Giving Away My Asshole at 65

Just a quickie one-parter for you perverts. No minors are depicted here, everyone is over the age of eighteen and engaging in good, clean, consenting fun. Copyright belongs to the author.

*****

It all started because I was picking raspberries.

I live not too far from a university town that has a beautiful nature reserve along its borders. This particular day was a Sunday in July and I -- because I'm a 65-year-old lady married for 33 years -- happen to know a remote area lush with natural raspberries in July and blackberries in August.

So I did what old ladies do. I took a big Tupperware container out to the car and drove to my private spot. There's an area beyond the furthest campus lots that's just dirt roads. I filled my container with raspberries in maybe fifteen minutes and returned to my car.

Where I discovered that I had stupidly locked my key fob and my phone inside my little Honda. Somehow, I must have popped the locks closed, set the fob aside and shut the door behind me. I don't know how. Trust me, someday you'll be sixty-five, too.

So now I'm standing there with a half-gallon of raspberries and looking north to where a small campus of a large university is sitting, about a half mile away, surely closed and deserted on this lazy summer Sunday. I needed to find a phone. So I slid the Tupperware container under the car, out of the sun, and went in search of some nice married couple on bikes or maybe a college co-ed out for a run that I could flag down.

I crossed one weed-filled field, another dirt road, then a second weed-filled field before I reached a blacktopped road so remote it had a small sign that said Road 3. It didn't even have a real name. A few hundred yards away was a parking lot utterly devoid of cars.

That's when I saw him.

He wasn't a college kid; I could see that even from fifty yards away. Maybe thirtyish, although who knows how old college kids are today. He was sitting on top of a picnic table under a tree.

A lot of filthy, horny, sloppy, slutty, degrading remembrances -- of which this story will have plenty, I promise you -- have elements that don't seem quite real or believable. This story has one, so I'll get it out of the way right away.

This man was reading a book. An actual physical book. I'm not the kind of old lady who approaches a man by himself in the middle of nowhere, but this fact stopped me in my tracks. A grown man reading a book.

So I watched him for a while in the stifling heat and the insect buzz of July, as he turned his pages. And then I said to myself, fuck it. He'll have a phone.

He lifted his head from his book as I was thrashing through the last ten yards of high, unkempt weeds.

"Hello, hello," I called in my high, raggedy old lady voice. I'm sure I looked like a crazy person, high-stepping through undergrowth. He, on the other hand, radiated an easy, cool grace. Just a man and his book being frantically hailed by a scarecrow.

"I've locked myself out of my car. I don't know what to do," I said. The area around him had been neatly mowed recently. I approached him like a survivor from a shipwreck.

"Did you call anyone?" he said.

And right away, I started acting -- not weird -- but off-kilter, I guess.

Because he was handsome. He had grey eyes that were not piercing, but just observant. He had round biceps tight within the short sleeves of a henley tee and sharply defined calves. Like those of a runner, which he turned out to be. He had a tight but not-too-conservative haircut and a preposterously cute notch in the brow above his eyes.

Look, when you're sixty-five you don't meet handsome men, never mind handsome men who are paying attention to you. You're picking raspberries by yourself. He threw me off, right away.

So I simpered. Yes, simpered. Like a spinster in a Jane Austen novel. "I locked my phone in the car," I said in a new babyish voice I didn't know I possessed.

"Oh," he said.

"So I guess," and I realized that this new Betty Boop voice was going to remain, "I would like to use your phone."

"Sure," he said. He looked around himself, set his book aside, and found his phone. He picked it up and held it out to me.

"Thank you so much." I took the phone and sat down next to him on the picnic table top, absurdly conscious of his cleanly manicured fingernails. I looked at the phone like I was a raccoon that had just been handed a socket wrench.

"Do you need some help?" he said.

"Yes!" I blurted out. "I... I need to call my insurance company."

"They'll have an app." He gently took the phone from me. "What is it?"

"What is what?"

"The name of your insurer."

I told him the name of my insurer and he started typing away. And god help me, I was already leaking from my pussy like a forty-year-old. I clenched my eyes shut and clenched my thighs together. I moved one leg and then the other, feeling that old familiar slip and slide.

"Are you okay?" He was looking at me, concerned.

"What?" I opened my eyes, startled. "Oh! I'm just, this heat. It's so hot and humid. And damp." I grinned weakly.

"It is a hot day. It was a tough run today."

"Oh." Connecting one thought to another, like two TinkerToys. "You ran today?"

"Five miles." He was still typing away. "Okay, I've pinned your location and your insurance company is going to call on this phone."

"Wow, okay. You're a savior." Savior is not a word I typically use. And certainly not in my new Betty Boop voice.

"You seem flushed," he said. "Are you dehydrated? Hold on." He had a cloth bag at his feet, from which he withdrew a bottled water and handed it to me.

I clawed it from his hands, uncapped it, and started drinking from it greedily. I must have looked like a witch in a fairy tale, drinking a potion. I was still clenching my thighs together, increasingly aware that something potentially embarrassing was going on down there. I could not remember the last time I had even bothered to masturbate.

Then the phone rang. My new savior answered it and handed it to me. My insurance company was so competent that all they needed was my phone number and my name to verify my account and immediately dispatch a service truck to my pinned location. Fifteen minutes, approximately, they said. The service truck will confirm via this number.

I needed to stop acting like an imbecile I thought, even as I was gently rocking my ass on the wooden slats of the picnic table top. The heat was immense, both from beneath the sun and from between my legs. I had nowhere to go. I needed to stay by this guy's phone at least until the service truck confirmed.

And then this guy, this beautiful man, this oasis in the desert of my endless sexual drought that I didn't even know I was suffering, did something that pitched me right over the cliff into sexual degeneracy and degradation.

"You have a tick on you," he said.

"A what?" I think I was actually trying to lean forward and get more of my pussy flat on the picnic table. Just a little climax.

"A tick."

"Oh!" I started swatting at myself ineffectually everywhere like the old lady I am. Maybe I could get away with swatting at my pussy a couple of times. It wouldn't take much to get me off. "Where?"

"Stop, stop," he said. "You're just going to knock it into your clothes."

I stopped and looked at him, as if hypnotized. "Okay."

He held his hands out, palms up. "I don't mean to get personal," he said, "I'm just going to remove that tick."

"Please," I said. Or probably whispered.

Of course I had a tick on me. I'd just waded through two hundred yards of tall weeds. I moved closer to him and very deliberately set my thigh against his. Lightly first, then tighter. My pussy jingled like a bell. He reached out and gently plucked something off the collar of my polo top. He held it out in the palm of his hand. It was, as he'd said, a tick. He tossed it away.

There was no going back now. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. I was either going to rub myself off in front of this man or somehow get him to stick his cock in any hole he would accept.

Have I mentioned that I have a husband? It occurred to me only then that I had never even considered calling him to bring me my Honda's extra key. He wasn't that far away. Somehow, I must have been seeking exactly this, subconsciously. And I was going to have it, one way or another. Let this guy reject me, I thought. I'll hump the picnic table.

"Oh my goodness!" I said in my new baby voice. "It's so fucking hot." Emphasis on the swear word. "I just... wow." I stood up and unbuttoned the button at the waist of my worn-out raspberry-picking jeans. Then I took the fly down a little. "I'm sorry," I said, "I just need some air. It's so... fucking. Hot."

I was no twenty-five year-old dreamboat. I was slim, my ass was still high and tight, my tiny boobs never had a chance to sag. But my hair was a grey mop, my neck and arms were wrinkled, and who knew what my cunt looked like at this point. I'd stopped looking closely in the mirror at about the time I'd stopped fucking. About ten years before. With my husband? Probably fifteen years.

But I had once been a dreamboat. Once, long ago. I had known all the tricks of the trade and used them all to get what I wanted, using my tits and ass and tight holes.

Once more, I prayed. One more horny fuck for an old lady.

"You ever get, like, the weather just makes you crazy?" I asked, in what I now recognized was my twenty-five-year-old girl voice. "Like you just wanna..." I very deliberately slipped one hand deep into the front of my pants. I rubbed a few little circles over my pussy, but had to stop. Otherwise I would have collapsed on my knees, grunting one out in twenty seconds or less.

"It is hot," the new object of my desires said.

I realized I had his attention. There was no one within a half mile of us out here. And I wouldn't have cared if there were. I would have fucked this guy on the network evening news.

"Can I ask you something personal?" I said.

He sized me up. "Sure."

"I have a little project I'm working on here and it would help," I was rubbing again, little circles, "if I could see your cock."

He laughed, and right at that moment, his phone cheeped, and I knew without looking that the service truck was on its way. This guy could dismiss me now if he wanted to. His good Samaritan act of kindness was over.

He looked at his phone, then at me. He seemed to be considering. He laughed again.

"You want to see my cock?"

"It would mean a lot to me." I licked my lips and tried to rub slower. I was panting now.

"Sure," he said. "Only, say please."

"You're going to make me beg?" I hoped he would.

"Yes."

I pulled my pants down to my knees, slipped off one shoe and pulled one leg free of my pants. I spread my legs so he could see my pussy with its little notch of grey pubic hair. "Please, please," I said in my twee voice, "let this horny old bitch see your fat, handsome cock."

"Good enough." He stood up and pulled down his own pants, which were just running shorts, and exposed his cock. It wasn't hard, just semi-hard, but it had so much potential. He had shaved down there, as guys do now, and he hung a little to the left, circumcised and growing, the beautiful purple veins in his dick throbbing, sending the blood that caused his cock to start crawling up his thigh.

I was helpless. I was already jerking myself off furiously, cumming like a rutting bitch in heat. I fell forward onto my knees, gasping and shuddering, my cunt making embarrassing sloppy wet sounds. I'm sure I was quite a sight.

"Bravo," he said.

"Thank you," I said. I didn't want him to get away. "You have a beautiful cock."

And he did. It was about half erect now, free of his thigh, seven inches long or so, fat and pale in the midday sun, dangling idly before him.

"And you have a greedy pussy," he said.

"I do," I agreed, though I hadn't had anything remotely like a greedy pussy until about ten minutes ago. "Can I ask you another personal favor?"

He laughed once more. "Sure."

"Fuck my face," I said. "Call me names while you do it. Treat me like a whore."

I was already on my knees. He approached me so that his dick swung back and forth a few inches from my face.

"You old ladies really like it dirty," he said.

"We're desperate for cock," I agreed.

"So suck it."

I mouthed his still-hardening cock and slid it all the way in, my nose pressed to his clean-shaven belly, the head of his cock rubbery at the top of my throat. My old talents had not deserted me. I slid him in and out of my face, his cock rapidly expanding in that gratifying way that I remembered from my own escapades with young guys so many years ago.

I was already working at myself again with one hand. Tight little circles. I let his cock slip from my mouth and rubbed its slick fat length all over my face. I rubbed it over my eyes and nose and forehead. I beat my face gently with it. "Call me names," I said again. "Filthy, degrading names."

His phone cheeped again. The truck was coming closer. I was running out of time.

"Bitch," he said. "Whore."

I was working on his dick like a cock-sucking machine, but I knew he needed more. I let his cock slide obscenely out of my mouth. "Worse," I said. "You know worse. I know you do. Filth. Make me own it." I engulfed his cock again, slurping away.

"Piss whore," he said. "Three-hole bitch. Fucking cow."

Ah, yes, these boys. They all watch porn on their phones now. They know the lingo.

I released his cock again. "Command me to cum," I said. "Make me rub one out for you."

Which, of course, I was nearly there anyway.

"Do it," he said. "Cum like a stupid bitch."

I slid his cock back into my face and looked up at him, drool running out of my mouth. I tried to look extra stupid and slutty, mouth stretched ridiculously wide around his girth. Meanwhile, I was working on my cunt with both hands. The sloppy wet sound of my hole must have been audible a hundred feet away.

It took no time at all. Within thirty seconds, I was cumming again, grunting and groveling like a pig on his engorged dick. I had snot running out of my nose. I was a wreck.

But still, I needed his cum.

"Thank you for letting me cum," I said. I stood up and prostrated myself over the picnic table, feet on the ground, face down, my ass up high, my hand already playing idly with my cunt again.

"Spit on my asshole," I said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Spit on my asshole."

His phone cheeped again. This was maddening. The truck was probably two blocks away. I felt a thin dribble of spit near my nether hole.

"Is that enough?"

"Wet your dick in my pussy!" I exclaimed. "And cram your cock up my ass!"

I knew this would hurt a bit, and I was right. It was a tight fit and I leaked quite a bit of shit from my gaped-out ass later on, but I would have let that man jam a telephone pole up my butt. In a better world, he could have used more of the pussy lubricant I was splurting all over the place as I frantically rubbed toward a third climax.

Looking out over the field, I could see the service truck turning onto the lane that led to the dirt roads where my Honda was. It was now or never.

"I'm your ass-fucking whore!" I shouted. "I'm a fucking hole for your cum!"

He picked up his pace. The truck rolled to a stop.

"Make me take it," I said, more quietly. "When you're done dumping your load in me, make me clean my shit off your cock."

And then I was cumming again, crying out like an animal. My asshole must have been gripping his fat cock like a vise. I felt his cock spasming in my guts, every vein straining, his manhood depositing blurt after blurt of slop deep into my insides. I let him rest for a bit, deep in my now-slimy bowels.

Then I felt him pop out and I turned and fell on my knees. The truck driver had exited the truck and was crossing the fields towards us. I looked up into the steady grey eyes of probably the last lover I would ever know.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, we can't send you home to her with my shit on your dick, can we?"

I took him into my mouth. The truck driver was standing about ten feet away, his arms folded, being patient. I carefully and gently sucked my last lover's cock clean. Then I let him go. He pulled up his running shorts, picked up his book and his cloth bag, and started walking away.

"Is that your white Honda?" the truck driver said.

"Yes, it is," I said.

He was a kid, maybe twenty-one. He had absolutely zero interest in getting any old-lady asshole for himself, though I would have given him some. He was already returning to the truck to get whatever tool opens a locked car door. He'd probably already seen plenty of roadside sexual shenanigans in his day.

I was already looking the other way, watching a guy I'd never see again, a guy whose name I never knew, as he walked away, feeling his cum dribbling out of my asshole, tasting my own shit in my mouth.

END ONE. COMPLETE.