Thespian Spanking

Thespian Spanking

My sex life has never followed traditional lines or conformed to most people's expectations. That's from when it started, through losing my virginity, the early flings and adventures and continued as I ambled through my twenties with some proper grown-up stuff. I guess the simplest way of summing it up is to call it odd. Yes, my sex life has been and still is odd.

This oddness also extends to my sexuality and to my choice of age where I have always been more comfortable with people, including my lovers, who are much older than me.

This story takes place in the nineteen nineties which in my opinion is the most boring decade ever. Perhaps I tried to liven it up by my odd sexual behaviour.

*

I could hardly believe it. He was older than the lecturer I'd fucked at uni, older than my father's friend who I had a lengthy, well for me, nine months fling with and, in fact, he was also older than my dad. Yes, Jon was into his late fifties. But that didn't stop him being an amazingly good fuck and probably the most interesting man I'd slept with and maybe had ever known.

He was an actor. Not tremendously successful but a face that when seen in a film or on TV, would make many people think. 'Now who's that, I know him?' Recently though, he hadn't had much work. His style was a little old fashioned and there were just too many actors around with his looks, so he had become known as, what all in the profession dread being called, unfashionable.

He did some lecturing at the acting school I was attending, after dipping out from uni in the second year, and we immediately hit it off. That was largely due to me having produced at university the Joe Orton classic play 'What the Butler Saw.' Jon had once starred in that and had a love for it as I did. So, after one of his, highly entertaining, very interesting and really quite motivational lectures, he asked me about my production.

That led to me staying behind chatting to him about it and that led to us having a drink in a wine bar down the street, near to the British Museum in Bloomsbury, London.

"I know there's a vast age difference Jay," he was saying as we finished the bottle of red wine that evening. "But I would so like to take you out. Would you entertain the idea of having dinner with me one evening?" And that led to us agreeing to have dinner a few days later.

I smiled at the nice and rather proper, somewhat old-fashioned way he phrased the suggestion. It was clever for he was polite, he followed a traditional etiquette, that he knew appealed to me, because I'd told him so, but he made no pretence at all of hiding the fact that it was a date. Not just a dinner, not a chance to chat more about What the Butler Saw, not a meeting to talk about the business and not an opportunity for him to teach me about the theatre. No, it was going to be a date with all that implies. It was going to be a test as to whether we fancied each other; he was putting his aging self on the line with a young woman over thirty years his junior.

Yes, there was a degree of arrogance there, but then actors are like that, they have to be. I had told him that I preferred the company of older people and, quite frankly, I was enjoying the drink with him far more than I'd enjoyed several recent dates with younger guys.

"Well do I get an answer to that?" he asked very politely.

I was taking a sip of wine when he said that. I lifted my eyes up over the rim of the glass and caught his gaze. I smiled as I put the glass down. I couldn't help joshing him a bit for, although I quite liked the formality of his phrasing, it was a little pompous.

"I might entertain the idea Jon...," I said smiling as I then paused, putting the ball back into his court.

He also smiled and reaching out across the small table he rested his fingers on the back of my hand.

"Ah, I see, entertain it you might, but agree to it still has to be confirmed, does it?"

"Of course," I smiled holding his gaze rather flirtatiously as he rubbed his fingertips softly up the back of my hand, onto my wrist then under it to where my pulse was beating, rather fast in fact.

"And what, I wonder," he said, as if talking to himself. "Will persuade the young lady to confirm whether she will or not?"

I didn't say anything. I simply enjoyed the feelings as he held my hand running his fingertips slowly round and round my palm. It was lovely. I couldn't recall the last time a man had held my hand and done that. Maybe it was a rather old-fashioned gesture; if so, it made me hanker for the old-fashioned times! But then I always have thought I was born in the wrong age and that I'm more suited to the fifties or before. Even my body and look are more fifties than nineties. I am not the fashionably scrawny of the approaching twenty-first century with almost non-existent tits but an ample C cup with full hips and a rounded bum that men seem to like. As James, my last older man lover described me 'a young woman's face on a real woman's body.' I quite liked that. Oh yes and I have blonde, shoulder-length hair and I wear glasses that I am told, though I don't see it myself, are sexy. How the fuck can short-sightedness and glasses be sexy?

As we sat there staring and smiling at each other, my hand in his, so I felt his knee against mine under the table. At first it could, of course, have been an accident, but when it returned and went away and then returned again all suspicion of that was removed. It was being done on purpose as a signal, a sort of request, an emphasis of the asking for a date. Again, a little old-fashioned perhaps, but nevertheless extremely intimate and alluring, I thought and, actually bloody sexy.

It was down to me now. I could easily move away and all could be forgotten. I could remove my hand, say I was busy or had a boyfriend and no face would be lost. On the other hand, I could press back implying yes in a very clear way. Or I could be a bit of a cow and do nothing, leaving the problem completely with him. What do you reckon I did?

He knew the game as for sure, he'd played it before; he was obviously quite used to dealing with stroppy little bitches like me but then, he was in the theatre wasn't he and there were loads like me in there? He realised exactly what I was doing and what I was playing at. He seemed to be able to read me, understand me and work out what I was thinking. That always intrigued me in a man and turned me on a little. I guess the sub in me respecting the domme in him, or something like that.

He continued gently rubbing the palm of my hand and pressing his knee firmly against mine as he looked right into my eyes.

"You have the most beguiling eyes, Jayne," he murmured staring deep into them.

I wasn't convinced he really meant that and that it wasn't just more flattery for as always, I was wearing my glasses. As if talking to himself again he went on. "It's as if I can see deep into your inner soul." As he was saying that he was still gently rubbing my fingers, hand and wrist and now, blatantly, pressing his leg against my knee. "I can see through your eyes, I can see you are a passionate woman, an intense woman. A woman that knows what she wants and how to get that. I can see so much about you." As he revved things up so his foot rested on mine then ran up the side of calf.

Not only did the lovely old letch have a way with words and actions, he also knew just what to call me. None of this modern, near millennium chick or babe or calling me a girl. No, he called me what, as a twenty-three-year-old I wanted to be called, a woman!

It was quite heady stuff and I felt relieved that we were in a shielded corner where nobody would be able to see what we were doing. This became particularly relevant when his knee pressed against my closed knees, firstly quite firmly, then, after a moment or two, even firmer. I suppose I could have resisted, for it wouldn't have been physically difficult to stop him going further. Other than by resorting to real force I doubt that he could have forced my knees apart. It wasn't a physical force, therefore, that made me slowly open them so his knee could slip between mine. No, he didn't force his way there nor did he open mine by his bodily strength alone. It was a completely different force that caused me to welcome his leg between mine, to invite it to examine my bare thighs and to let it slide between my legs until it found the hem of my, rather short, denim skirt. Yes, it wasn't physical, it was part emotional, but I realised with a jolt, it was mainly sexual.

And that shocked me for I rarely felt such a strong feeling for someone. As I've mentioned I feel I'm a little odd with regard to my attitude towards sex. This was just another example of that oddness. I've been chatted up by fantastic looking guys aged anywhere between my age and mid-thirties and rarely if ever do I get a strong sexual yearning for them. Yet here I was sitting in a wine bar, my hand being held and caressed, my thighs being rubbed by the leg of a man well old enough to be my father, possibly grandfather even. Here I was almost creaming myself as such intimate and romantic things were said to me by a man that was probably nearly sixty. Yes, here I was, beginning to want to be fucked by a man that was more than thirty years older than me; and one that was balding and a bit paunchy at that!

I think he realised what I was thinking? How? I have no idea but by some form of silent communication I'm sure he picked up my vibes; ESP perhaps. He took my hand in both of his and lifted it up to his lips. He kissed the back of my hand easing his knee further between mine as he did, thank God, I thought, for the red and white check table cloth! He leaned forward and kissed me softly on my cheek. I didn't demure or try to stop him. Why would I when I acknowledged to myself that was what I wanted?

"You're a very beautiful woman Jay," he breathed, instinctively it seemed, knowing exactly the sort of thing I wanted to hear. He kissed my cheek again and whispered. "Very beautiful with the most alluring body and figure."

I'd remained silent as he'd turned the pressure up, but now I was beginning to feel a bit like that scene in the movie which I had only just seen, When Harry met Sally where Meg Ryan has an orgasm at a table in a coffee shop. As he was verbally seducing me, caressing my hand, kissing my cheek and in a way, sort of fucking me with his leg, I wondered whether it was possible to be made to cum from those actions alone. I was more and more thinking that it was, for I'm sure my panties were soaked and I knew my nipples were exploding.

"Come to my flat Jay, let me love you there," he whispered as he licked the back of my hand and stared into my eyes.

*

It was probably the most romantic fuck I'd ever had. In fact, that entire evening was probably the most romantic evening I'd ever had, albeit in a rather old-fashioned way.

We caught a cab to his flat in that hinterland of an area between Euston and Camden Town. A nothing sort of area that didn't seem able to decide whether it was on the up or on the way down. It was a second floor walk-up flat in a fairly large town house, nicely furnished with that sort of fading elegant look that so appeals to the well to do and aristocracy and, so it seems, to fading actors as well.

He turned one lamp on but no more. The lights from the street created a nice, dim quite romantic glow to the large lounge. He made no pretence that this was anything other than us going to have sex. He didn't make small talk offer me a drink or ask me to sit down. None of that was necessary, he knew it and I knew it. We were there for one reason and one reason only, to make love.

He took me in his arms and kissed me. No preamble or asking permission. It was a wonderful kiss; as far as I was concerned it was the kiss of a master lover. He held me tight, he moulded our bodies together and his lips found mine. Our mouths were closed as our lips touched but they slowly opened as they were pressed together. His tongue licked its way round my lips, against my gums, over my teeth and into my mouth. He licked the roof of my mouth, the inside of teeth and my tongue. He was patient, slow, methodical and amazingly erotic.

His hands were running up and down my back. They fiddled with my bra strap, the waistband of my short denim skirt, which was fashionably just a whisker above my pubis line and the top of the crease in my bum, and the hem of the pink, loose, short sleeved, scooped neck, silky top. They seemed to be saying they'll all be attended to in time, but not just yet.

He knew as well as I did that, I was powerless to stop him undressing me, that I wouldn't be able to resist him taking my clothes off and that there was no way anything could hamper me being naked for him. It was as inevitable as night following day, but there was no hurry; after all experts, master lovers have no need to hurry, do they?

"I am going to make the most wonderful love to you Jay," he murmured into my ear as his fingers ran through my long blonde hair and up and down my neck sending shivers through my entire body.

"Mmmm, that'll be nice," was all I could rather inanely murmur back.

"That is what you want isn't it?" he asked piling my hair on top of my head. "Yes Jon, yes it is I gasped," unable to think or breath properly let alone make sensible conversation.

"Good, Jay, that's so good, for that's what I badly want to do. I can't remember so utterly desiring any woman as I do you."

God what language I thought. Sure, a bit stuffy and formal, very old fashioned and quite grandiose but to a twenty-three-year-old romantic like me it was pearls of wisdom, phrases from heaven and words that makes me drop my knickers.

As phrases such as:

"I have so wanted you since the moment I saw you,"

"I lie awake at night thinking of nothing but your face and wondering at the beauties your body holds,"

"I dream of seeing your young, firm breasts, your hard, pink nipples and your pert, firm bum."

"We'll make perfect, totally wonderful orgasmic love Jay," rolled over me, I was ready for anything. He had been priming me all evening and was now ready to fire both barrels, hard and fast.

He took my hand and led me to his bedroom. It was quite small but had a double bed. It was dim, but not so dark that we couldn't see each other. We stood facing each other alongside the bed, he was holding my hand. He brought that up to his mouth and kissed the palm; he took one of my fingers slightly into his mouth and softly sucked it. He ran his tongue up and down that finger, he chewed it, gently and then once more took it into his mouth but this time as far as it would go. I was mesmerised by this. He was doing all the things to my finger that girls do to men during oral sex. As I watched, my finger became a cock and so I sort of became a man, he became woman and we made this incredible oral love that ended up with him pulling my body against his as he sucked three of my fingers in his mouth.

We didn't speak, I think we'd gone beyond words, they simply weren't needed.

He stopped face fucking my fingers, he let go of my hand and moved away a foot or two. His eyes boring into mine he started undoing the buttons on his dark blue, heavy cotton shirt. One by one he slowly exposed the fairly matted salt and pepper-coloured hairs on his broad chest. I suddenly thought I'd never been to bed with a man with so much grey hair on his chest and I realised he must dye the hair on his head. I almost giggled at the thought.

His shirt was fully undone and his fingers were now undoing his leather pleated belt. He was so confident and so assured which I found to be very sexy and such a turn on. He still hadn't taken his eyes from mine, it was as if he was reading my thoughts and manipulating my mind. Manipulating it to the extent that, crossing my arms and reaching downwards, I took hold of the hem of my top. I saw approval in his eyes as his belt came undone and he slowly pushed his zip down. Between the opened edges of his shirt, I could see that, although a little overweight and with the matted greying hairs, his chest was full and quite muscular which made me wonder if he worked oud, I guessed that he did.

His eyes seemed as if they were telling me what to do and slowly, a bit like a stripper I suppose, I lifted my top up and up. It went over my breasts, onto my shoulders, over my face and head until it was off. After rearranging my glasses, I held it for a moment as we stared at each other. Then, as if on cue, we both dropped our tops to the floor. The look in his eyes as they roamed over my chest focusing more and more on my breasts almost made me squirm with sexual want.

I looked down. I was wearing a white, almost transparent bra. I knew that he'd be focusing on the dark bumps in the bra where, even in the subdued light, my hugely erect nipples would be very evident. And the more he stared so the harder they seemed to become. And of course, as they became harder so I became more and more aroused, more excited and more and more turned on. And as that happened so I became more and more receptive to the unspoken persuasions that his masterful gaze conveyed to me. I think I was smiling a little, for that was reflected by more of a glint in his eye and some movements in his lips, as now without thinking I reached both hands behind me. As I struggled momentarily with my bra clasp so, inevitably, my C cup boobs were pushed forward and thrust upward, thankfully making them look larger and less like the tits of a young girl, as they usually did.

I loved the look in his eyes as he saw my breasts straining against the thin fabric of each cup. It was a look I'd seen so often. It was the look that photographers have when they snap away at me, the look when I undress, expose my breasts and open my legs to flash my most personal places for the lens of their cameras. Yes, it was the look of adoration of and lust for my body; the look that exhibitionists such as I so badly need and revel in.

He broke the silence. Standing there just in his boxers, his erection clear and obvious and giving him absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever he sighed as I dropped my bra to join my top on the floor.

"Oh Jay your breasts are sublime."

He reached his hand out and gently ran the back of his fingernails across the swell of one of my breasts, into my cleavage and then up and over my other one. He came back again. This time though, his fingertips fluttered across the equator of each mound, across each apex, across the circumference of each orb, across, of course, each nipple. Each straining, hard, aching, pulsating nipple; each inflamed, engorged, seething, sensitive nipple. Each nipple that was showing my arousal, so signifying my need for sex, and clearly indicating my total and utter desire for this man, to fuck me. As so gently he caressed my breasts and nipples in a way they'd never been before he was making low moans and deep sighs, looking into my eyes and whispering how adorable I was; all very hedonistic and ego massaging stuff indeed.

Considering he was as old as he was and that I was barely out of my teens, that I was a drama student and a photographic model and he was an actor with a body turning paunchy, a head of hair that was balding and grey chest hairs he was amazingly self-assured in the sexual arena. Without waiting for me, without checking to see whether I was ready and without any further ado, he slid his boxers down and off in one series of quick movements. He stood before me proudly naked and superbly and rampantly aroused. He was certainly no Adonis, but the way he held himself, the manner in which he behaved towards me and the total air of authority and control he had more than made up for that. As his main career has gone down the toilet, perhaps he's gone into porn movies I wondered with a wry smile?