-light on her skin and the blood rose to her cheeks.  Her eyes narrowed.  Her lids partially closed.  She shivered as those gentle digits touched her throat and caressed her before continuing their journey to the vee neckline of her blouse.

Another shiver rippled through her as the forefinger halted briefly at the upper reaches of her unseen cleavage beneath the chequered blue fabric.  A button popped open, then a second and a third.  She shifted slightly.  There was a glimpse of white bra.  Nothing exotic or exciting just plain and functional as were all her clothes.

The warm hand on hot skin moved onwards towards the small mound held captive by the thin material.  She made no move to resist as the hand slid over her breast and squeezed and kept squeezing that pliant, beautiful orb.  The tempo of that hand, the fingers sinking into her flesh, the almost inaudible gasping of stilted breath, aroused her.  Her nipple stiffened and swelled.

Those fingers detected her arousal.  They began to worm under the material of her bra, still feeling, always fondling, seeking the hardened peak of her breast and unhurriedly pushed fabric down.

Released from its cotton prison her breast sagged heavily into that now hot hand.  Thumb and forefinger captured her eager nipple, pinched it, tweaked it, explored it.

She gasped.  Her eyes flickered.  Her breast was being rolled slowly by that hand.  It felt so wonderful.  It had never happened like this before.

She licked her lips.  A small gush of warmth flowed from her and stained her panties.  She pressed her denim-clad thighs together then tensed to invoke another tiny orgasm.

Provoked by the action the hand left her breast, naked now and began to course a slow journey to her waist.  Fingers struggled to unbuckle her belt, briefly fought the brass button of her jeans before drawing down the zip.

She lifted her buttocks and wiggled to help that hand push her jeans over her hips.  Her panties were revealed, white to match her bra.  All her underwear was white.  She glanced down beyond the slight swelling over her belly and the vague shadow of stretch-marks.  The fingers were burrowing beneath her panties eager to enjoy what lay beneath.

The hand grasping his penis was firm.  He had found no need to ask or demand.  Quick fingers had quickly loosened the tie-belt of his dressing gown and flicked the material aside before the hand delved under his pyjama pants to imprison his erection.

As the hand slowly pumped up and down his shaft it squeezed to release his early juices.  A silver tear-drop escaped.  The thumb began to lubricate the bulbous head, not just its tip but all down that reddening mushroom.  His penis stiffened.  The blue vein along that pulsating rod was an embossed serpent.  Deep within the hard acorns of his balls his semen was beginning to bubble.

It had taken so long to reach this stage.  The days, the weeks.  Now they were giving and taking what they had both wanted all along yet had been too shy, perhaps even frightened, to admit to each other.

It had finally happened.  He was glad.  He didn't know how much longer he could have waited.

He groaned, trembled, jerked.  That pleasing hand quickened.

No words were spoken as that middle finger found the entrance to her vagina just below the curls of dark hair.  The pad began a small circling motion.  Her thighs opened.  Her nectar flooded the gusset of her panties.

Why had he been so reluctant? What had taken him so long? Hadn't she made it clear to him that this was what she wanted?

The hand pushed deeper beneath her panties, a finger parted those wet, willing lips and slid unhindered into her cavern, rubbing her clit.  Now it was two fingers.  They slipped in and out, in and out, never ceasing in their desire to please.  Her thighs clamped tight around the hand.  She moaned.

He groaned.  The pace of that hand grasping his organ had quickened.  He thrust his hips forward.

Still they did not speak aloud.  There was no need for the sensations which raced through them created their own mind-pictures.

His hand.  Her hand.  Their fingers.  Quicker and quicker became the tempo and hotter their lust for each other.  She gasped.  He groaned.  She squirmed.  He bucked.  Still those fingers kept up their frenzied onslaught upon penis and vagina alike.

Lights flashed before them, a storm of brilliance.  Their worlds seemed to whirl.

She cried. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Fuck me!"

He yelled. "Oh, you bitch! You beautiful bitch!"

Together they came.  She gushed her climax over those slimy fingers and her honey soaked her panties.  He spurted his orgasm on to that pumping hand and sticky, watery cream trickled from clenched fingers and dripped on to his belly.

Eyes were closed.  Mouths were open gasping air into heaving lungs.  They sagged back, collapsed and wilted.  Weariness swept over them.  The minutes drifted by in a woolly haze.  Neither moved.

She reached for her crutches and came awkwardly to her feet, holding on to her jeans before they fell around her ankles.  It had been good.  She had never enjoyed sex like this before.  He had been fantastic, but then, with age came experience.  He knew what aroused a younger woman and he did not allow her disability to inhibit him

Pity her husband didn't think the same way.  Didn't he know she had needs as well.

A glance at her watch.  The kids would be home soon from school.  Hurriedly she pulled up her jeans and buttoned her blouse.  Between her legs she felt the cold dampness of her climax.  Would she have time to change her panties? Later.  The school bus would be nearing the end of the street.

He pulled the dressing gown around him, tied the belt then pushed the wheelchair back.  Why hadn't it been like this when his wife had been alive? Why was he only now discovering the real meaning of sex.  He wished he was twenty years younger.  Why couldn't he be fifty - not seventy? What would his carers think of him? Just another dirty old man.  Didn't they know he still had feelings and desires.  Well, at least she didn't think of him as perverted.

She straightened her dishevelled hair and smiled at him.

He brushed back the few strands of white hair from his brow and grinned at her.

Fingers that had so recently pleasured reached out, paused reluctantly then simultaneously touched buttons.

In Portland, Oregon, it was mid-afternoon.  Time to start preparing the evening meal - for him.  In Manchester, England, it was dark, nearly midnight.  Time for bed - alone.

The two coloured 'wallpaper' images of an old man and a young woman faded.  The computer screens went blank.

© 2000 by Randi Dixon. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced without the express written permission of the author

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