How My Sexuality Changes as I Age Ch. 02

A few words from Jayne, the author.

With the first two parts I explained how many of us change as we get older and wiser (?) and how that influences our attitude towards sex. In those two parts we looked at how many women, including me, who are deprived of the regular loving sex of the early days of a relationship use masturbation as a substitute. As we experiment with how we do that and develop new techniques as I explained I did, so many of us want more. For most it's probably too soon to break their marriage vows completely but many of us give out silent messages to, particularly, the predatory males who zero in on us.

This part of my story looks at how that happened to me and how I resurrect memories from the dim and distant past of my youth.

Hugs

J x

After successfully wanking her way through the masturbating stage of her changing attitudes, many women will move onto a period where she notices, and sometimes responds to, the flattery and touchy-feely moments offered to her. During this stage she'll notice guys holding eye contact a little longer than they should, smiling and, perhaps raising their eyebrows enquiringly as they run their gaze up and down her body often focusing longer on her breasts, the hemline of her dress to see as much of her legs as possible or her ass, especially in tight jeans, leggings or shorts. It's also when she'll be touched more often sometimes in intimate places. At first, it may simply be a fingers touching her bare wrist or upper arm, or maybe an arm will go around her waist as she goes first through a doorway as his hand gently rests on her lower back and maybe even drifts further down onto the swell of her ass.

Women like me who live around London and commute into there for work also face another significant and unwanted touchy feely almost daily experience, being touched up on the crowded trains, particularly the London Tube. During the morning and evening rush hours the trains are extremely crowded and many passengers have to stand. As the trains get nearer to London and people are still getting on with few getting off people are squashed together so tightly their bodies are touching from their chests downwards. It's not possible to look around or keep tabs on what's going on beneath waist level and that's when women will now and then, and certainly most weeks, feel something pressed against her. Often that's just an accidental leg or hip, but now and then the shape, length and hardness of it will tell her that it's something more sinister and, in a way, exciting than that. Another feeling is when something moves around the swell of her ass pressing and often squeezing right on her cheek, which confirms that it's a hand. Whilst most of us protest, though no one's really interested or cares, deeper down there's a different feeling as we have a grudging liking for it.

Hello and goodbye kissing between friends and acquaintances may become more intense as his lips caresses her cheek they might move closer to her mouth with the braver ones even brushing her lips. As they kiss, the hand that slides between her body and her arm might touch the side of her boob or even rest on it.

As this period develops many women will find themselves, often almost unknowingly, responding to the advances, which in short are guys flirting with her. Her reactions and responses might well condition their future relationship. Ignore it and he is likely to give up and go off to find someone more obviously up for it, or go along with the flirting and she'll be likely to have some form of sexual activity with him. And of course flirting leads to being held, kissed and fondled, which in turn usually results in one thing, them fucking.

With Kevin away so much and the kids rapidly moving off my hands, I'd gone back to working in the advertising industry not because we needed the money nor as a conscious decision to get laid, but more just to be part of the world that was passing me by and, as I slithered into the second half of my forties, I didn't want to be passed by. My recent, and now almost a year long, adventure with masturbation had changed me, there was no doubt in my mind about that. As I'd had sex with myself, my full-length mirror, or with my vibrator, my mind had gone into overdrive with the way that it conjured up fantasies. They also went through stages. At first I saw myself with guys like Gus who was one of the young pros at the tennis club or one of the personal trainers at the gym, people I knew vaguely, but had little to do with. As my ways of getting myself off became wilder with the oil, the mirror and then the vibrator so my masturbating fantasies also became more extreme. Although now being in his seventies and a bit past it, Richard Gere and I had some lovely times together on my bed whilst Leonardo di Caprio and a few others of that ilk also chipped in with some lurid sexual fantasies. Although I'd had feelings for women before, particularly when younger before I met Kevin, I'd mostly suppressed them, but during the masturbation phase of my sexual change of life, my mind resurrected them so my masturbatory fantasies now included other women, a BBC female newsreader who was married to another woman, Kylie who abounded with rumours about her sexuality and Susannah Read, purely because I think she's lovely and incredibly sexy with great boobs.

As my woes with Kevin increased and we both became aware that our marriage was falling apart. I begged him to reduce the time he spent away from home, so we had more time together as a family, but his response was to tell me to travel with him, or that we should move to Singapore. I couldn't do that because I had ageing parents and I would miss the children too much. Such reasoning, however, fell on deaf ears with him and, if anything, his time away increased, which in turn increased my masturbation activity. I did try, though, to save our relationship by offering sex to him when he was home. I bought sexy underwear, rubbed my naked body against him in bed and reached around him to feel for his dick, but he was usually too tired or had an early start the next day, so most of our sexual activity was restricted to an occasional, cursory, quick fuck and that was it. As a result, even when he was home, which was no more than a week a month, I continued enjoying my mirror, oil and vibrator as my fantasies changed. Instead of the untouchable film stars who had been my earlier sex fodder images, I was in bed, or more likely on the carpet, with men closer to home. A few guys I worked with, a friend's husband, one of Kevin's partners and my lawyer all tasted what I had to offer not, I hasten to add, at the same time although the idea did cross my mind!

This is also the period when many women have some new experiences, or at least of the type she probably hasn't had for many years. This may not be because she's putting herself about or being overly amenable to guys approaches, though of course she might be, it's more because of how with age and experience she's changing along with the world in which she exists. In social and work situations she will often attracts men's attention and is more readily available for them to chat to, play tennis with, be their partner on the dance floor or at work have a natter in the kitchen or restaurant. During this phase touching will not only become more frequent, but is likely to also be a silent version of asking if she is up for it. Any of those, of course, can lead to, well, anything as they did with me.

Over the years I'd been touched in one way or another, both accidentally on purpose and purposefully accidentally many times. There was a time, though, many years ago when I had feelings that were like out of body experiences with the sensation that my body didn't belong to me and that I shared it with someone else.

In my late teens I was a pretty good tennis player and I almost, but not quite, qualified for Wimbledon a couple of times. During my gap year, between school and university, I had the time to play and train quite a lot including attending training camps at the national tennis centre at Bisham Abbey a few times. At the live-in camp, the male coaches were in and out of the changing rooms all the time when often we were partially undressed, or even naked, after coming out of the showers as we got dressed or undressed. They didn't even seem to notice us and after a while we forgot about them as well, after all most women tennis players are lesbians aren't they?

Those weeks at camp were hard work. We either, trained or, played tennis for at least six hours every day and then had theory, techniques, tactics lessons and massage in the evenings. Even with the lesbians there wasn't much flitting from room to room at night, we were so tired!

It was during my third or fourth camp visit that my 'out of body experience' started happening. The coach started referring to my body in the third person with phrases like, 'It will become more supple,' and 'If we do this to it, that will happen.' It was as if he was referring to something that didn't belong to me. It was the same when he demonstrated how certain muscles work. His hands would be on me, pushing and squeezing without any consideration of the man/woman aspects. He would massage me, focusing on my upper thighs, telling me to clench and relax them as his fingers were almost touching my pussy, which was covered by just a slither of cotton and, of course, I became aroused, but it didn't seem to matter to him. After all, it wasn't really me was it, just another body? After a few times like that, the atmosphere between us became relaxed and closer, but it wasn't just him and me. No, there most certainly was three in this relationship namely, me, the coach and my body.

Later, I often wondered whether Steve, the coach who looked after me, was really nothing more than a sleazy perv who preyed on young tennis women, perhaps having a different one, like me, each week or even several each week. At the time, I was putting everything into tennis and my social and love lives just didn't exist. I hadn't had full sex for well over six months and I was suffering from the inevitable frustration.

It was early summer when things really got going. One day I was lying on my front with Steve kneeling beside me holding my legs just above my knees. I was wearing a tennis skirt and a singlet, with panties and a normal bra under them, not the shorts and sports bra that I would have been wearing had I been playing. He was lifting my legs from the floor while pressing on the small of my back. The exercise was to stretch my thigh muscles and make me more flexible at the hips. As he lifted my legs a little and my skirt slipped upwards I felt his hands pressing on my bum, "Now I'm going to lift the legs and apply pressure against this," he said adding, "It'll make the gluts work harder." It hurt, yet at the same time excited me as he went on, "We have to get more power from this," adding as he squeezed, "From the bum." It was the first time I'd really noticed how my body had become that third person.

It was as if once he'd touched one of my intimate places, the rest became fair game. The next time it happened, I was on my back with his hands on my waist, then my stomach, and then his fingers touched the top of my pubis. It didn't seem to be wrong, not even when he pressed me there, not even when he slipped a finger further down and not even when that touched my lips through the panties. However, as the rush of sensations went through me, my body jerked and I grunted then groaned and, for some reason, I mumbled, "Sorry Steve."

"Don't be, there's no need," He replied, not removing his finger making another moan slip out of mouth. He pressed harder and I couldn't stop my legs opening. He slid his finger between them and with my eyes tightly closed and my mouth open, I heard him say, "You have to look after your body.........," before pausing and then adding, "Everywhere and in every way."

"How? What do you mean?" I rather ridiculously asked him my mind totally confused by what was going on.

"You are so tense and so tight," he went on running his fingers between my legs and along my lips as he softly massaged my upper thigh with his other hand.

"Am I?" I groaned back, now not even trying to hide my excitement.

"Yes, you aren't looking after its every need are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're neglecting some of its needs, aren't you?" He said, one of his hands cupping my breast and pinching my already hard nipple, "And athletes mustn't do that," he added.

I got what he meant, "Yes, yes Steve I am," I managed to blurt out, just before he slid his hand inside my knickers and found my wetness. It was absolutely fucking amazing and I started to cum immediately.

"That's good, that's what it needs Jay," he said as my head rolled from side to side and I gasped for breath as I felt his fingers slip inside me. I grabbed his wrist and pulled his fingers harder into me.

"See isn't that good, it likes that doesn't it?" He asked

"Oh yes, yes, yes," I managed to groan as I came just about as strongly as I had ever done before.

Each day after that he made me cum, though, we never actually fucked and I never actually touched his bare dick, although I did rub its hardness through his shorts and sometimes ran my hands over his chest, but he didn't undress or seem to want to do anything else to me. No, all he wanted to do was to use 'our' body to help 'it' remove the tension and make it fitter for the tennis court. And the way that Steve did that was to shove three fingers right up my cunt and hand fuck me to shattering orgasms, which all came back to me as I lay on the floor in front of the mirror many years later. It wasn't just those fantasies I used to fuel my masturbation that made me think back to the times with Steve at the tennis camps. It was also a series of incidents at the gym I had recently joined.

'Was he focusing on my tits,' I wondered? Or was I, since putting on weight recently and becoming a DD as opposed to my normal D or even C cup, becoming paranoid about guys staring at them.

That was the first incident, Mike, the personal trainer ogling my boobs who I'd booked a series of private lessons with to help me get fitter for the tennis season when I was playing in the senior's mixed team against other clubs. The first couple of sessions with him had been fine. He'd got me into the swing of his way of doings things and I kept my promise of doing the daily exercises at home that he set me. We had agreed on two one-hour sessions a week for four weeks, going down to one a week after that. As I was paying for the private, one-to-one lessons, the gym let the PTs conduct them in one of the private rooms set aside for such purposes.

Mike was in his early forties. He was quite tall, probably six two, had longish, dark hair with a slim, angular and lithe physique, which was a perfect build for my taste, I rather worryingly thought to myself. Why the hell was I thinking about him up so much I asked myself as I got ready for going to the gym for a lesson? Why did he keep appearing when I was masturbating, I questioned myself? I had no idea on either, but he was frequently on my mind, far more than he should have been and without doubt, far more than it was healthy for a personal trainer to be. But we were getting on great. Not just working together on my body, but also laughing and joking as we developed our relationship.

Getting ready for my next session with him, some of the phrases he used came into my mind and that took my mind back to those tennis camps and my sessions with Steve. 'Working on the body, developing our relationship, tuning it up and getting the legs fitter,' all reminded me of the phrases he'd used before he started finger fucking me all those years ago. And suddenly Mike doing the same thing came into my mind and I saw myself on the gym floor with my yoga pants around my knees and Mike's fingers up me making me cum as the other gym goers looked on. God what was I thinking? For fucks sake he's married with three kids and works with older and younger women all the time and can probably have any he wants, after all that's part of a PT's job spec isn't it, fucking the women he trains? 'Stop it,' I told myself, 'Put that out of your mind, forget it,' I stressed, deciding not to slip into the little thong that I usually wore under tight leggings having seen that most other women went commando at this gym.

The relationship between anyone and their personal trainer has to be close and open if it's going to work and that was how mine and Mike's was shaping up. I was able to say things like, "My boobs get in the way of my follow through with the racquet." And he felt comfortable enough to be able to explain, "Big boobs can be an advantage for they mean that you have to hold your arms straight when you swing it." And, of course, a coach or a personal trainer has to feel free with the material that he has been commissioned to work upon, which in this case was my body. At first, he was cautious, when he bent my leg, arranged me in a stretch position on the floor or draped me over a two feet diameter ball. The first few sessions he held me loosely as though being afraid, but then I noticed, or my mind imagined, subtle changes. He became bolder and more assertive with his hands. He touched me more frequently, his hands went nearer to my intimate places as, presumably, our 'relationship' was developing!

All that was, though, driving me fucking crazy. Not so much at the time, not when we were together at the gym when I was in my gym gear and he was wearing his tight, white tee shirt and blue track trousers. No, at those times my concentration was on performing the exercises. It was after them, sometimes almost immediately I got home when I was alone with my mirror and vibrator, when my imagination ran wild and Mike became pretty much my sole masturbatory fantasy. It was then that I thought of having his erection in my hands, pressed against me, between my breasts, in my mouth and buried deep inside me as we fucked. When he was putting me through my exercises I was continually questioning what was happening and probably reading meanings into his words and actions that didn't exist. 'Was that purposeful?' I wondered as the back of his hand grazed the side of my boobs, 'Did he have to press right on the base of my spine, just above my bum?' I asked myself. Had his hand gone just a tad further it would have touched my lips inside the thin, tight leggings I realised, my mind inevitably once more recalling the times with Steve. Not only did such questions go through my mind as I did the exercise, but after, in front of the mirror I answered them as I fondled my tits and rubbed my pubis as I got myself off. All that did, though, was make my questions more extreme the next time we exercised: 'Was his shoulder pressing against my tits an accident? Did I shove my boobs out more obviously? Was I thrusting my crotch at him? Was his touch on my tummy or thigh more of a caress than applying pressure?'

These sorts of events and thoughts had been occurring more frequently during the last couple of sessions. Was it me? Was it him? Was it both of us? Or was it just my sexually frustrated imagination? Surely he wouldn't risk anything, would he? Surely he could not take the chance? Surely if he tried it on and got it wrong and I reported him he'd be finished as a PT? But maybe they all try it on, after all there's loads of rumours about PTs and members and maybe women like me welcome it, or even expect it? Who knows? And of course there's the age thing? I was one of the older women I saw at the gym and there were loads of younger ones without the sagging tits, tummies with a swell and stretch marks, bums that had fallen a bit and wrinkles round the eyes that he could work his gym magic on? Sure, older women may be theoretically more exciting to some guys due to their experience and, of course easier availability, but what about the feel of their skin, the extra flab, or the cellulite. Not all forty something guys want to get into forty something women's knickers, even if, as in my case when anything was under the leggings, they were usually pretty, little, sexy thongs. So where was 'my Mike,' as I had called him much to the delight of the girls at the tennis club, on this issue? And more to the point where was I?

Apart from a few fumbling caresses and a couple of clumsy kisses over the years and, of course, my energetic masturbating, I haven't been unfaithful, so, by extension, I don't fuck. However, when Mike laid me on my back on a low bench, told me to open my legs, bend them at the knees and place my feet on the floor and he stood straddling the bench almost between my opened legs, I imagined him slipping his gym trousers down and fucking me. When he knelt on the bench behind my head and held both of my arms and made me pull them, I visualised him roughly yanking my singlet up, pulling my breasts out from the normal, not a sports, bra and sinking his face between my tits. And when he had me kneeling and looking at him as I arched my back tightening those muscles, in my mind I was pulling his pants down and stuffing his cock into my mouth before he shot a massive load of cum into my throat.

"Shit, Mike," I panted.

"What?" He asked moving around.

"I'll do myself an injury."

"You should wear a sports bra. for exercises like this," he said which sounded so intimate.

"Bloody unsightly things," I retorted, collapsing against him when we ended the session.

"Maybe," he said holding my hips with the two big pads he was wearing that I'd been punching, "But we have to look after all parts of our body Jay, not just the legs and arms," he went on so replicating the sort of words Steve had used just before pushing his hand into my panties. I was still in his arms, if you can call being held by two big boxing pads that. Although I was naturally tired from the five minutes boxercising, I did feign it a little as it was nice being pressed against him. As I stood there and we talked about my bra, my boobs and 'our' body, I was sure he was going to do something. What though, I didn't know, and what my response would be I had no idea? After all, it's one thing having a personal trainer fuck your mind, but it's a totally different matter having one fuck your body, even in the third person.

Luckily, or maybe not I wasn't then and still aren't sure, that nothing more happened and shortly after that conversation I finished the course with Mike and only saw him now and again around the gym. However, it had done something to me, most of which I worked out naked in front of the mirror where we had loads of oral sex and long, passionate fucks. It took me some time to recognise what that something was and to realise just how I was changing.

The very first thing that told me started with a seemingly innocent kiss in a darkened room with a dozen other couples welcoming in the new year of 2020. It wasn't that an unusual a situation as it had happened several New Year's and Christmas Eves before, but this time with Mark it was different. Firstly, I was being kissed by one of the friends who'd been quite a star in my mirror masturbation fantasies, secondly he'd made a bee line for me as midnight approached and lastly we were both slightly drunk. Almost immediately the clock struck twelve I was in his arms and we kissed. It wasn't a full-on lips kiss at first, just a kiss on my cheek, then a brushing of his lips on mine as his arms pulled me tighter against him squashed my boobs against his chest. That was followed by his mouth finding mine and our lips squirming together as his tongue probed mine open and slid inside it. The most memorably worrying thing, though, was that as the kiss became deeper and more passionate, so I felt his bulge, which was pressed into my stomach starting to move as his erection grew. But then, someone called out for everyone to behave as the lights were going back on and I felt his hand leave my backside that I hadn't fully realised he'd been fondling and as he moved away I couldn't resist my eyes roaming down his body and focusing on his bulge that confirmed he had an erection.

After we extricated ourselves from the clinch and were standing looking at each other both appearing to be slightly embarrassed, Mark said quietly, "Sorry Jay?"

I wasn't at all sure how to handle the situation, nor did I know for certain just what he was apologising for, the kiss, his hand that had squeezed my bum or his growing erection so I hedged my bets by replying, "No worries Mark," and we left it at that. The following weekend when Kevin was playing golf the doorbell rang and Mark was there. He said that he'd come to apologise for what had happened at the party and I told him to forget it. We mumbled on talking around the passion of the kiss, where his hands had gone and the burgeoning erection without actually clearly mentioning any of them and then he left. I was pretty sure that had he had the courage, or foolhardiness, to have opened up about what we'd done and had pushed for more, and if Kevin had been away as he usually was, then I would have let him do pretty much what he wanted to do to me. But nothing happened between us, although, that afternoon as I performed in front of my mirror, he fucked me doggy style and that was wonderful.