Saturday Silk Lessons

You showed up on a Saturday evening this time. Not Tuesday after the group, not one of your usual drop-bys. You'd called ahead, which was new. You sounded different on the phone — not nervous exactly, but rehearsed, like you'd been practicing what to say and still couldn't get it right.

"I want to try something," you said.

"Come over and tell me."

"No. I want to tell you now so you can think about it."

I leaned back on my couch. "Go ahead."

A pause. Then: "I want to tie you down."

I didn't say anything for a moment. Not because it shocked me. Because I was trying to locate my own reaction. Tying up wasn't really my thing. I'd done it before, years ago, with women who needed to be in control for a night. It was fine. It didn't do much for me one way or the other. But the fact that *you* wanted it — Delia, seventy-eight, married for fifty-three years to a man who'd never seen her fully naked with the lights on — that was something.

"Lawrence?"

"I'm here."

"Is that a no?"

"It's a yes. Bring whatever you need."

Another pause. "I don't have anything. I was hoping you'd have something."

I almost laughed. "I've got a couple of neckties that'll do the job."

"Oh." You sounded disappointed. "I thought there'd be... special things."

"I'm not a hardware store, Delia. Eight o'clock?"

"Eight o'clock."

You arrived at seven fifty-three. I heard the key in the lock, the click of the door, your footsteps in the hallway. You came into the living room carrying a canvas tote bag, which you set on the kitchen counter without explanation. You were wearing a black skirt that hit just below the knee and a cream-colored blouse with small buttons. Your hair was down, which I'd only seen once before. It fell past your shoulders, silver-white, and it made you look younger and older at the same time.

"You look good," I said.

"You look like you were reading." You nodded at the book face-down on the arm of the couch.

"I was. You look better than the book."

"Flatterer." But you smiled. You always smiled at that kind of thing now, whereas the first few times you'd looked conflicted, like you weren't sure whether to enjoy a compliment from a man who wasn't your husband.

I stood up and kissed you. You kissed me back, firm and sure, your hand coming up to the back of my neck. You'd gotten good at kissing. The first time you'd been tentative, almost chaste. Now you kissed like you owned my mouth.

"Bedroom?" you asked.

"Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready now."

I took your hand and led you down the hall. You'd been in my bedroom enough times that you didn't hesitate at the doorway anymore. You walked in and sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at me with that expression I'd come to recognize — the one that said you wanted something but weren't sure you were allowed to want it.

I went to the closet and pulled out two neckties. One was navy silk, the other burgundy with a subtle pattern. I held them up. "These work?"

You took them from me and turned them over in your hands, feeling the fabric. "These are nice ties."

"They were. They've got a new job now."

You almost laughed. Then you looked at me, and I watched the boldness come back into your face, that directness I'd first seen when you told me you'd been thinking about being held down.

"Take off your clothes," you said.

I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped my pants. I stood there in my boxer briefs, and you looked at me with open appreciation. You'd told me once that you liked my body, that I didn't look like the men your age, that I looked like the men in the magazines she'd hidden under her mattress as a teenager. I'd taken that as a compliment.

"The rest," you said.

I stepped out of the boxer briefs. My cock was half hard, hanging thick between my legs. You looked at it the way you always did — with a mix of fascination and something I can only call reverence, like you still couldn't quite believe you were in a room with a naked man who wanted you.

"Lie down," you said.

I lay back on the bed, arms above my head, and watched you climb over me. You straddled my thighs and leaned forward. Your hands were shaking again, just slightly, as you wrapped the navy tie around my left wrist and knotted it to the bedpost. You did the same with the burgundy tie on my right wrist. You pulled both tight enough that I could feel the restraint but not so tight it'd cut off circulation. You'd thought about this. You'd looked it up, probably. I imagined you sitting at your kitchen table with your husband in the next room, researching knot techniques on your iPad.

You sat back and looked at your work. My arms were stretched above my head, spread wide, my chest and stomach exposed. You were still fully dressed, sitting on my thighs, and I could feel the warmth of you through your skirt.

"Now what?" I asked.

Your face changed. The boldness flickered, and something uncertain came through. You'd tied me down. You'd gotten that far. But you hadn't thought past it, or if you had, the reality of it was different from the fantasy.

"I'm not sure," you admitted.

"That's okay. Take your time."

You put your hands on my chest. Just rested them there, feeling my heartbeat. Then you leaned down and kissed my sternum, soft, barely a kiss. You moved to my left nipple and kissed that too, then ran your tongue over it. I exhaled slowly. You looked up at my face, checking.

"That's good," I said.

You did it again, more deliberately, and I felt your lips curve into a smile against my skin. You kissed your way across my chest to the other nipple, then down along the center line of my stomach, your tongue tracing the trail of hair below my navel. You were moving slowly, exploring, and I realized this was different for you. Every other time, I'd been the one in control. I'd pinned you, directed you, told you what to do. Now you were the one with your hands free and your mouth on me, and you were figuring out what that felt like.

You slid down my body until you were kneeling between my legs. My cock was fully hard now, lying flat against my stomach, and you looked at it the way you looked at everything sexual — like it was a puzzle you were solving late in life.

You kissed the base of it. Just a soft press of your lips against the shaft, near where it met my body. Then you kissed it again, an inch higher. And again. Slow, deliberate kisses up the length of me, like you were reading Braille. When you got to the head, you kissed that too, and I felt your tongue dart out once, just tasting.

"You don't have to do that," I said, because I knew you'd never done it. Your husband had probably never asked, and you'd certainly never offered.

"I know I don't have to." You looked up at me, and there was something fierce in your expression. "I want to."

You took the head of my cock in your mouth, just the tip, and swirled your tongue around it. I groaned, and your eyes flickered with satisfaction. You took a little more, awkward at first, your teeth grazing me once before you figured out the angle. You bobbed twice, three times, then pulled off and kissed the shaft again, wet now from your mouth.

Then you did something I didn't expect. You crawled back up my body, kissing as you went — my stomach, my chest, my neck — and then you swung your leg over my face.

You were still wearing your skirt. I could feel the fabric against my chest, and above me I could see up into the shadow between your thighs. You paused there, hovering, and I felt you tremble.

"Delia."

"I want to—" Your voice broke. "I want to sit on your face."

"Then sit on my face."

You pulled your skirt up around your waist. You were wearing panties — plain white cotton, practical, the kind of thing that would have looked boring on anyone else but on you struck me as incredibly erotic because they were so utterly, honestly *you*. You tugged them to the side, and I could see your cunt, glistening, the silver hair trimmed short.

You lowered yourself. Tentatively at first, barely making contact, your weight on your knees on either side of my head. I stuck out my tongue and licked you, a long slow stroke through your folds, and you gasped and froze.

"Keep going," I said against you, the words muffled.

You lowered yourself a little more. I licked again, finding your clit, circling it. Your thighs tightened around my head. I worked my tongue against you, and I felt the moment it shifted — the moment you stopped being tentative and started being hungry. You ground down, pressing your cunt against my mouth, and I buried my tongue inside you, then dragged it back up to your clit and sucked.

"Oh god, Lawrence—"

You were riding my face now, your hips moving in slow circles, your hands braced on the headboard above my tied wrists. I could barely breathe, but I didn't care. I licked and sucked and worked my mouth against you, and you made sounds I'd never heard from you before — low, guttural, almost angry sounds, like your body was furious at you for waiting seventy-eight years to feel this.

You came with a shudder that started in your thighs and moved through your whole body. You ground down hard, smearing yourself against my mouth, and I kept licking until you collapsed forward against the headboard, breathing hard.

For a moment, nothing. Just your breathing and my breathing and the sound of the neighborhood outside my window.

Then you climbed off my face and looked down at me. Your expression had changed again. The uncertainty was gone. Something else had taken its place.

You untucked your blouse and unbuttoned it slowly, never breaking eye contact. You shrugged it off. Unclasped your bra — front closure, efficient — and let it fall. Your breasts hung soft and heavy, nipples dark and still tight from your orgasm. You unzipped your skirt and pushed it down your legs, stepped out of it, kicked your panties off to the side.

You were naked, and you weren't shy about it anymore. You stood beside the bed, looking at me tied up and hard, and you looked like a woman who had figured something out.

You climbed back on the bed and straddled me again, this time lower, positioning yourself over my cock. You reached down and guided me inside you, sinking down in one slow motion until I was buried to the root. We both groaned.

You started to move. Not the way you'd moved before, when I'd been on top and you'd been underneath, responding to my rhythm. This was your rhythm. Slow, deliberate, grinding your hips in circles that pressed your clit against my pubic bone with each rotation. Your hands were on my chest, fingers spread, and you rode me with a focus that was almost frightening.

"Delia—"

"Shut up." You said it quietly, without malice, and I felt my cock twitch inside you. You noticed. You smiled. "You like that."

I did. I wasn't going to pretend I didn't.

You leaned forward and kissed my neck. Not a soft kiss — a hard one, open-mouthed, sucking at the skin. I felt the pressure build and then the sharp bite of your teeth, and I flinched.

"Delia, that's going to leave a mark."

"Good." You moved to the other side of my neck and did it again, harder, and I felt the blood rise to the surface. Then you kissed down my chest and bit the curve of my shoulder, then the side of my neck again, and I realized you were marking me, leaving bruises, and something about it — the possessiveness, the rawness, the sheer *want* of it — made my cock throb inside you.

You rode me harder, bouncing now, your breasts swaying, your hands gripping my shoulders. You leaned down and kissed my mouth, aggressive, your tongue pushing past my lips, your teeth catching my lower lip. You bit down and I tasted blood, just a drop, and I groaned into your mouth.

"I'm going to come," I said.

"Not yet."

"I can't—"

You stopped moving. Just sat there, full of me, and squeezed. Your cunt clenched around my cock like a fist, and I bucked involuntarily, straining against the ties.

"I said not yet." Your voice was low and steady. You held me there, not moving, your internal muscles working me in slow contractions. I was right on the edge, and you held me there, and I understood something I hadn't before: this was what it felt like to be controlled. Not playfully, not symbolically. Actually controlled. By a seventy-eight-year-old woman who'd discovered her backbone about three weeks ago.

You started moving again, slow at first, then faster, and I could feel your second orgasm building — the way your breathing changed, the way your cunt got wetter and tighter. You reached down and rubbed your clit while you rode me, shameless, your fingers working fast, and when you came the second time you threw your head back and made a sound that was almost a scream.

The squeezing and the wetness and the sight of you above me, head thrown back, breasts exposed, face contorted in pleasure — it pushed me over. I came hard, pulsing inside you, my hips jerking up off the bed, my wrists straining against the ties. I filled you, rope after rope, and you kept moving, grinding down, taking all of it.

When I was done, you climbed off me. You stood beside the bed, and I watched as you reached between your legs. You slid two fingers inside yourself and pulled them out, coated in my cum and yours. You held them up, looked at them, then looked at me.

"Open your mouth," you said.

I stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me." You climbed back onto the bed, straddling my stomach, and held your fingers to my lips. They were slick, streaked white. "Open."

I turned my head. "Delia, I don't—"

You grabbed my left nipple and twisted. Hard. A spike of pain shot through my chest, and I gasped, my mouth opening involuntarily. Before I could close it, your fingers were inside, sliding over my tongue. I tasted salt and musk and the bitter-sweet of my own cum mixed with you.

"Swallow."

I tried to pull back, but your weight was on my chest and my wrists were still tied. You reached behind you with your other hand and found my balls, still sensitive from coming, and wrapped your fingers around them. Not squeezing yet, but the threat was there.

"Swallow, Lawrence."

I looked up at your face. Your expression was calm, patient, utterly certain. There was no cruelty in it — just a woman who had learned something about power and was testing its edges.

I swallowed.

You smiled. You scooped more out of yourself, two fingers deep, and brought them to my mouth again. This time I opened without being told. You fed me my own cum from your fingers, and I took it, and something about the act — the submission of it, the sheer wrongness that felt so right — made my spent cock twitch against your thigh.

You leaned down and kissed me, deep and slow, tasting everything. Then you untied my wrists, one hand on each knot, careful and precise. You rubbed the marks where the silk had pressed into my skin.

"Did I hurt you?" you asked, and the tenderness in your voice was startling after the last twenty minutes.

"No." I flexed my hands, feeling the blood flow back. "You might have given me a hickey that'll be visible at the next group meeting."

"Good. Maybe Gerald will notice and finally stop asking me out for coffee."

I laughed. "You're a dangerous woman, Delia."

"I'm a dangerous woman who just figured out she likes being in charge." She lay down beside me, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine. "My husband thinks I'm at the library."

"Are you ever going to tell him?"

"Tell him what? That I've been having the most intense sex of my life with a man eight years younger than me? That he pins my arms above my head and makes me feel utterly powerless — and I love it? That last time he came on my chest and then made me taste it, and when I tried to push him away he just held me down and fed it to me anyway, and I came harder than I ever have in forty years of marriage?" She paused. "How would I tell him that I like being in control sometimes…like tonight. The wicked sexyness of this isn't something he could grasp. No. I'm not going to tell him. He wouldn't understand. He'd think I'd lost my mind."

"Have you?"

"Probably." She traced a finger along the bite mark on my neck. "Does this one show?"

"It'll be purple by morning."

"Perfect." She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at me with that expression — the one that had started as wonder and hunger and was now something more complex. Ownership, maybe. Or gratitude dressed up as mischief.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

"I thought you had group on Tuesday."

"I do. But I also have a key and a very flexible schedule." She kissed the bite mark, then my mouth. "And you have more ties."

I looked at her — seventy-eight years old, naked in my bed, silver hair tangled, my cum drying on her inner thighs, hickeys forming on my neck — and I thought: this is what happens when you wake someone up. They don't just wake up. They take over.

"Next Saturday," I said.

"Friday," she countered.

"Friday."

She smiled, kissed me once more, and got up to get dressed. I watched her button her blouse and smooth her skirt, transforming back into the composed woman who argued about monetary policy with Gerald every Tuesday. But I could see the marks she'd left on me reflected in the mirror across the room, and I knew that on Tuesday, when I sat across from her at the community center, I'd feel every one of them.

She paused at the bedroom door, looked back at me still naked on the bed, and said: "You should buy more ties, Lawrence. Silk ones."

Then she was gone, and I heard the front door close, and I lay there in the quiet thinking about Friday, and about what a seventy-eight-year-old woman could do with a whole collection of silk ties and nobody to tell her she shouldn't.