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svunuppon · 3 months

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The Enchantress: Old Sex Because Why Not

Do I have older fans? I have never written older-mature moments before (To be clear, I mean I've never written Specifically About older people sex. The characters' ages in this series is Undetermined and Ambiguous at best).

***

The Enchantress sits at her single person pedestal, despondently staring into her hand held mirror. Her eyes are analytical, shrewd, as she goes over her features. No detail escapes her worried vision.

Behind her, two of her students watch her, whispering.

Student 1: For how long has she been doing this?

Student 2: She has been sitting there for a little over half an hour, but she's been in a mood since yesterday. Ever since she found out that the traveling warrior she is keen on, and of whom is definitely attracted to her in turn... has an elderly lady fetish.

Enchantress: Students.

The two hush up and turn to attention as the enchantress puts down the mirror.

Enchantress: Do the two of you think that I seem... old?

Student: Er... Not at all...

Student 2: To be fair, Lady Enchantress, your appearance is otherworldly, ethereal, and almost impossible to pin down in any specific way...

Enchantress: Oh, I am not merely referring to my physical appearance. That I can change at the drop of a hat if I ever wished. I mean... do I give off the aura of an old, magical crone?

The two young students could say nothing. The answer, in their minds, had always been a definite "yes," and they would have never believed i to be an issue until this moment. The enchantress sighed.

*** *** ***

The hero's hero-ing was interrupted on his way from Point A village to Point B township as he was scooped off of the beaten path into the air by a towering and lightning fast roc, and carried in a great bag to the Enchantress's palace.

There he fought back against his captor with all of his might, but was put soundly to sleep in a magic infused, gentle hug.

That is what he remembers now, as he awakens in the enchantress's dungeon, lying on a bed of crocodile scales (The enchantress's over-the-top gaudiness was almost admirable). He knows there is something different about his body as he stands up and feels unbalanced.

He looks into a mirror she has left for him.

For one thing, it is clear that he had been changed as he slept. His garb is similar to that worn by the nomads in the far western continent, with shoulder pauldrons of black and white furs, as well as a fur cape, a leather and steel chest guard, black leather gloves, and a kilt. He looks particularly barbaric, the very picture of a feral warrior, yet respectable. It is not the skimpy garb the enchantress is sometimes kind enough to allow him to wear in her care. Does the enchantress have cosplay in mind today?

But the most obvious change is his face. The face in the mirror that looks back at him is obviously his own, but the hair on his head, brows, and beard (did he have that before he slept? he does not remember...) has turned a salt-and-pepper black and white. His skin shows signs of age and experience, with wrinkles and some more calloused features. He has lost a bit of his fat, and his sharper edges and corners are now more pronounced.

He has aged. Fairly well, in fact.

The hero flexed his arms and shifted his hip. He has kept his youthful dexterity, though the balance is off and unfamiliar. In the mirror he sees his arms are still muscular, though not as in his youthful form. His skin is rougher and there are scars that he is sure are new. Whatever magic the enchantress used, it seems to have given him the aesthetic gifts of battles and adventures he has yet to see.

The hero wondered to himself if it is actually magic that the enchantress used. Perhaps he really is an old man, and has simply forgotten.

The dungeon door opens, and the enchantress saunters in. The hero turns to face his captor.

Hero: Enchantress! Wha-?

His voice is cut off as he stares in shock at the enchantress. Her hair a fine, wavy gray. Her facial features sharper, seasoned. She is now more wrinkled. And her expression is mischievous, and brighter than ever.

The enchantress's appearance has always been ephemeral, her age impossible to describe with human terms. But now she is unmistakably older.

She wears a gown of a high sorceress. Dark red silks, shaped by golden string and laces, and gem studded silver pauldrons. It trails behind her against the dungeon floor as she makes her way toward him. He is petrified by awe as she brings a hand to his face, gently holding his cheek.

Enchantress: I am sorry to have kept you waiting, my noble hero.

Hero: Enchantress... You... I...

Enchantress: You may have your answers.

She takes a step back, letting her hand fall, the sleeve of the robe stroking his body. She turns away from him slowly.

Enchantress: But I know that's not your most immediate desire...

The hero takes her dangling hand into his own calloused grasp, gently pulling her back.

He knows he should ask her many questions, that he should resist the pull... But the enchantress's majestic presence, the evidence of her experience and power on full display, leaves him with no will to fight.

She smiles as the hero gently grasps her left shoulder and right of her hip, taking her slender body to his own burly and armored self. His voice is low, full of barely repressed need.

Hero: I... I need not answers, my enchantress...

Enchantress: How forward. Has the years whittled down your sense of restraint, hero?

The enchantress drapes her arms around the hero's body as he leans in close. He smells the perfume she's massaged into her silver hair, grasps her sorceress's cloak, the proof of her magical triumphs over the years. She, in turns squeezes and almost painfully claws at his older limbs, looking for a foothold, a place to grasp and maintain leverage.

He kisses her neck down to her cleavage. The soft skin he had grown to know was now rougher, more angled, and not as bountiful in fat. Age has taken away the smoothness of the skin, and some of the fat in her chest. The hero's kiss as he relishes all of the evidence of age is as passionate all the same, and maybe more so than ever.

His passion is, perhaps, too great. The enchantress resists surrendering to his enthusiasm, and must take control. He tries to lift her by the thighs and into the air, where he will no doubt press her against the dungeon wall, where he will marvel her beauty and body like a painting, before ruining her. Before he can, she grasps his black and white hair, pulling his head back, stunning him momentarily.

Enchantress: Lie down, my love.

Not bothering to wait for his obedience, she grasps his upper thigh from beneath his kilt and, with a strength that her older appearance had made the hero forget about, lifted yanks and pushes his body onto the bed.

As he lies on the gaudy, crocodilian bed, up at the majestic old woman, the enchantress disrobes. Her body has aged as well.

In many ways she is impressive for her apparent age. Slender, lithe, and not a scar on her body. But even the prideful enchantress is nervous as age has inevitably left its mark. Her perky chest is looser than before. Her hips, once a bountiful place to grasp in bed and make her lover swoon against his own will, were now bonier and slightly rigid. Her belly fat, once subtle and even attractive in her hero's eyes, now seemed out of place in her otherwise skinnier form.

She hides her misgivings of her body and crawls atop the hero, straddling his kilt covered hips, waiting to see if his apparent awe at her older, powerful self will remain when he sees her from this less flattering point of view.

His response exceeds even her most optimistic dreams as his hands shoot up, stroking her sides and appreciating her every bump and crook, and finally rest softly against her smaller breasts. His squeeze is not painful, but not gentle either. The old man has lost his control, to the enchantress's pleasure and relish.

She, in turn, begins to undo the barbaric outfit she had draped him in, letting fur and leather pieces drop to the floor, until he is only wearing the kilt. She is almost envious of the hero's well built body, musculature relatively maintained in his mature years, and his bits of looser fat and skin not detracting from his tantalizing body at all. If anything, she admired him further. Many of her past lovers across the eons of her life have been ripe old men and women, after all.

As the hero continues to paw at her chest and body with the passion of a twenty year old youth, the enchantress (with some regret) undoes his kilt, baring him completely beneath her. His cock is already hard, primed. She is moist, ready to receive him

Enchantress: I am ready, hero.

She takes him in slowly. She bounces slowly, at first nervous of her elderly body's hardness. This hesitation is the opening the hero needs to take some control, as he thrusts enthusiastically, bouncing her body up and down.

The enchantress leans forward and grasps the hero's shoulders, putting her weight on him to try and force him down. The hero responds by putting more force of his own into his rhythmic thrusts. Neither party wishes to hold back despite their ages.

His chiseled features. Her wisened and yet playful gaze. His strong arms that have weathered the years. Her aura of power which has only grown with time.

The two begin to lose control, dignity, and thoughts as they grasp and grind into one another, closing in on their first orgasms.

The two old, weathered bodies fuck unashamed into passion, and both surrender to becoming screaming, laughing, undignified vessels of passion in orgasmic bliss.

*** *** ***

Hours later, the enchantress and hero remain in the dungeon. Any thoughts of escape have left the hero's mind and exhausted body. The enchantress lies atop him.

Hero: What... what exactly is this, enchy?

Enchantress: Oh, just a spell I've been cooking up. You should be back to your normal age by sunrise, hero.

Hero: Will... you be back to "normal" too?

Enchantress: *Chuckling* Patience is a virtue, hero.

She leans in close.

Enchantress: I just wanted to make sure you understood... I am no old lonesome witch, hero. I am an elderly mistress of vast arcane might... Don't you forget.

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