Solo Age play?

Well, no, since she asks, I don’t. Since it is Miss Brain, and Miss Brain alone who leads me through my masturbatory fantasies, I just accept what she gives me, knowing better than to try to interfere. 

But she’s quite right. When I masturbate, I often ‘go young’. I’m not very tall, just a little over 5’3, and I still have the ‘a’ boobs I grew when I was 13. Being perfectly hairless down below only adds to the illusion. I still have my old school uniform and used to wear it sometimes, but I realised, with something of a shock, that when my old school closed down, I actually bought the skirt and tie of the secondary school in the next town. I don’t even think I did it intentionally. One week I bought the skirt…..a few weeks later I bought the tie.

And I don’t just wear it in the privacy of my bedroom!

Take the other day, for example. 

I wore it out of the house, and hopped on the bus that picks up students from around here and delivers them to the school gate. It picks up anyone, actually, but there is a large concentration of students. I can usually find myself somewhere to sit opposite …hmm…opposite who? A man? A woman? I realise I’ve done both, always guided by Miss Brain, of course, who seems to be connected via Bluetooth or something. I don’t know, but she always picks someone who likes what I do. 

It goes something like this. I get dressed, and take great care over the colour of my panties. Never white or pale colours, always something that will show the moisture, and by the time I’ve walked to the bus stop, there will be a lot of moisture. To be sure, while standing at the bus stop, I will often reach up my skirt in the ‘innocent’ way school girls sometimes do, and fiddle around until I feel the slickness on the outside of my panties. 

Once Miss Brain has identified my target, I will sit opposite in the awkward way girls do sometimes. My knees will be apart and I know I’m showing my crotch. I may even strike up a conversation with a student next to me. Meanwhile, peripherally, I’m watching my target…or is s/he a victim? 

I see them look, look away and then look again. I swear, as their eyes touch my panties, I can almost physically feel it. I know they’re looking at a dark patch on the material, which is being added to with every passing second. If it’s a man, he will usually cross his legs and arrange his hands decorously on his lap. Nothing overt, just enough to hide his growing erection. If it’s a woman/girl, she will also cross her legs, but will begin to bounce her foot, or squeeze her thighs, making her knees move rhythmically.

I vary how wide my own knees are, and I may cross my own legs. It’s fun watching the look of disappointment flit across my target’s face, only to be replaced by a look of joy as I once again open my knees. 

Now is the time to look them straight in the eyes and smile. They are usually a little embarrassed, but they always return my smile. I wonder what Miss Brain is saying to them over the Bluetooth connection? 

By now, my clit is pulsing madly, and I’m desperate for an orgasm. Remember I said that pubescent girls have a habit of fiddling with themselves sometimes? I might treat my target to a quick reach up my skirt and a quick itch. Nothing overtly sexual, just…innocent…uncaring. I’m more likely to do this if it’s a man than a woman, I’ve realised. 

By now, I know I have provided him/her with plenty of visual imagery for their wank bank, and I know, without doubt, that they will be masturbating over me later. But not just over what they’ve seen between my legs. There will also be an element of forbidden fruit about it. When I’m dressed up like this, I look about 14. And who would admit to wanking over a 14 year old schoolgirl, especially in today’s climate? 

There is always a throng of people milling around outside the school. It’s easy enough to discard my tie and slip, unnoticed away. 

There have been two occasions when the bus company put a vehicle on with a toilet on board. I took the opportunity to go to the toilet and remove my panties. On the first occasion, I treated the target (male) to a couple of flashes of my naked vagina. On the second one, I pretended to stumble getting out of my seat and fell into the man (hmm…again a man…interesting) I was teasing. As I ‘fell’, I jammed my panties into his open brief case. It was one of those old leather ones that is more of a handbag than a proper closed case. I left the bus knowing he was really going to enjoy himself. 

So yes, age play is a big thing for me I guess. 

That’s not to say it’s the be all and end all. Anyway, I’d soon be recognised if I did this on the same bus too much. 

I realise that public exposure does it for me. I simply adore letting total stranger see my sex. If I get the chance, and feel it’s safe to do so, I will, quite unashamedly, masturbate while they watch. Oddly, I’ve noticed that if someone is watching me Jill off, they never approach me in the hope of more. Maybe they’re scared of me screaming or something and are content just to watch, but actually, I think it’s an unwritten understanding. ‘If you stay there, I’ll do this. If you don’t, the show stops.” 

Let me close by recounting an event where I was the target. 

Miss Brain saw him before I did I think. Maybe there was something about his body language. Maybe he looked as if he was looking for someone to do this in front of. Either way, once I was aware of him, he stopped roaming around the park we were in, and slowly made his way closer to me. 

The park concerned is very odd shape-wise. If you ball up your fist and then stick two fingers, that’s the shape of it, with trees in the gap between your fingers. In reality, the ‘fingers are broad, and not straight, but you get the idea. 

He wandered over near to the bench where I was sitting and smiled. Oh, I forgot to tell you, he was quite old. At least 60, I should say. Something told me he was completely harmless….strange how one can be so certain sometimes. Anyway, he passed me without stopping and went towards the trees. With his back there, he couldn’t see if anyone approached but I could. He needn’t have worried, I think there was only us in the whole place, certainly no one near enough to bother us. 

I saw quite clearly as he undid his zip and got his cock out. That lovely warm smile never left his face, but he began to masturbate. I wondered how long it had been since he had a partner. No, I didn’t feel sorry for him, more…..privileged, actually. Go figure. There was a bond of trust. I just knew that all he wanted was to have someone with him while he jacked off rather than do it alone…again. I knew he wouldn’t try anything on with me and I felt safe enough to indicate that I’d like to come closer. A nod and a mouthed ‘Thank you.” Gave me consent. So I walked towards him and stood a few feet away. 

I looked between his eyes and his cock. No, it wasn’t enormous, or really quite big at all, but I guess it’s something that happens with age. I took a quick look right and left, and simply lifted my skirt at the front in a kind of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” kind of thing. A quick tug down of the front of my panties was enough to make him cum. There wasn’t much semen if I’m honest, and it didn’t jet out of him in the ‘ropes’ (whatever they are)that you sometimes read about here, it more like dribbled out, but the orgasm seemed strong enough. I let him squeeze the last few drops out and tidy himself away before I covered up. 

He looked like there were tears in his eyes as he said a somewhat breathless ‘Thank you….oh, thank you so much.” I didn’t want to run out on him, so I asked his name. He may have given me a real name or not…I didn’t care. He said his name was Albert, which fitted age-wise. I told him I was Anna. We went back to my bench and he sat with me and talked….and talked and talked and talked. 

His wife died suddenly of a vile disease called pancreatic cancer some five years ago. “We were planning our retirement…where we were going to go…what we were going to see….and then, one day, she started being sick. No other symptoms. The GP fooled around for a couple of days before sending her to hospital. One scan later….pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. Untreatable. They said she’d had it for a couple of years. It hides, you see, until finally, it shows itself and it’s far too late. She died two weeks later. Two weeks.”

 The silence that followed was pregnant with memories…and regrets…and a deep, profound sadness. Then he said something I don’t think I shall ever forget. ‘When masturbation is a choice, it’s fun….and can be a great part of a sex life….but when it’s the only thing you will ever have in your life again, it becomes a curse. You get so far, then your brain reminds you that no-one else will ever be with you…watch you…much less leap into bed with you. What I did today was terribly risky, but somehow, I knew you wouldn’t call the police, or photograph me and …well…you know. Watching me would have been enough…it would have meant I wasn’t alone. That you came over and, well, helped was so kind.” 

I took a minute to digest what he said. Being female, I have a much easier time of attracting people than men do, I think. These days, a man is just as likely to get his face slapped and some miserable bitch give him a complaint of sexual harassment. So much for the fucking man-hating feminists out there. I began to wonder what it would be like for me at 60 if my life partner had died. Masturbation as the only source of sex. Hmmm. 

A thought crossed my mind, and he saw it as it passed. “No. Thank you, but no.” The thought was that I wondered if I should offer to wank him off again. I didn’t consider fucking him for a second. Oh his age wouldn’t have bothered me in the least, but somehow I knew that fucking was between him and his departed wife, but I would happily have wanked him off if he had asked. 

It was a strange encounter, but I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that unlike magnets that repel like poles, people like me, who enjoy a very high sex drive and have few, if any inhibitions, tend to attract others who feel the same. I wrote a story called ‘Love IS all around us’ that explains my thoughts on this further. 

I am truly grateful for what my body does. I’m not one of these women who walk the earth with a permanent frown who obviously hate their own bodies….largely for the mess and the smell….and they blame all men for it. I get wet….and it’s fucking lovely. It smells amazing and tastes even better. When I come it can shatter my frame of existence. I don’t think there is anything sexual that I wouldn’t at least try once. I will never allow myself to be on my deathbed and say the words “I wish I had tried….” Sex is glorious, and only gets fucked up, if you’ll pardon the expression, but the petty rules and stigmas ‘society’, whatever that is, puts on it. At 14, I dreamed of getting fucked. I knew the mechanics of it, and I knew the risks of pregnancy and STD, but I still wanted to lay, on my back, under a man, and have him fuck my brains out. Oh, but it’s ‘not legal’. Well, screw that! My body, my rules. No-one else’s. Ok, so I didn’t get fucked at that age, but the point is, I was ready! Absolutely ready!

And so, here I am with Emily. My urge for a cock has diminished but not disappeared. Our sex life has tried things I could never write about here, and some things, to my utter surprise, I have found I liked. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, etc etc. 

Ok. Well, I’ll shut up now. This story is way too long anyway, and I hadn’t intended that. I’ll be shorter next time…promise. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there is a wet vagina that I simply have to suck off!