A Lesson in Monetary Policy

The first time I saw you at the local discussion group, you were arguing with Gerald about monetary policy, and I knew right then I wanted to fuck you.

Not in some abstract, romantic way. I wanted your legs over my shoulders and my tongue buried in your cunt. You were sharp, your gray hair cut in that stylish bob, and you had this wicked little smile when you knew you were right. Which was often. I sat across the table and watched your hands move when you talked, the way your wedding ring caught the fluorescent light.

I’m seventy years old. I’ve been around. I know when a woman is bored with her life and doesn’t know it yet.

The second meeting, you wore a navy blouse with the top two buttons undone. Not slutty. Just enough to make me wonder. You caught me looking and held my eyes a beat too long before glancing down at your notes. Your fingers found that ring and spun it. Nervous habit. I filed that away.

We talked after the meeting about the book, something about economic inequality, and you laughed at one of my jokes with your whole body. Your hand touched my forearm. You pulled it back fast, but I felt the heat of it for the next hour.

The third meeting was when I decided to stop dancing around it.

You were in a pale blue sundress, even though it was too cool for it, like you wanted summer to arrive early. I sat beside you instead of across, close enough to smell your perfume. Something floral. Old-fashioned. During the discussion, I let my knee rest against yours under the table, and you didn’t move away. Not for twenty minutes. Your breathing changed. I could hear it.

When the meeting ended and people started gathering their things, you stayed seated, fussing with your bag. Stalling. I stood up and leaned down, my lips almost touching your ear.

“I’d like to lick your cunt.”

I said it quiet, conversational, like I was commenting on the weather. Then I turned and walked toward the door.

Halfway across the room, I looked back.

You were frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Your knuckles white around the strap of your purse. Not offended. Not yet. Just stunned, like I’d slapped you awake from a long nap. I saw something shift behind your eyes, something hungry and terrified.

I walked out into the evening air and moved slow toward the parking lot, giving you time.

You caught up to me near the big oak tree by the sidewalk.

“That was inappropriate.”

Your voice was trying for stern. It came out breathy.

“Was it.”

I turned and looked at you. The parking lot lights made shadows on your face. Your chest was rising and falling too fast. Your lips were parted, and I could see the tip of your tongue.

“I’m married,” you said.

“I know.”

“I’m older than you.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m seventy-eight years old, Lawrence.”

“You think that matters to me?”

I stepped into your space, put one hand on your hip, and pulled you against me. You made a small sound, surprise maybe, but your body leaned in. I kissed you hard, no preamble, and your mouth opened under mine like you’d been waiting decades for someone to stop asking permission.

I ground against you, let you feel what you were doing to me. Your hands came up to my chest, not pushing, just holding on.

“My place is two blocks away,” I said against your mouth.

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say no. You just walked beside me, silent, your heels clicking on the sidewalk, your arm brushing mine. When we reached my condo building, you hesitated at the door. I held it open and waited. You looked up at the building, then at me, then stepped inside.

We didn’t speak in the elevator. I watched you watch the numbers climb. Your hands were trembling slightly. I wanted to press you against the wall and take you right there, but I waited. Good things need patience.

Inside my condo, I didn’t offer you a drink or a tour. I took your hand and led you to the bedroom. The bed was made, plain gray comforter, nothing special. I turned to face you.

“I’m going to do things to you that you’ve never had done before.”

Your eyes went wide again, but you didn’t argue. You knew it was true.

I kissed you again, softer this time, while my hands found the zipper of your sundress. I pulled it down slow, letting the fabric slide off your shoulders, down your arms, pooling at your feet. You stood there in a pale bra and panties, and you looked uncertain, like you wanted to cover yourself.

“Don’t,” I said. “You’re beautiful.”

I unhooked your bra and let it fall. Your breasts were soft, lower than they once were, but the nipples were dark pink and already tight. I ran my thumbs over them and you gasped.

Then I pushed you back onto the bed.

You bounced once, propped on your elbows, watching me. I pulled off your panties, tossed them somewhere, and spread your legs. You tried to close them, instinct maybe, but I held your knees apart.

“Keep them open.”

I lowered my mouth to your inner thigh. Kissed once. Twice. Licked a slow line upward. You shuddered. I could smell you now, that deep musky scent, and my cock was so hard it ached.

I worked my way up, licking and kissing everywhere except where you wanted me most. Your hips started to move, little involuntary jerks. Your breathing was ragged.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Please what.”

“Please, I don’t— I’ve never—”

I knew what you meant. You’d never had a man’s mouth on you. Your generation, your husband, the whole proper life you’d lived. Oral sex was probably something you’d only read about, if that.

I grabbed both your wrists and pinned them to your sides. Your eyes flew open.

“I’ve got you,” I said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Then I put my mouth on your cunt.

You screamed. Not loud, but a real scream, shocked and raw. I licked up through your folds, found your clit, and circled it with my tongue. You bucked against my face, and I held your wrists tighter, kept you pinned while I ate you out.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

You were soaking wet. Your taste was strong and good, and I buried my tongue inside you, then back up to your clit, over and over. Your thighs clamped around my head, but I didn’t stop. I sucked your clit between my lips and flicked it with my tongue, and your whole body went rigid.

“Lawrence, I’m— something’s—”

You came with a cry that sounded almost like pain, your back arching off the bed, your wrists straining against my grip. I kept licking you through it, gentler now, until you collapsed.

I let go of your wrists and crawled up beside you. Your eyes were wet. You stared at the ceiling like you’d just seen God.

“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” I said.

You turned your head to look at me, and there was something new in your expression. Wonder. And hunger.

That was the first time.

The second time, you showed up at my door three days later without calling. You were wearing jeans and a simple blouse, and you walked in and kissed me before I could say hello. We barely made it to the bedroom.

The third time is the one I want to tell you about.

You came over on a Thursday afternoon. I’d given you a key by then. You let yourself in and found me in the living room reading. You stood in the doorway, and I could tell something was different. There was a boldness in the way you looked at me, a directness that hadn’t been there before.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did,” you said.

“Which part.”

“All of it. The way you held me down.”

I set my book aside. “You liked that.”

It wasn’t a question. You nodded slowly, your cheeks flushing pink.

“I didn’t know I would. I didn’t know I could like… that.”

I stood up and walked to you. “There’s a lot you don’t know you like yet.”

I took your hand and led you to the bedroom. This time, you undressed yourself, watching me watch you. Your body was still shy, but your eyes weren’t. You lay back on the bed and reached for me.

I undressed and climbed over you, and you spread your legs willingly. I entered you slow, and you were wet already, ready for me. I fucked you deep and steady, watching your face, the way your mouth opened, the way your eyes half-closed. Your hands gripped my shoulders.

“Harder,” you said.

I gave you harder. The bed creaked. Your breasts bounced with each thrust. You wrapped your legs around my waist and pulled me deeper.

Then I grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head.

Your reaction was instant. Your pupils dilated. Your breathing hitched. Your cunt clenched around my cock.

“Yes,” you hissed. “Yes, like that.”

I held you down and fucked you until you came, and then I kept going, driving through your orgasm while you thrashed under me. When I felt myself getting close, I pulled out and straddled your chest.

“What are you—”

I came on your chest. Hot ropes across your collarbone, between your breasts. You looked down at the mess, stunned, and I saw the conflict flash across your face. Disgust, maybe. Or the memory of a lifetime of being told this was dirty, wrong, degrading.

I scooped some of it onto my fingers and brought them to your lips.

“Open.”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together.

“No, Lawrence, I can’t—”

I held your jaw with my other hand, not hard, but firm. “Open your mouth, Delia.”

Your eyes met mine. I saw the struggle, the old rules fighting the new hunger. Then your lips parted.

I slid my fingers inside. You made a face at the taste, salty and thick, but you swallowed. I fed you the rest from my fingers, and you took it, your eyes never leaving mine.

When it was done, I came down on top of you and kissed you deep, and you kissed me back with a wildness I hadn’t seen before. Your nails raked down my back. You bit my lip.

“You’re a bastard,” you said, but you were smiling.

“You love it.”

“I do. God help me, I do.”

You pulled me down and wrapped yourself around me, and we lay there in the mess and the sweat, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, like you’d just discovered something about yourself that changed everything.

“My husband has never even seen me fully naked with the lights on,” you said.

“His loss.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow and looked at me. “You’re ruining me, you know.”

“I’m improving you.”

You snorted. “Same thing, maybe.”

I traced a finger along your collarbone, through the drying streaks. “You came back three times. You’re not ruined. You’re just awake.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then you said, “I was sleepwalking through my whole life, Lawrence. Fifty-three years of marriage, and I never once felt what I feel with you.”

“Regrets?”

“None.” You said it fast, sure. “Is that terrible?”

“It’s honest.”

You kissed my chest, then my mouth. “When can I come back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What if I want to come back tonight?”

I laughed. “Then you know where the key is.”

You did come back that night. And the night after. And somewhere in the middle of the fourth or fifth time, tangled in my sheets with your hair a mess and your lipstick long gone, you told me you’d stopped spinning your wedding ring during group discussions.

“I don’t need to anymore,” you said.

I kissed your forehead. “Good.”

The discussion group still meets every Tuesday. You still argue with Gerald about monetary policy. I still sit across from you and watch your hands move when you talk. But now, when you catch me looking, you don’t glance away. You smile that wicked smile, and I know exactly what you’re thinking.

And after the meeting, you walk two blocks to my condo, let yourself in with your key, and show me all the new things you’ve discovered you like.