THE AGED BEAUTY

The aged beauty I

I am not who I thought I was.

Pretty dark silky hair, gorgeously pearl green eyes. Lovely shoulders and golden skin with lips redder than a ripe tomato.

I always looked in the reflection and smiled.

My intelligence was superior.

Unlike the others, I didn't have to study to obtain the perfect marks.

My life seemed to go by so swiftly, it was like everything was lined up in place for me.

However, the more time passed by, the more I realized…

When I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, it no longer moved me.

I was ugly.

The wrinkles under my eyes were proof of how ugly I was.

My intelligence was a useless feat if I couldn't figure out how to dispel the wrinkles.

My father soon came knocking on my door.

You're getting old, he stated.

The flowers stopped dropping.

The gifts stopped dropping.

My smile never stopped dropping because I hated myself. My ugly reflection.

But I kept at it. 

Despite feeling ugly, I know there are little kind hearted girls that look up to me so I continue acting.

I am graceful 

I'm pretty

I'm beloved—

No you're not. 

He appears, his eyes stricken green with envy and lust. He can fill me up with his wetness but make out a desert of my already Sahara heart.

This is Steve, the rich man my father found me. One of the few willing to marry a slightly old woman whose beauty had faded over the years.

We wed, 

Steve takes me on our wedding night 

Skin to skin, lips to lips.

I almost feel love…

When he's underneath me, his tongue overlapping with my honey that men had only dreamed of and not once tasted. But now, it belongs to my husband and I seem to like it when he touches me there.

Slurp.

I cum again in his mouth and I feel his excitement on my body which makes me happy as well.

Next, he takes out his manhood from his expensive knitten robe and connects it to my honeypot.

We look at each other and in his eyes, my eyes are gleamy with tears.

He's not wrong.

Only when his body is in me do I truly feel loved.

Others, in the past had only looked at me but not touched me. That was all, I needed to feel loving.

Thrusts!

Thrusts!

Thrusts!

I cry for the hundred time, my cry as serene as angels singing in their natural habitat in heaven.

When our fingers intertwined

We cry together but Steve's cry is louder.

He has never felt a honey pot like mine before.

Even though I'm an aged beauty, it seems the rhythm of my sex makes up for it.

Day by day, we continue this newfound passion of ours.

I strum my rhythm for him 

Sometimes, I give it to him directly with my mouth

And sometimes, I let him bind me so he can take it with more agility.

He does take it, 

For he is a man.

Moved by the power of a youthful honeypot.

The rhythm strums again,

And again

And again.

Then…

One day, he looks at my smiling eyes as we make love and I notice the discontinued unity in his harmony.

But I don't speak 

He doesn't speak either.

But as seasons pass, I notice the huge shift between us.

He begins to look at younger women.

It seems… he's found a new passion.

I am his wife, I should be happy when he's happy.

But I can't forget his cry the first time we made love.

Would he show that sound to the other women he gets with?

Would he be a man to the other women he gets with?

And will I be his wife, the aged beauty whose honey pot he's grown tired of?