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Old 04-30-2013, 11:39 AM   #1
SubjugateMe
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Default An older man

“… He dared to explore her withered neck with his fingertips … her hips with their decaying bones, her thighs with their ageing veins.”

Gabriel García Márquez: “Love in the Time of Cholera"



When people are young, they have not a care in the world. Death is but a fleeting thought more appropriate to someone else’s life, and the rigours of old age are glazed over with the myopia of youth.

As you grow older, the onset of your fading beauty and ailing health prompts you to exercise and diet, to wax and colour, to nip and tuck, in order to stave off the stranger you see in the mirror with each passing day. Immortality is secured with your children and you carry the foolish notion that this growing family will compensate for the loneliness ahead, more so when your partner dies.

But you forget about touch and the myriad of life-affirming senses it brings. The warmth of a man’s breath as he nuzzles his face into the nape of your neck. The tingling sensation in your groin when he wraps his arms around your waist and squeezes so gently as he takes possession of your body. The exquisite pressure of his thrusting penis when he enters you and temporarily subdues the cacophony of life.

Oh, what you would give now to subdue the solitude of life!

Iris appears to be of that indeterminable age which so often accompanies one’s middle-to-late years. Since her husband died seven years ago, the lines on her face have deepened and the mauve shadows under her eyes no longer disappear with restful sleep. Her once slender and golden countenance is now slight, ashen, and the whisper of a slump in her neck hints at the melancholy within her heart.

She slowly crosses the hallway of her modest cottage to pick up the mail off the doormat. The usual assortment of utility bills and flyers promoting the latest, greatest eatery litter the floor but there are no personal letters or postcards to breach her isolation. Her children and grand-children moved abroad several years before James passed away and the paltry state pension she receives can ill-afford the inflated air fares each year to the other side of the world.

Iris trudges into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Even a strong cup of tea cannot lift her lethargy these days and not for the first time does she consider switching to coffee. She catches her reflection in the chrome body of the kettle and contemplates how accurately the warped impression of her face portrays her inner bleakness. How funny, she thinks to herself, that an older man loudly laments his failure to find his companion amongst the multitude of nubile women frequenting the haunts of his yesteryears, whilst a woman of her substance and experience who could so easily match this man is overlooked simply for being too old.

And yet, Iris muses, how are these men to know of her existence if she does not show herself? These forlorn men seeking someone to cherish will never discover her if she remains closeted in her monastery and refuses to step out into the daylight, to sashay her rusty charm for all to appreciate in wonderment, despite her twilight years.

She rifles through the flyers and stops to examine one depicting a newly opened brasserie on the high street tempting punters with an assortment of wines from intense Malbec, to the fragrant New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc or a refined Chablis. There is also on offer a ceviche of coconut and lime marinated sea bass with avocado salsa or alternatively a slow-roasted belly of Gloucestershire Old Spot. Iris fondly reminisces her weekly date-nights with James, which only fell by the wayside once the cancer had taken a firmer grip of his pancreas and refused to let go. She looks carefully at the flyer and her heart flutters at the possibility of finding affection again and the sensuous touch of skin on skin.


* * * *

Iris nervously enters the fashionable brasserie and surveys the place rowdy with the chatter of people and the clatter of plates. Lipsticked women and suited men laugh and flirt with pseudo confidence and Iris is acutely conscious of how displaced she looks in her maxi-length patchwork skirt with a white peasant blouse. She pulls her light cotton shawl tighter across her shoulders and is about to leave when a waiter approaches her and coaxes her to wait at the bar until a table becomes available. She catches sight of a man sitting on the barstool, advanced in years with thinning silver hair but a straight back and the composure of someone who has not yet been defeated by life. A flicker of excitement rushes through her belly as she takes the stool next to him and he turns to acknowledge her presence with a wide smile.

“It’s like riding a bike,” thinks Iris as she tilts her chin flirtatiously and coyly accepts his offer of a glass of wine. They spend the next hour drinking and discussing the decline of the country’s education system and the rise of its brash adolescents when a lean dark-haired man suddenly materialises, flushed and damp from the rain outside.

“Sorry I’m late, darling,” he exclaims breathlessly as he slides an arm around her companion and brushes his lips against the silver fox’s cheek. “The traffic was simply atrocious!” The dark-haired man notices Iris and beams curiously. “Well, who do we have here, Seb?” he grins. Turning to Iris he adds, “I do hope my Sebastian hasn’t been boring you with too many details of our humdrum lives!”

Sebastian slips off the barstool and kisses the man on both cheeks, then turns to introduce him to Iris. “This is Clem, my life-partner,” he says with a flourish of pride. “Iris, if you’re at a loose end, please do join us for dinner,” he offers graciously.

Iris is unsure if the air escaping her lungs is due to the discomfiture of her delusion or the futility of her preposterous pursuit for some physical human contact. Heat rising in her cheeks, she clumsily makes her excuses and almost trips as she lurches for the door to escape the humiliation of her encounter. When did it become so difficult to make a connection with another person? When did it become so impossible to simply fall into the arms of a willing recipient and meld into a sweaty passionate heap of tangled limbs and heaving sighs?

The rain has slowed to a faint drizzle in the darkness outside and Iris inwardly curses as she sees her bus pull out from the stop. She can wait half an hour for the next one or she can start walking off her anxiety and be home within forty minutes. Clasping her handbag to her chest and cloaking the shawl over her inclined head, she takes the short-cut home across the deserted shadowy playground and almost stumbles straight into the two hooded youths lazily swaying with long legs outstretched on the children’s swings.

Iris begins to apologise to them for her blunder, but something about the predatory gleam in the taller boy’s opiated eyes and the sickly-sweet smell exuding from them perturbs her so wrapping her arms tighter around her handbag, she hastily moves away towards the refuge of the trees. She can hear footsteps behind her and even before her instincts warn her to run, the youths are upon her.
She drops her handbag to the ground as the thinner boy with dirty blond hair peeking out from his hood wrenches her arms behind her back. “Take my money!” she screams at them, “just please don’t hurt me!”

The taller youth is looking inside the bag and pockets what little money he finds. He tosses her bag to the ground in frustration and disgust at his menial gains and closes in towards Iris towering over her. “We no’ done yet, ya rinsed bitch,” he whispers menacingly. “Me ‘n’ mi bruv gonna mash you up for messin’ us ...”

* * * *

Later, Iris cannot recall how she ended up lying alone on the damp muddy leaves beneath the cover of the trees, completely naked, arms restrained by her cotton shawl, her mouth stuffed with her pretty white peasant blouse now torn and caked. She has trouble recalling the exact details of how she crawled home, raw and exposed, or even having had the competency to find her handbag with her house-keys still intact following the maelstrom of the assault.

But the next morning over a cup of tea in the comfort of her kitchen, she clearly relives each and every second of the feverish heat she had felt when Tall-Boy viciously groped her wilting breasts and slapped them from side to side to see how long it would take for the bruises to appear on such thin skin. She closes her eyes and recaptures the violent fluttering in the pit of her stomach when Dirty-Blond had savagely parted her labia and laughed cruelly as he stuck his filthy fingers into her cunt to see how long it would take for the old biddy to get wet. He had spat on her face with contempt, then had lunged at her breasts with bared teeth, clamping and sucking her hardened nipples with such ferocity that Iris convulsed between delirium and pain.

Iris shifts languidly in her chair at the memory of Tall-Boy pulling down his trousers and her awe at his enormous erection springing out from its confines to begin its assault on her. How long had it been since she was so near a bare penis she could smell it, almost taste it? Tall-Boy had sniggered at her trance before rudely shoving his seeping cock into her willing mouth which had engulfed it unreservedly with the hunger of a famished widow savouring the almost-forgotten delectable taste. Her cunt juices had spewed at the promise of a deep hard fuck and when Tall-Boy pulled his cock out of her mouth and entered her like a crazed dog pounding a bitch on heat, she immediately felt the rapturous waves of an orgasm shudder through her body as he cleaved her cunt with the vigour of a young man galvanised by his sin.

Throughout the ensuing lassitude, Iris calls to mind how she had been pumped repeatedly until a strangled cry and heavy slump on top of her signified the spilling of Tall-Boy’s seed into her fruitless womb. She rolled easily onto her front as Dirty-Blond forcefully prodded her with his foot and boorishly embedded his stiff prick into her sullied hole as he tugged at her hair forcing Iris to face upwards toward the dark sky and arch her back in exquisite torment. He came too quickly and Iris was dimly aware of the chill creeping into her skin as the blaze that had emanated from her assailants dissipated with their departure.

Iris gently slides her fingers under her dressing gown and dreamily probes her damp clit with a smile, thinking how absurd to have set her sights on an older man for comfort when a younger man, even two, can offer the gratification she craves.


The end
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