Granny Grabber

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Most of the blokes I know of my age – 33 – seem to be lusting after younger women: once a girl hits 25 they’re not interested in her. Not me. It’s not that I couldn’t attract them – I’m reckoned to be reasonably good looking in a truck driver-jobbing builder sort of way, mop of chestnut hair, twinkling Weimaraner blue eyes, a ready smile and my slightly bent nose (broken in a rugby match at 16) just to give me a bit of character, and I keep myself toned at the gym and the pool. I just find young birds (sorry ladies – a colleague once told me “we’re only called birds because of the worms we pick up”) a bit self-focussed, always fiddling with their hair and make-up; plus the kind of music and crappy celeb-obsessed shows and magazines they’re into bore me silly.

Nah, I’ve always had a thing for older women. Of course, when I was at school that tended to mean in their 40s or so, like Mrs Solomon, my very earnest History teacher. A couple of years after I’d left – she was still teaching there then – I had a chance meeting with her in a coffee bar and confessed how I’d spent every lesson lusting after her. It was one of the best things I ever did, because we spent the rest of the evening in her flat shagging each other’s brains out, and I’ve yet to find anyone else who gave a blow job as good as her’s.

Just because people get older, and find themselves alone in life, doesn’t mean that they somehow leave behind them their interest in sex or their desire for physical pleasure, it’s just that they don’t often get the opportunity to experience it, and our prurient so-called liberal society tends to frown on it if they try to. I freely admit, I try to tap into that desire. I wouldn’t use a condescending cliché like “older women are more grateful”, but I have found that usually, often after years of enforced celibacy, they’re very enthusiastic, and imaginative. Whenever I get a chance to chat up a more mature lady, on her own, perhaps looking lonely or wistful, I do. More than once I’ve played the boy scout, offering to carry heavy shopping bags home for a lady, and been rewarded with a few hours of passion. Probably eight out of ten of the ladies I approach are amused and flattered, once I convince them I’m serious (I’ve yet to have one who expressed offence at my approach), but on the other twenty percent of those occasions…

Like a couple of months ago, when I moved from one end of London to the other for a new job (I’m an IT tech). The flat I bought had a washing machine so old I reckon it was built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and it took me a couple of weeks after getting rid of it to get a new one plumbed in, so one afternoon I toddled off to a launderette a few streets away, the first time I’d entered one for about 15 years. It was run by a West Indian lady called Maisie, who took pity on my obvious confusion and showed me how the washing machine worked.

I instantly took a shine to Maisie, who I guessed was in her mid to late 50s. She’s a statuesque woman, an inch or two shorter than me in her flip-flops (I just make it to six foot), with big brown eyes, chubby cheeks and a double chin, a wide smile displaying even white teeth, a magnificent bust which wouldn’t look out of place on the prow of a galleon and, as she describes it, “a big African backside.” That day she was dressed in a calf-length blue batik printed with yellow flowers and humming birds, a purple bandana knotted above her strong brow, and her finger and toenails were painted silvery-purple. She spoke in a fairly deep voice with a local accent spiced with a Barbadian twang. (She told me her parents had brought her bostancı escort bayan from there to Britain when she was nine years old.)

It being midweek the launderette was quiet and we got chatting. She was taken with my humour and laughed loud and hard, a booming gale that filled the place. I was looking for a way in, so to speak, and I noticed she seemed to have not just one but three wedding rings on her finger. With a grin she said “Well darlin’, that’s ‘cos I been married three times. I threw the men away but I kept all the rings.” That provoked another big laugh.

She went on to tell me in some detail about each of her husbands, with plenty of winks and chuckles. When she finished I said “Blimey Maisie, I reckon you were a right goer in your time.”

She nodded cheerfully and, running her eyes lasciviously up and down me, replied “You’d better believe it darlin’. I could give that hunky body of yours a good workout.”

Ker-ching. Quick as a flash I responded, “You reckon? What time do you finish tonight?”

Her mouth dropped open in surprise for a moment then she roared with laughter, her entire body shaking. I kept my face entirely straight and as she regained her composure, wiping a tear of mirth from one eye, she asked me, “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

“No”, I told her. I dropped my eyes from her face to her lap. “I’m not pulling your leg Maisie – but I’d love the chance to get between your legs.”

She gasped with a mixture of surprise and amusement then, giving me an appraising look, asked “What would a good-looking boy like you want with an old lady like me?”

I went in for the kill. Cupping her cheek in my hand I said softly, “You’re not old Maisie, you’re beautiful, and very desirable.”

At that moment my washing finished its last cycle and a woman backed into the launderette pulling a pushchair after her and trailing two bratty kids after her. Maisie hurried over to help her with the huge black bin bag she was balancing on the pushchair. For the next twenty minutes as I loaded my stuff into a tumble drier she bustled around busying herself but she kept casting glances in my direction. I was beginning to think I’d blown it, but as I was folding my clothes into the suitcase I’d brought them in Maisie walked past me and, rather furtively, muttered “six o’clock.”

That just gave me time to go home, shower, change and run an electric razer over my face. By 5.58 I was leaning nonchalantly on the wall alongside the plate glass window of the laundrette. A few minutes later Maisie emerged, wearing a fawn trench coat over her batik, and locked the door. She looked a little surprised when she saw me, and admitted “I didn’t think you’d show up. My place is just across the road there.”

I linked my arm through hers and we crossed the road to the multi-storey apartment block where she lived. The lobby was surprisingly clean, the walls clear of graffiti, and I was pleased to see the lift was working, especially when Maisie pressed the button for the 12th floor. As the doors clunked shut and the lift started with a jerk she chuckled. I asked her what was so funny and she said “I’m waiting for you to call my bluff and make a run for it.” In response I pushed her back against the lift wall and smacked my lips onto hers, resting my hands lightly on her breasts. Her eyes opened wide in shock for a moment then closed; she wrapped her arms around me in a bear hug and started to kiss me back with abandon, her mouth opening wide and her tongue thrusting into mine. She withdrew one arm and reached down to rub my cock through ümraniye escort my jeans, which was quickly stiffening. I always love that first moment of commitment – a small part of my brain wonders how long it is since the lady was last kissed with that kind of passion.

We hurriedly pulled apart as the lift doors opened, to reveal two girls in their early teens staring at us. They both chirped “Hello Mrs Brathwaite.” They entered the lift and as it closed again we heard them collapse in fits of giggles. Maisie grinned at me and rolled her eyes as she walked to a nearby lime green door and unlocked it. We stepped straight into a small, neat lounge. Maisie draped her coat over the back of a cream fabric sofa then spread her arms, presenting the place to me.

I walked over to the floor to ceiling window and looked out over a narrow balcony across the roofs of North London, with the towers of the City of London and The Shard gleaming in the far distance. Maisie said “So is this the bit where you hit me over the head and steal my life savings? Just kidding darlin’, I’m going for a shower, there’s drinks in the kitchen, mine’s a big rum and coke.” I found the kitchen easily and opened a small fridge. There was a big bottle of supermarket own brand diet cola, and I used that and a bottle of Plantation Rum standing on the counter to fix us both a drink. There was a bottle of lime juice as well, so I added a shot to turn my drink to a Cuba Libre.

Returning to the lounge I picked out an ’80s CD called Smooth Operators. As the title track by Sade started playing I quietly chuckled, flattering myself that it seemed quite appropriate. I settled on the sofa, sipping my drink, and turned to look over my shoulder as Maisie returned. She was wearing a knee-length cotton tiger-print dressing gown, tied closed with a thin belt. I now saw that her hair was cut to a stubbly grey-black fuzz, almost to the point of baldness. With a self-conscious grin she rounded the sofa and sat alongside me, a few inches away. Picking up her drink and taking a deep gulp of it, gazed straight ahead and said, “Well then, here we are.”

I eased myself next to her, gently placed her drink back on the coffee table, slipped my arm around her and pulled her round to face me. Our kiss quickly regained the level of intensity we’d achieved in the lift. She chuckled into my mouth as I eased a hand inside her robe. Her huge boobs hung down onto the swell of her belly; she gasped as my fingers closed on one of her long spongy nipples and began to twiddle it, like a radio knob. Maisie pressed her body into mine and, with one hand, undid the belt of my jeans then slipped her hand inside and into my boxers. I was as hard as a rock as her fingers closed around me. I was finding our position a bit awkward so, my lips still on hers, I whispered “How do you feel about moving into the bedroom?” Her hand withdrew from my cock and, with a glorious smile, she stood and reached out her hands to me and pulled me to my feet. Then, stepping back, she let her robe fall to the floor.

Maisie looked beautiful naked, and seeing her that way I realised she was a good few years older than I’d originally estimated. Her caramel-coloured boobs were lightly lined with stretch marks and her much darker areola were huge. Her belly hung down onto her mons; she was the first black woman I’d been with, and I noticed her pubes were not the silky hairs I was used to but closely concentrated fuzzy tufts. Each of her dimpled thighs was absolutely immense, and she had powerful calves. As she turned and led the way toward her bedroom I watched kartal escort the sway of her big meaty buttocks then quickly stripped off my own clothes and followed her.

Maisie was posed on a queen-sized bed, leaning up on her elbows on a white duvet, her feet flat, knees raised and wide open, giving me my first view of her pussy. She fixed her eyes on my groin and murmured “Well, hello big boy”, which I liked. I joined her and we cuddled up, bare skin to bare skin for the first time, and kissed gently, the tips of our tongues teasing each other. I got the impression she expected me to mount her immediately, but I wanted to taste her first.

Taking one of her boobs in each hand I kissed her throat then ran my tongue down the salty skin of her chest. I spent a while on her tits, sucking one and caressing the other, switching over several times. She fell back onto her pillow, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as he breath deepened. As she heated up she gave a series of little whines, and started to drum her feet on the bed. I traced my tongue downwards, wiggling it in her belly button which made her giggle, and across her Brillo pad pubes.

I shuffled down so my face was inches from her pussy and inhaled the scent of her arousal. She gasped audibly as I placed my fingers on her labia and eased them apart. The skin around her gash was darker than most of her body, and the damply shining pink slit and her stiffening pearly clit made a pretty contrast with it. Raising my mouth onto her I ran my tongue the length of her slit: her legs stiffened as if she’d been electrocuted and she gave a whinnying roar. As I licked and fingered her it became difficult to hold my position as she became increasingly aroused and began rolling from side to side. Despite her age Maisie certainly had plenty of juice wet, and my entire lower face was soon soaked. As she came she thrust as me several times and yelped over and over.

My cock was by now aching for action. As I shuffled up her body and spread her legs wide she made a little “ooh” sound then growled “Yeah baby, come to Mama Maisie”. Shuffling my knees either side of her I stroked the tip of my cock along her pussy, teasing her. She giggled nervously, then emitted a groaning gasp as I surged deep into her.

She was a glorious fuck, not tight of course but read hot and sopping wet. I actually heard the occasional little squeak from her pussy as I thrust at her. Maisie locked her legs around me and kept up an almost constant chatter throughout: “Oh yeah baby, so good, that’s it darlin’, ooh yes fuck Maisie, ohh that’s so nice…” The harder I hammered at her the more she enjoyed it; I was slamming into her for my last few strokes until finally, with us both roaring with joy, I shot my bolt inside her, before collapsing breathlessly onto her. Our sweaty bodies rose and fell in unison as we both gasped for breath.

I’ve seen Maisie a few more times since then. Sometimes I just give her a back massage, which she really appreciates, and she gives me a hand or blow job, a couple of times we’ve spent full nights together. I’d almost forgotten how nice it is to wake up to find your cock in a warm mouth. Though she hasn’t said anything to me about it, I strongly suspect that she’s tipped the wink to some of her friends too. A couple of weeks after our first meeting a 58-year old spinster at the local library confided to me out of the blue that her lifelong ambition was to ride a cock cowgirl in the open air – an ambition she’s now fulfilled! – and just last week Mrs Akhtar in the newsagents stroked her fingers slowly across my palm as she told me she gets so lonely on Friday nights when her husband goes away to visit his mother in Birmingham for the weekend. It’s Friday now – I’m just nipping down there to pick up the evening paper before Mrs A – “call me Mina, sweetie” – closes up for the night. See ya!

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