Me and an old woman

This 48-year-old woman is a colleague at our company, in charge of inventory. Last night, I was working overtime, and around 8 pm, only this older woman and I were left in the office. Having finished my work and feeling quite safe, I inexplicably started browsing some sexy photos on websites. I was engrossed in looking at them when suddenly I felt someone behind me. I whirled around, and there she was! This 48-year-old woman, with a daughter in college, was staring intently at my computer screen. I was momentarily flustered and awkwardly turned away, my face burning. "Is this nice?" the older woman asked, her tone surprisingly calm. "Hehe, just looking around casually, it's alright." Hearing her tone, my nervousness actually eased slightly. "Do all young men like looking at this?" I thought she would politely leave, but she continued, showing no intention of leaving. "Hehe, I guess so." I didn't know what she meant, nor how to quickly defuse this awkward situation, so I replied sheepishly. Next, guess what? She actually dragged over a chair and sat down next to me, her eyes still glued to the almost completely nude female photos on the screen. "Nice figure. I was about the same as her when I was young." I looked at her in surprise. She said this without batting an eye, as casually and easily as if discussing work. I was utterly astonished, and my respect for her surged like a never-ending river. "Oh." For the first time, I felt awkward and didn't know how to continue the conversation. "Sigh! Now I'm old, my figure is out of shape, even the prettiest clothes don't look good on me anymore." "No way! No way! You still look very young." After saying this white lie, my face flushed again, and I almost couldn't look her in the eye. "Do you think I look good in this outfit today?" she asked me. I mustered my courage and quickly scanned her entire body. Today she was wearing a small red cotton-padded jacket and tight blue jeans. To be honest, for someone her age, dressing like that did require a certain amount of confidence and courage. "You look great! You look great!" Actually, I was thinking that if a young girl had asked me the same question, I might have blurted out, "You look even better without it." But at that moment, in front of this 48-year-old woman, I became unusually cautious, as if afraid of saying something wrong. "Hehe, really?" She laughed, a seemingly happy laugh. It seemed my lie was somewhat skillful; at least she believed it, or at least I thought she did. "My husband used to say that to me too, but he hasn't said it in recent years. Once a woman gets old, no one cares anymore." Seeing the sad expression on her face, my heart skipped a beat, and I had an urge to put my arm around her shoulder, but I restrained myself because I still hadn't figured out one thing: what did she mean today? Time suddenly stopped at that moment, and I did something else that excited me greatly: she lowered her head slightly, seemingly looking at her toes, and there was an opening at the top of her little red cotton-padded jacket. Looking down, I could see a beige, close-fitting cashmere sweater underneath, and I could even see the two bulges that seemed to be waving and smiling at me. For some reason, at that moment I felt a rush of blood to my head. The age difference, the unusual environment, the uncertain attitude… it all happened so suddenly. I almost lost control and hugged her, this 48-year-old woman who still had some looks, reaching inside her little red cotton-padded jacket to grab and caress her bulge. I didn't move, and neither did she. The lewd thoughts that were lurking around her were quietly suppressed, but I wondered if she was also lewdly lurking around me in her thoughts. “Okay, stop looking at those kinds of pictures, they're making you angry!” she finally raised her head and said. I nodded and turned off the computer. We walked out of the company together, into the elevator, out of the building, without exchanging another word. I sensed a hint of ambiguity.
This morning, I needed to ship a batch of goods to a client. I went to the warehouse with the older woman. The person responsible for receiving the goods was still on the way with the driver, so it was just the older woman and me alone again. My mind was in turmoil the whole way. I couldn't say I had much desire for this 48-year-old woman, but a sliver of curiosity lingered in my heart. What if something happened between us? Would I experience a different kind of thrill? But I was also worried about the unknown. It seemed I could only wait and see. We arrived at the warehouse. Without a word, we began checking the inventory list. The warehouse door closed, and it was eerily quiet. I could almost hear my own heartbeat. A feeling of excitement, like the anticipation of a first kiss, washed over me. I stole a glance at the older woman. She was facing away from me, bent over, rummaging through a box. I could clearly see her shapely buttocks, tightly encased in jeans. Good heavens, that one glance was enough to arouse me. This couldn't be! How could this be! I see so many young and beautiful women on the street every day, with even more perfect figures, yet none of them have ever excited me like this. At this moment, I simply couldn't understand this impulse. "Don't miss the opportunity." A voice seemed to be reminding me of something. Yes, no matter what, her actions the night before last must have been hinting at something. How could I be so oblivious, so clueless? So, I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. "From my angle, you're in really good shape." Good heavens! I couldn't believe I'd said something like that to a 48-year-old woman in this situation. I stared blankly at her back, noticing she had stopped what she was doing but hadn't turned around or said anything. I started to feel nervous. I regretted what I'd said. I wanted to say something more, to disguise my words as a joke or a compliment, just so she wouldn't interpret it as flirting or testing me. I was about to speak when she said, "Hehe, it's been a long time since I've heard anyone compliment me like that." She stood up, turned around, and looked at me with a mysterious smile. I suddenly felt uneasy. "Hehe, I'm telling the truth, it really looks great. I wonder how you maintain your youthful appearance." Saying this made me feel a little more relaxed, because the ambiguity in my words lessened considerably; it was more like a compliment. "Well, I haven't really focused on any particular skincare routine. I'm not young anymore, who am I trying to impress with such good looks? Hehe." She seemed to completely believe I was being sincere, and even started looking herself up and down, accompanied by slight swaying. "You used to dance, right?" I guessed, asking again, watching her slowly drift into a state of self-admiration. "Huh?! How did you know? I actually did dance when I was young, for several years, but I stopped after I got married." "Hehe, I was just guessing." "You have a good eye." This time, her smile seemed even wider, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "These jeans you bought fit perfectly." As I said this, I realized my thoughts were jumping around, seemingly disjointed. "Oh, really? Hehe, it's alright, a bit tight. I bought it two years ago, and I've gained some weight since then." She surprisingly kept up with my conversation, slightly bending one leg as if on tiptoe, seemingly examining herself. "Very attractive." That was practically a blurt out, probably because I'm used to describing girls that way, and today I was using it on her. "Oh? You like it?" She looked directly into my eyes, her question quite provocative. I swallowed hard again and nodded with difficulty. "Let's have dinner together sometime, chat." Usually, I'm the one who brings this up, but today a woman was the one to initiate it. I hesitated for a moment, but ultimately gave a positive answer. No time like the present, so we set the dinner time for 7:00 PM tonight.
Tonight, I had dinner with my older woman near the North Third Ring Road. Everything went according to plan. After dinner, I asked her if she was in a hurry to go home. She checked the time—8:10—and said she wasn't. So, I told her I lived nearby and asked if she'd like to come over. She said it was the weekend anyway, and she didn't have to go to work (PS: she has to work overtime tomorrow), so it wouldn't hurt to go. So, we took a taxi to my rented apartment near Beitaipingzhuang. It's a one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor. After the old woman entered the house, she looked around and asked, "Do you live here alone?" "Yes." "How much is it per month?" "1600." "Oh, the rent here isn't cheap." "Yes, that's the price for houses near the North Third Ring Road." The heating in my neighborhood came on yesterday, so it was much warmer inside than outside. I took off my coat, and the old woman followed suit, taking off her red cotton-padded jacket. Underneath, she was still wearing the beige cashmere sweater I'd seen her in the night before, and the same tight jeans. At that moment, my breathing became heavier again; I knew it was because I had some thoughts running through my mind. "Would you like some water?" "Yes." I took out two rather unique glass teacups, added some Lianfeng Cuiya tea I'd just bought from Wu Yutai, brewed it with 80-degree water, and handed it to her. "Very nice teacups." Obviously, I expected her to mention the teacups; I didn't mean anything by it, just wanted to subtly show off my taste. "Hehe, I found this at the teaware wholesale market, I really like it." "Hmm, it's really quite nice, you have good taste!" This seemed to be the second time today she had praised my taste. I smiled slightly, took a small sip of tea, and she also picked up her teacup and took a small sip. "Very mellow and fragrant." "It's new tea." By this time, I felt warm all over, and the atmosphere gradually became more harmonious. I pondered my next step. "Do you go online at home?" I had a reason for asking this question. "I don't have internet at home, and I rarely go online. That's something young people like you like." "Hehe, I like to go online when I get home and have nothing to do." I glanced at her casually and took another sip of tea. "Hehe, you don't watch those things at home, do you?" See? Now you understand what I meant by that question. She indeed brought up what happened at work the night before last, and everything slowly began to fall into the pattern I needed. "Hehe, sometimes, I don't have a steady girlfriend, so I see if that can solve some problems." I said it vaguely but clearly, believing that with her experience, she would easily understand. "Hehe, you naughty boy, doing that kind of thing too much isn't good." I wasn't sure if she meant "masturbation" or "sexual intercourse" when she said "that kind of thing," but I could only guess it was "masturbation." "Hehe, that's how men are, there's nothing I can do about it." I smiled helplessly and shook my head, then picked up my glass and took a sip. "I really didn't realize you had such a strong libido. You seem quite quiet at work." I was stunned! The word "libido" had come out; it seemed we were about to get to the point. "Hehe! It's alright. Normal needs, normal needs." At this moment, I really wanted to blush, to make her think I was still innocent, so she could be bolder and more proactive, but I didn't blush. People are so strange. "You sleep in such a big bed all by yourself at night?" She noticed my big bed. "Yeah, I like sleeping in a big bed, it's more comfortable, and I can roll around as much as I want." Actually, I had another purpose in preparing the big bed, but I should pretend to be innocent. She suddenly put the cup on the table, got up, walked to my bedside, sat on the edge of the bed, and rocked back and forth a few times, seemingly feeling the springiness of the Simmons mattress. What was I waiting for? I immediately got up and walked to her side, sitting down next to her. Actually, my actions were already quite obvious, and I believe she knew some of my thoughts. I looked into her eyes, and she looked back at me, only 10 centimeters apart. At that moment, I knew what I had to do; if I did any more preamble, I would truly be a greenhorn. I placed my right hand directly on her waist. She was startled at first, her eyes looking down at my hand before returning to my eyes. My lips slowly moved towards her neck, and she didn't flinch; I kissed her. Following her neck, my lips moved up to her earlobe, then to her cheek, and finally landed on her lips. Our tongues swirled together, and I felt her passion. Her right hand was now on my waist. A creak came from the bed—the sound of uneven spring tension in the Simmons mattress.
To be honest, kissing an older woman like this wasn't my initial intention; it was just a necessary step towards a passionate encounter. I knew this, so I did it. The swirling of our tongues didn't stimulate me. I tried to avoid looking at her face—a face etched with wrinkles, though not very obvious, concealed by light makeup. But at this close range, everything was still clear. I knew how to achieve pleasure: quickly grab and squeeze her breasts—the breasts of an older woman.

Note the word "grab and squeeze," not "caress." Caressing is for delicate breasts. For these aging breasts, which I imagined were already soft and sagging, grabbing and squeezing was best. It satisfied my lust while truly giving this older woman pleasure. Caressing wouldn't stimulate her nerves. So, under the control of my brain, my right hand moved from her waist to her chest. Of course, it was still through her beige cashmere sweater, but that didn't dampen my excitement. You know, I'd got it—the left breast of a 48-year-old woman, a spot I'd spied on the night before, now completely in my grasp. I used the strength of my knuckles to direct my fingers to begin their assault. Suddenly, she threw herself onto me, wrapping her arms around my neck and resting her chin on my left shoulder.

I heard her heavy breathing. I smiled slightly; without looking in a mirror, I knew I looked cunning. A strange sense of accomplishment and conquest quietly crept onto my face and into my heart. It seemed nothing unexpected would happen today. My confidence suddenly swelled, and I increased the pressure on my hands.

At that moment, I could almost guess that the old woman's lower body was somewhat wet. The assault through clothing might seem boring, but it actually satisfied a certain level of need. Next, I knew I couldn't linger any longer. The old woman's breasts needed a more realistic experience, and my right hand, often acting as the vanguard, was no exception today. Releasing her breasts, I pressed my lips to the back of her neck, letting my breath brush against her hair, while my hand slipped under her clothes from her waist. I felt her blouse, tucked inside her belt. I gently pulled the hem of her blouse out from under the belt, and my hand touched her waist. It was warm, but there was some excess flesh, and the skin was a little loose. Never mind, my right hand wasn't headed there anyway; it was going upwards, upwards, and upwards again. The feel wasn't great, but it was enough to satisfy my curiosity, after all, she was 48 years old. At that moment, do you know what I wanted to do most? I wanted to see the old woman's expression, her expression when I held her breasts in my hands. So, I laid the old woman flat on the bed.
A 48-year-old woman lay on my large bed, eyes closed, appearing so docile—a stark contrast to her age. The reason was simple: sitting before her was me, a man far older than her, about to assault her—a legitimate, licensed assault, of course. I didn't act immediately. I just watched her, her heaving chest, and began to imagine her at work. I wanted to create an even more incongruous image of her, a greater contrast to arouse my own sexual desire. Almost there. I leaned down, simultaneously slipping both hands inside her blouse. The fabric bulged even more, and the old woman seemed to wince slightly, her brow furrowing slightly, letting out a soft "humph," but her eyes remained closed. A barely perceptible smile played on my lips. Throughout the entire process, I didn't lift her shirt, meaning I didn't look at her. Sometimes I feel that not seeing something can stimulate the imagination more, like now, my hands were wantonly kneading those soon-to-wither breasts while admiring the slightly pleasured expression on the older woman's face. Everything was within reach, yet I played hard to get. My legs began to throb. Okay, I've thoroughly felt it with my hands, and my focus shifted to her lower body. Although all I could see was the shape outlined by her jeans, it deeply aroused me. She had indeed gained weight, and the jeans were indeed too tight. Lying flat, her lower body was deeply embedded in the jeans, and I could almost clearly see the initial outline of her private parts. The center seam of the jeans was deeply digging into her slit, a sight that was incredibly tempting, and I was somewhat stunned. I slowly placed my left hand on the base of her right thigh, and used my thumb to slide up and down the center seam of the jeans in short strokes, repeating the motion. Looking at her expression again, almost expressionless, I knew she was trying her best to restrain herself. Perhaps she didn't want me to see her lewd side, but her facial muscles twitched slightly. I chuckled inwardly again. Suddenly, a disgusting thought crossed my mind—I actually wanted to smell her scent down there, of course, through her jeans; otherwise, I don't think I would have even bothered. I shifted my buttocks back a little so I could lean down and bring my nose close to her, pressing the tip of my nose against that visible slit, and gently sniff. It was a mixed scent, the smell of denim fabric, a slightly damp smell, and even a hint of sourness. It didn't seem very pleasant. I quietly withdrew my nose and straightened up again. "Turn over," I told her to lie on her stomach on the bed so I could touch the buttocks I had spied on. She did as I said. The old woman's buttocks, encased in jeans and in a prone position, still looked quite shapely; after all, she was a woman, with fat covering them. I examined her buttocks, then ran my left hand up her thigh, pressing my thumb against her left buttock while the other four fingers slid between her legs. A 48-year-old woman lay on the bed, letting a man freely caress her buttocks and between her legs. After another minute, I started to wonder what color and style of underwear the old woman was wearing today. I really wanted to see how it differed from that of a young girl. I turned her over again, and this time she opened her eyes and looked at me. I ignored her and started to unbuckle her belt. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand, as if trying to stop me, but I still ignored her. I finally unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned it, unzipped her jeans, and pulled them down. Underneath, she was wearing flesh-colored thermal underwear. Without thinking twice, I pulled them down as well, revealing her underwear. It was black.
At first glance, the black underwear immediately reminded me of the term "Black Widow," making me unconsciously associate this old woman with "a strong sex drive and a controlling nature." Personally, I don't really like women wearing black underwear. I prefer white, especially slightly sheer ones, and a bit thicker. I'm not an expert on fabrics, but cotton should feel better. Slightly sheer white underwear subtly highlights the underlying black, just a tiny bit, creating a hazy, alluring effect. That touch of black is enough to arouse a man's desire, which is why I don't like women with bare legs. (Young men prefer perfection and a clean look; mature men tend to prefer women with various "imperfections," a more layered look.) However, what I saw at that moment stirred something else—the older woman's pubic hair was showing through her underwear. The perverse thought flashed through my mind for a split second. I didn't do it. The older woman kept staring into my eyes; I could feel it. Seeing me staring at her crotch without making a move, she seemed puzzled, wondering what I would do next. So, I was having an internal struggle: should I remove these panties completely and behold the real genitals of this older woman? Do you know what I'm worried about? I'm worried I'll see something unpleasant, that all those fantasies that aroused my lust will instantly crumble. What would I do then? Some things are beyond my control. After all, I'm past that naive age, that stage where I'd ejaculate at the sight of a woman's breasts. My "second brother" (referring to my erection) is becoming increasingly independent; he won't get an erection if it doesn't suit his taste. The older woman, after all, has seen the world; her 48 years haven't been wasted. She noticed my hesitation, sat up, and pulled me into her arms. "Come here, let me hug you." I pressed my left cheek against her chest, feeling softness, feeling warmth. A feeling different from lust quietly rose, covering my entire being. Suddenly, I felt this feeling was wonderful; I suddenly felt my soul had been elevated. I could actually let this feeling suppress my lust! My God! I could reach that level, that state of mind too. I started to think that Liu Xiahui (a legendary figure known for his chastity) wasn't so remarkable after all. Remaining unmoved by a woman's advances doesn't necessarily equate to high moral character; there are many other reasons. "Let's not rush things. Actually, I haven't thought it through. What we're doing isn't right." I didn't know if this was the old woman's true feeling, but I just hummed in agreement. "I have to go back now, it can't be too late. I have to go to work tomorrow; I have a shipment to ship." The old woman checked the time. "I know." I slowly pulled back, meeting her gaze again. "I..." I wanted to say something more, but I didn't know how to phrase it appropriately. After all, the old woman sitting in front of me was far more experienced, knowledgeable, and discerning than I was. Any falsehood I uttered could be seen through, potentially ruining this hard-won "unique affection." "I'm leaving." The old woman had already straightened her clothes and put on her coat. "I'll take you." "No need, I know the way." I thought the older woman would give me some advice before leaving, like, "Don't tell anyone about this," "Be careful what you say at work," "Don't let anything slip when you're eating with your colleagues," and so on. But to my surprise, she didn't say anything more, and didn't even look back after leaving. I just saw her straighten her collar again.

Lately
, I've been pondering a question: is momentary gratification more important, or a rational life? I've come to an answer: a rational life sometimes needs the spark of impulse. So, I made a decision that might have a profound impact on my future: to continue this relationship with this older woman. Actually, I know the older woman is also conflicted. Her life, so routine and mundane for years, is practically unbearably dull; but what unforeseen consequences might follow a passionate, mad dash? Is it worth the risk and the betrayal? That's why I went to her workplace on Saturday as well. I cornered her alone in the warehouse. After closing the door, I walked over to the older woman and gave her a bear hug. She didn't struggle at all; instead, she relaxed, pressing herself tightly against my chest. Half a minute later, my breathing quickened. I suddenly flipped her over, so she was facing away from me, her hands on the box behind her. I hugged her from behind again, pressing my genitals against her buttocks and starting to wiggle and rub… The older woman clearly knew what I was doing, yet she remained compliant, seemingly unconcerned about being seen.

Against reason and morality, against the environment and circumstances, all these inappropriate factors pushed the excitement to its peak. At this moment, I no longer felt cold, and the older woman seemed to have forgotten the chill as well. “I don’t have any tissues.” “I have some in my bag.” The older woman pointed to her purse. I took a pack of tissues from my bag, pulled out one, quickly wiped myself, and was done. I pulled out another, squatted down, my eyes only ten centimeters from the older woman’s buttocks, and began to clean her. I moved very carefully and meticulously. Throughout the process, the old woman seemed to continue feeling comfortable, and her posture did not change at all.
Once something begins, its outcome is predetermined. Lying in bed alone, I began to reflect on the right and wrong choices I had made. In the first half of my life, I often regretted some "wrong" decisions, frequently lamenting, "If only... I wouldn't be in this situation now." Actually, I know very well that any unwarranted extravagant happiness will be accompanied by many times more pain in the future. However, as a very ordinary and mundane person, I often only focus on immediate gains and losses. Tonight, I received a call from the older woman. She was taking a walk alone and called my cell phone. I don't want to record the specifics of the call, but the gist was that she thought of me, missed me, and missed me very much. During the call, I could sense that some emotion had been awakened in her; she craved a passion that could ignite it, her enthusiasm far exceeding my expectations. But for me, this is just a seasoning in the long journey of life, without a future, and I won't allow it to have one. Actually, the older woman also knows this, but we both chose to "play dumb," both chose to "overdraw our happiness." Some might ask, how can two people who have developed this kind of relationship interact at work? Wouldn't it be awkward? Actually, that's unnecessary worry. While I might feel a little restrained, I didn't see the slightest hint of evasion or awkwardness in her. Her expressions and words conveyed the message that nothing had happened. So, I remained calm. Furthermore, there's another point: the biggest difference between older and younger women is that you don't have to worry about the aftermath, and neither does she. Everything seemed so easy. Suddenly, another thought occurred to me. I knew things wouldn't end there. Despite my involvement, the instigator of this relationship was ultimately her—this 48-year-old woman. Therefore, I began to worry: who was more proactive? Who was secretly manipulating these events? Was my self-assured confidence being mercilessly mocked by her? Would I become a puppet manipulated by her without even realizing it? Then I laughed again, laughing at myself for overthinking things. Why label something so simple and direct as "secret"? As long as I found the feeling, satisfied my immediate desires, and brought "sexual happiness" to someone, that was enough. Parting ways at the appropriate time—"Everyone has secrets," I comforted myself. As the phone call was about to end, the older woman invited me to her house. I was a little surprised, but she said it was fine. We set the date for dinner the next evening. I couldn't find any reason to refuse.

Originally, something had happened at the older woman's house, but suddenly I didn't want to record it anymore. It's all the same old stuff; no matter how I describe it, it's still the same old stuff, the same old things that never change. I'm quite ignorant; recently I wrote some extreme articles (some targeting women), which provoked a lot of resistance and dissatisfaction from readers, even ridicule and insults. I didn't respond or reply. However, I carefully read all the comments. Some people praised my writing skills, but I want to say that I studied science, and I often failed my Chinese composition exams in school. Some called me "shameless and vulgar," not a real man. I want to say that those articles only attracted attention (that's the truth), and don't represent my true thoughts. Inconsistency between words and actions is a habit of mine, and of course, I don't need to explain. Some ridiculed my online name "A Pear Blossom Overwhelms a Crabapple" as vulgar, saying I didn't know it should be "A Pear Tree Overwhelms a Crabapple." I want to say that if that guy had heard "Stopping to Make Love in the Maple Forest at Dusk" instead of "Stopping to Sit and Make Love in the Maple Forest at Dusk," he would understand. Others wanted me to continue writing, and I want to say that it's not that I can't write, it's that I find it tasteless.

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Me and an old woman

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