Natural Endurance

Week eight and Patricia texts me. Not calls. Texts. Like a normal person does which is somehow hotter than it should be.

"Reading club Thursday 2pm. My house. Come. Wear something presentable. P x"

No explanation, just that.

Steve's got me running intervals that morning so I'm knackered but he's kind enough to let me wear one of his decent shirts to visit his mother. Doesn't have a clue that I fucked her. Let alone his daughter, wife and sister.

Patricia's house is in the posh bit of town. Proper American money. Big windows, actual garden furniture that looks used, not for show. Three cars already there. A Mercedes, some massive SUV thing.

She answers the door in linen trousers and a silk shirt. Reading glasses on a chain round her neck. Looks like she's stepped out of one of those American magazines about women who have book clubs and drink wine at two in the afternoon.

"Daniel. You came," she says. Not smiling but her eyes are.

"Er, yeah you told me to."

"I did." Steps aside. "They're in the living room. Now try to behave young man."

Follow her through. The living room's got floor to ceiling bookshelves, four women on sofas with wine glasses, some book I've never heard of on the coffee table.

They all stop talking when I walk in.

"Ladies, this is Dan. He's staying with my son Steve for the summer. Cambridge graduate, History. Thought he might enjoy our discussions."

I'm stood there in Steve's shirt feeling like a complete prick while four American women in their fifties and sixties look at me like I'm something from the zoo.

"Well aren't you handsome," one says. Red hair, expensive jewellery, face that's definitely had work. "I'm Diane."

"Patricia, you didn't say he was so young," another one says. Blonde, fit for her age, proper runner's shoulders. "I'm Susan."

Third woman doesn't say anything. Just looks. Dark hair going grey, green eyes, this smile. She's younger than Patricia. Maybe late fifties. Wearing a dress that shows she's still got it.

"Tamara," Patricia says. "Say hello."

"Hi Dan," Tamara says. American but something European underneath. Eastern European maybe. "Nice to meet you."

The way she says nice makes my cock twitch.

Fourth woman's already back in her book. Older, severe. Doesn't give a fuck I'm here.

Patricia hands me wine. "We're discussing In Praise of Older Women. Hungarian author. You'd probably find it interesting given your recent experiences."

Oh fuck. She is such a cock tease.

"Haven't read it," I manage.

"You should." Tamara's still looking at me. "It's about a young man discovering that older women are better in bed. Very educational."

Susan laughs. "Tamara, Jesus."

"What? I'm just being accurate."

They talk about the book. I sit there drinking expensive wine with a stiffy, trying to work out what Patricia's doing. Every so often Tamara looks at me. Not subtle. Just stares.

Catch bits of their discussion. Something about the Hungarian bloke learning that older women don't waste time on games. That they know what they want and actually tell you. That sex with them is different because they've stopped performing and started enjoying.

Yeah. That tracks.

Hour in, Diane and Susan leave. Some excuse about meeting husbands. The severe woman's already gone. Just me, Patricia, and Tamara.

"Well," Tamara says when we're alone. Stretches. "That was civilised."

"For you," Patricia says.

"I was good. Didn't say half the shit I was thinking." Looks at me. "She told me about you Dan. About your little dalliance a couple weeks ago."

My brain stops.

"Don't look so shocked," Patricia says. Sits next to me. "Tamara and I have been friends for thirty years. We tell each other everything."

"Everything," Tamara says. Moves closer. "The stockings detail was particularly good. I liked that."

Can't speak. Patricia's hand finds my thigh.

"I invited you here," Patricia says quiet, "because last time was rushed. And because Tamara's been curious."

"Curious," I manage.

"Mmm." Tamara crosses her legs. "Seven years is a long time Patricia. Wanted to see if he was worth the wait."

Patricia's hand moves higher. "He was."

"Show me then."

And just like that we're upstairs. Patricia's bedroom. Big bed, windows overlooking her massive garden. Typical, everything has to be bigger in America.

Tamara sits in the armchair by the window. Pours more wine from the bottle she brought up. "Don't mind me. Just pretend I'm not here."

"That's a bit er bonkers," I say.

"Maybe" Patricia's unbuttoning my shirt. Steve's shirt. "But she's staying. You okay with that?"

Look at Tamara. She's not moving. Just watching.

"Yeah. Er yeah, more than okay."

Patricia pushes the shirt off. Hands on my chest. "You're nervous."

"Bit yeah."

"Don't be. It's just us. Tamara just wants to watch. She won't touch."

Tamara raises her glass. "Scout's honor."

This is mental. But Patricia's kissing me now and I stop thinking about Tamara.

Get Patricia's clothes off. Linen trousers, silk shirt. Black bra underneath. Her tits spill out when I unclasp it. Sixty-three, bit saggy, but proper handful. Nipples still pink. Still want to suck them.

Black knickers. Slide them down. No hold-ups this time. Just her. Grey hair between her legs. Natural. Can already see she's wet.

She lies back on the bed. "Come here."

Kneel between her legs. Start with my mouth because I know she loves it. Get my tongue on her clit and she gasps, hand yanking my hair.

"Oh god. Yes. Right there."

From the chair Tamara makes this noise. Look over. She's got her hand between her legs. Over her dress. Just resting there. Watching.

"Keep going," Patricia says. Pulls my hair harder.

Lick her clit properly. Find that rhythm from before. She's soaking wet now, can taste it. Hips moving. Her thighs moving either side of my head.

Push two fingers inside her snatch. Grips my fingers hard. Start working them in and out.

"Right there," she gasps. "Stay right there."

Hold my fingers still. Just pressure on that spot inside her cunt. Keep licking her clit. She's close. Breathing fast. Thighs squeezing my head.

Look over. Tamara's dress is up now. Hand properly between her legs, fingers working. She's watching Patricia's face. Not me. Just Patricia.

Patricia comes. Goes rigid first. Silent. Then moans, loud, proper loud, her hand pulling my hair so hard it hurts. Her cunt round my fingers. Lasts ages.

"Fuck," she breathes when she's done. "Jesus Christ."

And there it is. That thing the Hungarian writer understood. She's not performing. Not making the noises she thinks I want to hear. Just having it. Just coming because she wants to and knows how.

Tamara's making noises in the chair. Still touching herself. Getting louder.

Patricia pulls me up. Kisses me. Can taste her own cunt on my tongue and doesn't care.

Look at Tamara. She's not hiding it anymore. Hand working fast between her legs, fingers disappearing inside herself, watching us.

"You two are gorgeous," Tamara says. Not embarrassed. Just stating fact.

Patricia turns my face back. "I want to try something."

"What?"

Reaches into the bedside drawer. Pulls something out. Small vibrator. Battery pack attached.

"Tamara taught me this years ago." Touches her pussy. "The wall between here and here," touches her arsehole, "it's real thin."

Not following.

"You put something in my ass while you're fucking me, you'll feel it. Through the wall. Extra pressure on your cock."

Oh bollocks.

"Never done that."

"I know. That's why I want to show you." Already getting lube out.

Not explaining like I'm thick. Not making it a performance. Just showing me something she knows. Teaching without the bullshit.

"Tamara, tell him."

Tamara's voice from the chair, breathless, hand still working her cunt. "You're gonna feel it Dan. Every vibration. Like she's jerking you off from inside. It's fucking incredible."

Patricia coats the vibrator in lube. "Lie back."

Lie back. She straddles me. Takes my cock in her hand, lines it up, slides down onto it. Already soaking wet from before. Her cunt tight and warm and fuck.

Then she leans forward. "Gonna put this in my ass now. Tell me if it's too much."

Feel her adjust. The pressure changing. She's working the vibrator into her arse. Slow. Making these small sounds. Can feel the pressure through that thin wall. Feel it pressing against my cock inside her.

Then she turns it on.

Oh fucking hell.

The vibration. Can feel it on my cock through the wall of her cunt. Like she's gripping me but tighter. The buzzing right against the head of my cock. It's like she's wanking me off from inside and I'm going to spunk immediately if I'm not careful.

"Oh Christ," I manage. "I can feel that. Feel it on my dick."

Patricia smiles. Starts moving. Slow. The vibration constant. Every move makes it press different places on my cock. The ridge of the vibrator rubbing through that thin wall.

"Good right?" she asks.

Can't answer. Too good. The pressure, the buzzing, her wet cunt sliding up and down my cock. Look at Tamara. She's got her dress up properly now. Fingers working fast inside her snatch. Eyes locked on Patricia.

Patricia leans down. Kisses me. Keeps riding me. The vibrator in her arse pressing through, can feel every ridge of it rubbing against my cock. Like she's wanking me from inside her own body and I'm going to lose it.

"You're close," she says against my mouth. "I can tell."

"Yeah. Really fucking close."

"Don't hold back. I want to feel you spunk inside me."

She's grinding down now. Taking me balls deep. The vibration constant. The pressure. Her tits pressed against my chest, nipples hard. Can hear Tamara getting louder from the chair, fingers working her cunt faster.

"Gonna come," I gasp. "Gonna spunk."

"Yes. Fill me up."

Three more grinds and I'm gone. Spunking hard inside her, balls deep, while the vibration keeps going and her cunt's gripping me tight and Tamara's crying out from the chair, coming at the same time, fingers buried in her snatch.

Patricia keeps moving. Gentle. Milking it. Till I'm empty. Then she reaches back, turns the vibrator off. Takes it out of her arse slow. Lifts off my cock. Can see my spunk leaking out of her cunt onto the bedsheet.

Lie there completely fucked. Patricia next to me breathing hard. Tamara in the chair, dress still up, looking properly wrecked.

"Well," Tamara says eventually. "That was educational."

Patricia laughs. Proper laughs. "Told you he was worth it."

"You did." Tamara stands. Fixes her dress. "I should go. Leave you two alone."

She kisses Patricia goodbye. Proper kiss. On the mouth. Then looks at me.

"You're a lucky boy Dan. She doesn't share her toys with just anyone."

Then she's gone.

Patricia and I lie there. Window's still open. Can hear birds. Normal afternoon sounds.

"Your friends are pretty open minded eh," I say.

"Tamara is. The others are perfectly normal."

She's my oldest friend. Been through three divorces, two dead husbands between us. No secrets."

"And she wanted to watch."

"She asked. I said yes." Patricia's tracing patterns on my chest. "You okay with it?"

"Yeah. Weird but yeah."

Quiet for a bit.

"That thing with the vibrator," I say. "The wall. Never felt anything like that."

"Tamara discovered it in college. Some guy she was sleeping with. She's been very enthusiastic about anatomy ever since."

More quiet. Then Patricia checks her watch.

"Steve wants you back for dinner at seven. You should probably go."

"Er, yeah right."

Get dressed. Steve's shirt, my jeans. Patricia stays in bed watching. Can still see my spunk leaking out of her.

"Same time next week?" she asks.

"Um, yeah for sure."

"Good boy."

Eight weeks. Keep adding to the list. Patricia's friend watching and touching herself. New things about anatomy. Steve's mum telling her mates everything. Learning what a sixty-three-year-old woman feels like when she comes on your cock.

My training times are shit now. Steve's getting frustrated. Says I'm not focused. Says I'm wasting the opportunity.

He's right about the first bit. Wrong about the second.

But he's completely missing what's happening in his own family. His wife. Daughter. Sister. Mother. All finding what he won't give them.

Maybe that's the education. Not running. Not Cambridge. Just this. Understanding what that Hungarian writer understood. That older women aren't better because they're kind or patient. They're better because they've stopped lying. To themselves and to you. They know what they need and they take it.

In praise of older women. Yeah. I get it now.

Two months left.

Still not sure I'll survive it.