Erotica for the over 80s

Erotica for the over 80s

Sunday, 22 February 2015

Chapter Three - Enlightenment

“Don’t make a sound!” he commanded sternly, binding her arms and legs to the bed and watching her helpless body tense as he teased it with a giant black whip. She stifled an involuntary moan as he stroked it over her trembling thighs and an urgent tongue travelled downwards towards her most precious place. A place no tongue had been before. There was a long, loud slurping sound . . 

“Can't you do that more quietly?“ hissed Jean, nudging Betty, who was furiously sucking her Calippo.

It was Tuesday, which meant haddock and the Pensioners' Cinema Club. We enjoyed our weekly outing - it was pot luck with the film, but we got half-price tickets, free nachos and a Kia-Ora.

“Are you sure this is Gone With the Wind?” I whispered. “I don’t recall Rhett Butler spanking Scarlett O’Hara’s bottom like that.”

“It’s a load of filth, is what it is!” tutted Jean. “I can barely look," she added, reaching into her handbag for her stronger glasses. 

I glanced across at Betty, perched wide-eyed on her booster seat, now rhythmically thrusting a hot dog in and out of her mouth.

“This'll set her therapy back months!” whispered Jean. “I’d best get her back to the shop, before it gets any worse.”

“I’ll catch up," I replied. “I think I’ve dropped my purse, I’ll have to wait till the lights come up.” 

Jean gave me one of her famous dirty looks and dragged Betty away, leaving several large splashes of mustard behind her. I slid  lower down in my seat. I didn't know why, but I had to watch the rest of the film - it was awakening something in me that had been asleep for a very long time. 

By the end, I was a changed woman - hot under the collar, red in the face and the curl dropped out of my perm. I never dreamt people got up to such things! My own life seemed so dull in comparison. I gazed sadly at the dark screen as four words slowly appeared . . . FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. Of course, why hadn't I realised? It was that book!

I didn’t stay for the credits, I was too busy worrying how I was going to get out without being seen. I pulled my coat collar up, my hat down and scurried out as fast as my sciatica would allow. I was almost safe when disaster struck and before I knew what was happening, I was flat on my back with my legs in the air and the contents of my handbag scattered all over the foyer!

I'd just managed to scoop up all my possessions and put my glasses back on when, out of nowhere, a hand took mine and firmly but gently lifted me up. To my surprise, I found myself face to face with a familiar grey-haired figure in grey jumper, grey trousers and a grey overcoat. We stared at each other in silence for a few moments before either of us spoke . . .

“Er . . thank you,” I blurted and hobbled quickly away, flustered, bruised and vowing never to leave the nursing home again.

I didn’t look behind me all the way back to the charity shop and when I finally fell through the door, I was relieved to find the comforting sight of Jean pouring the afternoon tea and Betty, perched on the counter, her small head twitching inside an eyeless leather mask with a zip at the mouth.

“She found it in that box that came in the other day," Jean announced. "Now she can't get it off. I’d help but I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.”

I shrugged and hung up my coat. Jean was still talking but I was too distracted to hear. How had I managed to make such a fool of myself, just going to see a film? I reached in my bag for my sweeteners and felt something unfamiliar. I looked down to see a small leather wallet. Slowly I opened it with trembling hands and my heart almost stopped when I saw what was inside! 

Beside the neatly folded notes, in a transparent pocket, sat a plastic card bearing a small photograph with a very familiar face. 

And a name . . . Mr Grey.


Sunday, 15 February 2015

Chapter Two - Meeting Mr Grey

It was a grey, wet Monday when I first met him. Monday meant scrambled egg, the chiropodist and an afternoon in the charity shop. As usual, I was glad to be getting out of the retirement home and into the real world for a few hours. I was proud of my little job, they didn’t pay us but you got all the tea you could drink, a full tin of biscuits and first dibs on whatever items came in.

Betty was in charge of window dressing. Ever since her husband died, she’d been undergoing treatment for an over-active libido and been advised to ‘express her compulsions creatively in a safe environment’. This morning she’d been creative with a Care Bear and a mug tree. And then there was Jean . . .

"Morning," I said cheerily to the imposing figure behind the counter. She looked up briefly and nodded then went back to rubbing her horse brass. "Any exciting treasures today?" I enquired.

“How about this?” shouted Betty, waving a heavy, dark-coloured paperback with a grey silk tie on the cover triumphantly above her small head.

Jean rolled her eyes. "Stop waggling that thing about and stick it up there with all the others!"

“So, have you read that ‘Fifty Shades of Whatsit?" I asked, curious.

“No, I have not!" tutted Jean. "Books are no use to me, I’ve no imagination. I’ve been tested.”

“No, me neither!" squeaked Betty from the top of the stepladder.

"I don't know who she's trying to kid," whispered Jean, resting her heavy bosom on the counter. "I caught her the other day giving it a good thumbing in the store room." She turned to Betty and boomed "Come on, you can help me make a cup of tea and keep your hands busy."

I couldn't help wondering what it was all about as I buffed up a candlestick. Fifty Shades of Grey? It sounded like some kind of hairdressers' colour chart. I was pondering away, absent-mindedly when suddenly I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched. I looked up and, through the rain-spattered window, saw a grey-haired figure in grey trousers and a grey overcoat, clutching a large cardboard box to his grey jumper. I opened the door and poked my head out into the rain.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked. "Your box is getting all soggy."

But he said nothing and just held it out towards me. I felt a bit shaken but took it from him. 

"Thank you," I said, but when I looked up to give him a little smile he was already scurrying down the street through the puddles. I stood on the damp step until he disappeared round the corner, then staggered back inside and slid the soaking wet box onto the counter.

"What's that sodden thing?" bellowed Jean, striding back in with the tea tray, closely followed by Betty, her tiny hand fiddling with her custard cream.

"I don't know," I answered, a little flustered.

"Well, it can't stay there!'" she exclaimed, prodding it with an impatient finger. "It's dripping all over my collectables. What's in it anyway?" She elbowed me out of the way, reached in and produced something long, black and rubbery with a bulbous, knobbly tip.

"What on earth is it?" I asked. Jean shrugged her shoulders.

"I think I know!" interjected a wide-eyed Betty, keenly. "Allow me to give you ladies a demonstration . ."

And before we knew what was happening, she'd plucked the mysterious device from Jean's grasp, and expertly flicked a small switch at the base. We watched in stunned silence as it suddenly began to buzz and vibrate wildly in her eager hand. With a wink, she pointed it downwards and began to lower it . . .

"This is what it's for!" she grinned and slowly stirred her tea with it.


Sunday, 8 February 2015

Chapter One

I walked slowly to the lift and felt a sudden chill. Drawing my coat tightly around me, I stepped forward and pressed the button with a scarlet-tipped finger. The journey seemed to take forever and when it finally came to a halt I stepped out with a hesitant gait. 

The clicking of my heels echoed on the cold floor as I made my way down the long corridor.  Frozen with fear but flushed with anticipation, I stopped before the closed door and took a deep breath. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to turn the handle and moved nervously into the darkness . .

“Are you ready for me, Master?” I whispered into the void, allowing the coat to slip from my shoulders. Suddenly light flooded the room and I was face to face with an expressionless Mr Grey.

“Do you like what you see, Master?” 

His lips remained firmly closed but his wide eyes told me everything I needed to know . . he was clearly overwhelmed by the sight of my studded collar, black leather corset and thigh-high PVC boots. The silence hung over the vast room for what seemed like an eternity, before finally being broken by a short gasp . . I whipped round sharply to see a dozen open-mouthed faces lit by the candles on a giant cake.

“Elsie . .”



Completely mortified, I dashed through the door and shot straight back up to my room. Well, as much as you can shoot in a Stannah Stairlift. As I made my way slowly up the stairs, my agitated mind travelled back to that fateful day when it all began . .