Crimson Echoes: Sixty-Two & Smitten

The scent of damp earth and sun-baked corn hung heavy in the air as I turned from the road, my gaze locking onto his. Sixty-two years, and the pull of him still held me captive. Smitten, my husband, had a youthful fire in his eyes that never seemed to diminish, a dangerous spark that ignited a primal heat within me. We’d been teenagers, gloriously lost in the intoxicating haze of first love, a time when every stolen glance held the promise of ecstasy. The drive to the country diner had been awkward, filled with a nervous anticipation that had quickly morphed into something far more potent. The silence had felt charged, a prelude to the inevitable. Then, the turn. A sudden, inexplicable shift in direction, a silent decree that changed everything.

He’d flushed, his breathing quick and shallow, mirroring my own pounding heart. The setting sun cast long shadows, illuminating his strong, lean form as we stepped out onto the soft, grassy patch, hidden amidst the towering corn stalks. There was hesitation, a shared sense of vulnerability, before he lowered himself, his eyes never leaving mine, a silent invitation that I couldn't resist. The wonder of it washed over me, a wave of relaxation tempered by a delicious, mischievous excitement. I arched my arms above my shoulders, pretending to stretch, gauging his reaction. His eyes widened, fixed on my protruding breasts, a blatant display of desire that sent shivers down my spine.

After a long moment of this silent exchange, threading our fingers together, shifting weight from one leg to the other, he lowered me onto my back, his hands trembling slightly as he gently raised my dress above my breasts. The tingling sensation was exquisite, my nipples erect, straining against the confines of my bra. As it slipped away, revealing their full magnificence, a surge of pleasure shot through me, amplified by the anticipation of his touch. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment, feeling the warmth of his hands as they explored the curves of my chest.

The memory of that first encounter, a lifetime ago, felt strangely fresh, fueled by the lingering heat of the present. We had been teenagers, caught in the wild abandon of hormones and lust, and that instinctive urge, so powerful then, remained today. The sight of his hands working both breasts, then his warm, moist lips surrounding my left nipple and gently sucking it into his mouth as his tongue worked from back to front, was overwhelming. I moaned, lost in the comforting rhythm of his suckling, my body responding instinctively to his touch. The primal urge took hold, a biological imperative that demanded release. It was an experience, both innocent and intense, that transcended the boundaries of time and experience.

Forty-plus years had passed, but the intensity of our connection remained. Now, sitting in a comfortable armchair, fully naked, he sat on the floor between my thighs, his gaze locked on my nipples. “Look at those nipples!” he said, his voice husky with desire. “They are so beautiful.” He kissed all around my right breast, then the left one, and lightly suckled the area of firmness around my right breast until he had taken the nipple fully into his mouth. His tongue rhythmically worked from back to front, and I felt it – the exquisite ripple of pleasure that spread through my body as my milk released, a gift offered to the man who had always held me captive.

He moaned, sucked rapidly, swallowed loudly, and then slowed to a relaxing rhythm, cooing softly. His warmth, his presence, were intoxicating, grounding me in the present moment. The love I felt for him, a deep, abiding connection forged over decades, caused me to embrace him deeper into my nipple, moaning with a joy and contentment that only came during intimate times like this.

I ran my fingers through his hair, kissed his forehead, and patted him on the back, my mind wandering back to our youthful days, to the shared dreams and whispered secrets. Since we were teenagers, he had been my rock, my protector, both physically and emotionally. But as he bowed to my breasts, his armor and sword vanished, his soul laid bare, and he transformed into something entirely new – a creature driven by pure, unadulterated desire. He had always made me feel special, and even now, at the age of sixty-two, I possessed the healthy, fruitful breasts of a young woman that he adored, showcasing them in a modest, yet undeniably enticing, display.

He unlatched from my right nipple, gazing upward at me with a sparkle in his eyes. “Your milk is so sweet,” he said, his voice filled with reverence. “Like melted ice cream.” Then he latched on to my left nipple with a hungry suckling that eventually slowed to a rhythm that sent me into a trance. It was an experience that both thrilled and terrified me, an exploration of my own body and pleasure that felt both primal and deeply intimate.

Time seemed to melt away as he continued his exploration, his touch growing more insistent, more demanding. Then, a shift. A change in dynamics. Some time later, I don't know how long, I felt his penis rising up my calf, hot and throbbing and powerful. He tightened his legs around my calf, beginning thrusting, his excitement stirring my insides as I became wet for him. The anticipation was palpable, a building wave of energy that threatened to consume me. It wasn't just the physical sensation; it was the unspoken promise of pleasure, the knowledge that he was completely lost in the moment, focused solely on my pleasure.

I shoved him backward, unlatching him from my nipple, and continued shoving him until he was on his back, still halfway hunching in the air and looking at me knowingly. I gazed for a minute at his hard probing dick, admiring its power and dominance. He was squirming, hunching over his belly, seeking his home, my place to fill with his love. Watching him in this exciting agony thrilled me, pushing me over the edge.

“Take me!” I screamed frantically, breathing rapidly, and got on my knees, arching my back with my head on my arms and lifting my butt for him. “I need to feel you in me, filling me with your cum. Take me! Take me!”

Suddenly, he jumped to his knees, his hands firmly grasping my hips, the frantic probing of his hot dick between my buttocks. Then, the fullness and heat of his dick rhythmically sliding all the way in. He moaned, I moaned. He moaned louder and began thrusting faster, harder, and deeper, panting, begging, as I felt his head swelling and throbbing. He was completely out of control, lost in the bliss of the moment, and I loved seeing and feeling him on me in this wholesome kind of insanity that he reserved only for me.

My vagina tightened around him as orgasm was on its way, stronger than most times, and I shrieked in rhythm to his ever quickening thrusting. Then he abruptly stopped thrusting, the head of his dick swelling, his whole dick spasms and jumps inside me, and he exploded hot cum, pumping, pumping, and pumping, as I tightened around him stimulating him for more. And then, I cummed again with alternating shrieks and grunts.

As our breathing slowed and we experienced the warm afterglow, he gently moved his dick in and out as if lovingly massaging the place he calls home, and I felt the last gush of his gift and moaned softly.

I sighed, relaxing, and thought how happy – at the age of sixty-two – I was able to give my husband the wholesome gift of my breasts and still make him crazy for me. The scent of damp earth and sun-baked corn still lingered in the air, a constant reminder of that unforgettable night, a testament to the enduring power of our love.

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Crimson Echoes: Sixty-Two & Smitten

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