The more he touched himself, the larger he became. He asked me if I liked what I saw. I told him that he was pretty impressive. Then he asked me if I ...anted to touch it. I did. But rather than give in, I told him that I wasn't ready for that. That is where things took a slightly different turn. I half expected him to leave at that point. But he didn't. He didn't get angry or seem even a little frustrated. He simply smiled and said "that's okay, you need to do what feels comfortable for you". As. . “Then if we do it this way, we can’t let your friend see me. He’ll want to know who I am, won’t he?”“If he happens to see you I’ll tell him that I met you on a dating site, and you came here before the storm washed the roads out.”“Have you ever done that?”“Not in years. I gave up on finding my needle in a haystack.”“I’ll be your needle in a haystack right here and now, and never go back, if you’ll let me.”“We can’t let that happen, Amanda. It would always be hanging over us ... besides, I’m. I turned my head in surprise to see who it was; my son smiled at me from the doorway then frowned."What's wrong mum?" he asked crossing the room to where I sat."I'm just in one of those silly moods." I smiled wiping away the tear, "Feeling neglected and sorry for myself."'And so frustrated I could scream!' I added silently to myself.At 45 I was not a youngster by any stretch of the imagination and was supposedly at a point where sex was not something at the top of the list of needs, only I. All that time going braless has helped my breasts develop muscle support, so they were standing up well against my chest. He worked his way down my tummy and to my crotch. The paint felt like liquid silk against my skin. I had a heightened awareness of touch, and the brush was stroking all my nerve endings. As he brought the brush up to my pussy, I had a sudden fear. What if I had an orgasm from the touch of the delicate bristles against my pussy lips? That would be awful. I wonder if.