I’m Too Old For This

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I’m Too Old For This


By Shorngirl


At the time, I was not all that in touch with trends and fashion, my sense of style always being a bit lax, to be honest. Not that I couldn’t dress the part, I could. I’m the senior editor for a large publishing house, and although meeting the public has never been in my wheelhouse, I do have to look professional when I meet prospective authors.

My name is Fiona Varis, I’m thirty-eight, and have always considered myself an attractive woman. Oh, God, I sound like I’m filling out a profile on a dating site. Anyway, I’m five foot eight and three-quarters, well-proportioned, and wear my hair a bit on the long side for my age. I was a brunette but have been a bottle-blonde for years. I’ve always considered myself heterosexual, but lately have had some leanings toward being bi.

Have I had sex with a woman? Well…, maybe. I know that sounds a bit nebulous, but the circumstances were, shall I say, thrust upon me. I’ve never really had a serious relationship with a man, but sex was never off the table unless the guy turned out to be unappealing.

The last little liaison I had was about three weeks ago, and that was where the incident in question took place. It started like any date I’d ever gone on, with me accompanying the guy back to his for an evening of debauchery. He was a good-looking guy, even if he was ten years my junior. Michael was his name, but that really doesn’t enter into the story.

He’d just managed to get me out of my clothes and had me right where I wanted him to have me, on my knees staring at his moderately impressive cock. Just as I was about to take the tip into my mouth, keys rattled in the door and a rather attractive woman stepped into the room. To my amazement, she didn’t seem all that surprised by what she saw.

“Nice one, Mike.” She smirked as she hung her coat in the closet closest to the door.

Shocked and embarrassed, I curled into myself trying to cover up. “Who is that?” I whispered, angrily.

“My wife, Paula.” He admitted, almost too freely to be joking about it.

I prepared myself for a scolding, but what happened was in complete defiance of everything I might have expected. The woman began to disrobe and to be honest, I had trouble tearing my eyes away from her perfect body. Her hair was black and had been harshly bobbed at her earlobes, the abbreviated a-line revealing a shaved nape in the back. She was stunning, with smaller but amazingly pert breasts perched high on her sculpted chest.

“What’s your name?” She asked as she knelt next to me, as naked as I was. Without waiting for my response, she took her husband’s cock in her mouth and began to work it as deeply as she could tolerate.

“Um…Fiona.” I managed as I gawked, her skills in the delicate art of fellacio obviously exceeding my own.

She pulled off, a line of spittle tracing an arc between her lips and the tip of the now fully erect cock. “Your turn.”

Hesitantly, and still not quite believing what was going on, I complied, taking Michael’s cock into my mouth, tasting Paula’s saliva on my tongue as I pressed down as far as I dare. I was nowhere near as proficient as she was, gagging slightly as I tried.

To Michael’s obvious delight, we took turns like that for a few minutes, until our mouths were so close together that the inevitable happened. It was a surprise, at first, when she slipped her tongue into my mouth, toying, as our well-lubricated lips pressed hard against the others’.

To my surprise, Michael fell back onto the sofa, masturbating, while he watched us make out. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the throes of passion… with another woman. Not only that; I was more turned on than could remember being in a very long time.

She reached down between us, her fingers exploring my cunt, which was already sopping. “Ooh, you are enjoying this aren’t you, Fiona?” Paula chided, sneakily, as her other hand found my breast, pinching the nipple much harder than I normally would tolerate. The pleasure-pain was so intense that I very nearly came right then and there.

“I’ve never…. you’re my first.” I panted openly, garnering a smile from her.

“Well, I do so love popping a woman’s cherry.” Her fingers, still grasping my nipple, squeezed harder. Paula’s fingers were now lodged deep inside me, the pressure on my clit undoubtedly her thumb. I was beside myself, coming for her, blubbering uncontrollably as she played, edging me over and over until I collapsed on the floor by her feet.

My hands flew to my cunt, as if missing the aggressive attention, pressing down to try and relieve the intense emptiness I was feeling. Not finished, Paula rolled me compliantly onto my back, pressing her sex onto my face.

For a second I was lost, but faster than I imagined I could, I eased my tongue inside her, fucking her as it darted in and out. Thankfully, she left me alone to attend to her. Paula was gyrating now, her smoothly shaved pussy sliding over my face and mouth, using me for her pleasure. Eventually, I zeroed in on her clitoris, sucking the swollen nubbin into my mouth and bringing her to a crashing orgasm, her juices flowing freely over my well-used face.

Much to my disappointment, it was a one-night stand, and I never saw or heard from Michael again. To be honest, I was more interested in Paula than him, anyway. To that end, the experience left me questioning my sexuality. I wondered if I had been playing for the wrong team my entire life, but was content, at least for the time being, to know that I was at least bisexual.

After that, the idea of being with a man became less and less appealing, to the point that I started shunning the advances of men I would normally have fucked at the drop of a hat. The question burned inside me, and I knew I would eventually have to address the elephant in the room. Was I a lesbian after all?

There were a few clubs in the town where I lived that catered to the gay crowd, but I had never entertained the idea of going to one, until then. I made the decision at work, after a particularly tough day.

I didn’t dress up, wearing a pair of older jeans and a band T-shirt, hoping to blend in with the crowd. The last thing I wanted was to appear to be trying too hard. I tied my too-long hair back in a ponytail and left the makeup alone, thinking the clean look was better.

Glancing toward the mirror before leaving, I shook my head disparagingly. I was thirty-eight years old, and I looked like it. “I’m too old for this,” I muttered, looking back at my vanity, wondering if some light cover would be too much for my aging face. It was a crutch, I knew. Covering all my little imperfections with makeup had grown to be a comfortable habit. I had to let it go.

The Roost had started its days as a local watering hole, but as the neighborhood around the tavern grew more cosmopolitan, so had its clientele. Now, it was renowned as the spot to pick up girls…, if you were one yourself.

Nervous was insufficient to describe me as I pulled at the old wooden door. Inside, I was immediately confronted with a rather butch-looking girl, collecting a cover. She looked me up and down, an eyebrow raised. “You in the right place, Sugar?”

Reticent to sound naïve, I immediately nodded, preferring to simply pay the woman and slip inside. She just shrugged, taking the ten dollars, but not without running a finger over the back of my hand. “Have fun.” She winked.

It didn’t make me uncomfortable, but her scrutiny made me feel unsure of myself; not something I needed at that moment. I walked promptly to the bar and ordered a beer, something I liked, but rarely drank. At my age, calories counted, and I was proud of my svelte physique.

It didn’t take very long before I was approached and not surprisingly, by another butch, although considerably older and more attractive than the door minder. I supposed, with my long hair, I presented as femme, and that was alright. Hell, I really didn’t know what I was, I was just happy that someone was at least interested.

“Buy you another beer?” She asked, her husky voice matching her handsomely chiseled face. I looked down, realizing that I had inadvertently polished off my drink in the few short minutes I’d been standing there.

“Thanks.” I managed, looking at her inquisitively.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. New in town?” She asked, assumedly.

“No. Just having a bit of an epiphany.” I said, hoping to sound witty.

“Ah. I understand. I was you, about five years ago.” She smiled, thoughtfully.

“How do you mean?”

“I was married, to a guy, and things just never felt right, you know. I put up with it for years, until I couldn’t anymore. So, I went out, got all this chopped off…” She ran her hand up the back of her tapered fade. “…and outed myself.”

I smiled, admiring her for her honesty. “That must have been tough.”

“Not as tough on me as it was on him. He wigged out. But, then again, he always was a bit of a hothead.” She admitted, flatly. “Fortunately for me, I was the one with the good job, and the idea of collecting alimony from his lesbian wife was a bridge too far for him. He left me alone.” She took a sip from her own.

“So, what do you do?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t prying.

“I’m a surgeon.” She grinned, proudly.

“Wow. That sounds intense.” I said, not surprised that she was an accomplished woman. She had an air of confidence about her I had picked up on immediately. I liked the idea that she was older, maybe even older than me. My biggest fear was that a youngster would find me interesting and for lack of anyone else to play with, use me for sex. It wasn’t all that unpleasant a prospect, considering how this had been awakened in me, but I wanted more.

“Reese.” She held out her hand, which I took, gladly.

“Fiona.” I had never met a woman named ‘Reese’ before, but I suppose it was a masculinized nickname, a derivation of her given name. I later found out that I was correct in my assumption, but as she never used it, I won’t mention it here.

We seemed to hit it off that night, and I was surprised when she never asked me to go back to hers or hint that she wanted more. I had to be content with a kiss as we parted ways. Now, it wasn’t a polite peck or anything, but it was short of my expectations for the evening. We agreed to meet again, exchanging phone numbers before we left.

It was a few days before I received a text from her, asking if I wanted to spend the day on the upcoming Saturday. I responded happily, saying I would be delighted to see her again. She suggested picking me up in the morning but refused to talk about what she had planned. I hated not knowing but loved the way she made it sound exciting.

The Friday before our date, a package arrived for me, and I was quick to whisk it inside and open it. It was from Reese, and I tried to imagine what she had sent me. I wasn’t all that surprised to find an outfit inside, wrapped in black tissue.

The leggings were flattering, the way they hugged my curves, and the loose-fitting top looked great in sharp contrast to the rest. At the bottom of the box was a pair of short-top boots, in black leather and I wondered just how she knew my size. Regardless, they fit perfectly and complimented the outfit.

I wasn’t used to being pampered and found the gesture titillating in the best sort of way. As I donned the outfit the next morning, I tried to stop myself from anticipating what Reese had planned.

“Good morning.” Reese smiled as she emerged from her rather impressive sportscar. “Ready for some fun?” She opened the door for me, and I smiled as she helped me inside.

We started with a ride in the country, giving us both a chance to open up about a lot of things that might have been a bit too intimate for the Roost. We both discovered a few things about the other, and it hadn’t been a mistake that we had hit it off so well that first night.

Over a delicious lunch, Reese made a suggestion that caught me a little off guard. It wasn’t that I wasn’t ready for a change, but it was a little daunting when she brought it up.

“So, what are we going to do about your hair?” She grinned, reaching out to run her fingers through the length of it, having deliberately left it down at her request. “I know this great little clip joint on the west side. They do a respectable job.”

I eyed her masculine haircut, and although it looked wonderful on her, I had my doubts that anything so drastic would be flattering on me. “Clip joint?” I asked, almost laughing.

“You know…, barbershop?” She said, as if nothing could be more normal.

“I’ve never been,” I responded, not lying; I hadn’t.

“It’s probably a little different than what you’re used to,” Reese admitted. “But, I think you might enjoy the experience.”

Not wanting to put a damper on the mood, and having given some thought to changing my look, I agreed to check it out. Reese had insisted that it was only a suggestion, but I was up for it.

It wasn’t much of a place. Squeezed between an empty storefront and a bodega, if it was ten feet wide, it was a lot. I was trying not to be put off by the spinning pole mounted just to the side of the entrance. As we slipped inside, I immediately felt the vibes of the place.

It was certainly different than any haircutting establishment I had frequented, but then, I had only ever been to salons. The first thing that hit me was the smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, in fact, it was rather spicy, like bay rum and antiseptic mixed together. The floor was a black and white mosaic tile that seemed extremely old, but well-maintained. On the one side of the long room was a row of large metal and leather chairs that swiveled on their bases. From the look of them, they were as old as the floor and seemed to grow out of it.

“Hey, Reese.” One of the two stylists, although I would later learn they preferred barbers, called out. “Didn’t I just see you last week?”

Reese pointed in my direction and the man’s eyebrow lifted, apparently intrigued. We took a seat along a row of wooden chairs, worn smooth by countless bottoms having slid in and out of them. “Interesting place,” I muttered quietly, garnering a chuckle from Reese.

As the other barber finished with his customer, I was surprised to see him disappear into the back without calling me. Seeing my interest, Reese explained. “He knows Phillip is the only one who cuts my hair.”

So, I imagined what was about to happen. This man, who Reese trusted with her hair was about to cut mine. I watched as he meticulously carved a line with his straight razor around a man’s ear, leaving a border of white. The rest had been clipped short, certainly not long enough to pinch between your fingers.

I tried not to think about things too much, but it was difficult not to imagine myself in that chair. I didn’t have to imagine for long. A few minutes later, the older gentleman rose and paid Phillip before nodding to each of us on the way out of the shop.

Phillip puttered around, sweeping up the hair around his chair before finally turning and inviting me into his chair. “Ready, young lady?” He asked, smiling.

“As I’ll ever be, I suppose.” I managed.

Reese grabbed my hand as I stood, turning me toward her. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” She assured me.

“No. I want to,” and surprisingly, I did. Suddenly, the prospect of saying goodbye to my waist-length hair seemed long overdue. I was still undecided about what I wanted, or how much I was willing to lose. I soon discovered that this was a moot point.

The barber fastened a strip of crepe paper around my neck before surrounding me with his cape, while I lifted my hair for him. It seemed a sacrificial gesture as I allowed it to cascade down the outside of the red and white striped cloth. Looking up, I saw Reese smiling at me as we shared each other’s reflection in the large guilted mirror.

“Something short, I’m thinking,” Phillip mentioned, as he ran a comb through my long blonde hair, barely able to reach the ends without bending over.

“I think that’s the idea,” I muttered, sarcastically.

“Never sass your barber, young lady.” He said, as he picked up a set of clippers from the counter and oiled the blades. I read ‘Classic 76’ on the side in an art deco font, and I figured they were expensive by the substantial look of the things.

“Yeah,” Reese warned. “You might end up bald or something.”

My eyes opened wide in the mirror as I looked back at her, wondering if that had happened to her. Something told me it hadn’t, but I couldn’t get the image out of my mind.

“Let’s get rid of the bulk here; see what I have to work with,” Phillip said, nonchalantly, the clippers whirring to life in his hand. I felt him lift my hair away from the cape, followed by a shivery sensation on my scalp. For a moment, I thought he had run them up against my skin, but it had only been my hair vibrating as it was cut a few inches away from my head.

He held up the severed lock as though he was showing me how much he had cut, before dropping it to the mosaic floor tiles. It was all of two feet long, and I couldn’t help but swallow hard with the realization. One lock at a time, the barber rid me of my long hair, the silvery blonde strands piling up around the chair. I looked down to see him stepping on it and it was almost symbolic of what was happening.

It was a bit of a shock when he turned me around again to face the mirror and my hair was nothing but choppy tufts standing out in every direction, none of it more than a few inches in length. I saw Reese raise a thumbs-up behind me, and all I could do was nod, timidly. I looked a bit like a deer in the headlights; eyes wide and my lips forming a perfect O.

“So… what are we doing?” Phillip asked.

I think Reese was about to step in and save me, but I managed to speak on my own behalf. “Something like Reese’s, but not quite as short on top.” I requested.

“You want something to play with, but with a short back and sides?” He assumed, not really posing a question.

“Exactly.” I grinned, still soaking up the reflection in the mirror.

“Alright, then.” He slapped his hands together as if having made the decision himself. “Here we go.”

Running around my head with a spray bottle, he wet everything down so that it was dripping down my face and neck. Good thing I had the cape on, I guess. He carved a part all around, combing what was left on top into a makeshift point and fastening it there with a jaw clip.

The part seemed to run around my head just where the sides and back met the crown, and I supposed he was going to do some sort of fade with what remained. Slipping a blade onto the old Classic 76, he began in the back. I felt the clippers run all the way to the part, and I suppose I should have been more concerned.

Looking back to get Reese’s non-verbal opinion on what he was doing, she simply shrugged and bit her lower lip. Then I began to wonder just what old Phillip was up to back there. “How short is it?” I asked.

Stopping what he was doing, he grabbed a mirror off the shelf and spun me around so that I could get a good look at the back. What I saw shocked me a bit. Everything below the part was shaved almost to the skin, way shorter than Reese’s hair. “Um… that’s pretty short,” I suggested, slipping my hand out from under the cape to confirm what I was seeing was as short as it appeared. My fingers didn’t lie.

“Leave it to me, little lady. I think you will be more than pleased when I’m done.” He assured me, flipping on the clippers and resting the mirror from my grasp. Continuing his task, he proceeded to clipper the rest, back and sides, right up to the part. When the machine finally fell silent, I was in a bit of a state.

Were it not for the hair haphazardly fastened to the top of my head, I’d be bald. The contrast between the girl who entered the shop only a few minutes before and what I saw now was… striking. I prayed the old man knew what he was doing.

It was a bit of a relief as he released the hair on top, as short as it was now, it modestly covered much of the damage wrought by the clippers. Phillip took up his scissors at that point and began shaping the final look.

I suppose one might want to call it a micro-bob as the longest hair ended midway down my ear, with bangs that cut my forehead in half. The back was a bit shorter than the sides, revealing most of the shaved undercut he had created a few minutes before.

It was artfully done, but something that would take a bit of getting used to. What on earth would they think at work? I tried not to think about it. As it was, I had to wonder if Reese would still find me as attractive. This was a huge change.

As I rose from the chair, my first instinct was to raise my fingers to inspect the hairstyle I would be living with for quite some time. At my request, he had gone back and shaved the undercut with a blade as a finishing touch. The smooth kiss of slick skin was far superior to sandpaper stubble.

“So, did he go too far?” Reese asked nervously, as we made our way back to her Jag.

“I can’t lie. It was more than a little shocking.” I felt the cold November air against my freshly denuded scalp and shivered involuntarily.

“Well, you look great. It suits you… , you know?” She smiled, as she sat next to me in the driver’s seat. I was relieved that she was on board with my drastic new look. “You don’t like it, do you?” Reese pouted.

“I think I will like it,” I admitted. “It’s just such a big change.”

“I think you were ready for a change.” Reese insisted, pulling away from the curb, the muffled purr of the Jaguar F-Type vibrating through the leather.

“I was…, I mean I am,” I said. “I do like it. I’ve just got to get used to it… on me.” I giggled, haltingly.

“What do you want to do now?” She asked, innocently.

“Take me home and…” A newfound modesty suddenly overtook me, preventing me from saying what I needed desperately to say. I could feel the moisture between my thighs, suddenly, and realized that I’d been that way for more than a few minutes. I suppose I was too shocked by the experience to have noticed my arousal.

“Don’t be shy, Fiona. You know precisely what you want, and I’d be more than happy to oblige you,” Reese grinned. “…but, you are going to have to ask.”

It was going to take all my willpower not to ravage this woman as she drove, which most certainly would be ill-advised. “Take me home and do whatever you want to me.” My face flushed with heat. “And, I do mean anything.”

“If you knew me better, you’d be more careful what you ask for,” Reese warned, her knuckles fading to pale as she gripped the steering wheel.

Whatever she had planned, it paled in comparison to what I needed from her; what I would let her do to me, with me, for me. I was hers, and somehow, I was pretty sure she knew it. My jaw tightened as I imagined the most erotic scene unfolding. My breath caught in my throat, managing to exhale through my pent-up desire. “Anything.”


By the way, my darling, you are never too old.


4 responses to “I’m Too Old For This

  1. Fantastic, as always! I love the submissive tendencies she showed, without going full sub. 🙂

    (As an aside, at one point you mention the wife’s cunnilingual prowess, which may have been Fiona getting ahead of herself, but in that instance I think it should have been something like… felacial? I mean, whatever version of fellatio you want to use.)

  2. Hi Claire,

    Wow that was a fantastic story! I loved the dynamic between Fiona and Reese. I absolutely loved the line of Reese asking, “so what are we going to do about your hair?” while running her fingers through Fiona’s hair. That was a very exciting part of the story because Reese was kind of asserting control over Fiona and wanted to see her getting a very short haircut in a barbershop. I loved that Fiona was turned on by her first experience with the clippers, and wanting Reese to do anything in the bedroom that Reese wanted.

    It never ceases to amaze me how great your new stories are when I read them! I sincerely hope that you never run out of ideas for stories as your stories are definitely some of the most unique stories I have ever read. As always I really appreciate your time and effort that you put into your stories and it is always great to read a new story written by you!

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