I had registered with a so-called dating site for older women, because I like older women and although the world is full of them, they tend to keep themselves to themselves. Some complain that after a certain age, they feel invisible, because men don't eye them up or chat them up as they used to, but is it just one-way traffic? Perhaps, ladies, you are preempting the lack of attention by portraying yourselves as not interested anyway. Getting your retaliation in first.

Anyway, there was a woman on this site who said she liked to watch men wanking, in real life, in the same room, while she played with herself. This sounded exciting and it occurred to me that, since women, by and large, tend to go along with whatever a man wants to do, even if they would not dream of suggesting it themselves, and I like watching them playing with themselves, it stands to reason that a woman might get turned on by seeing a man tossing himself off in her honour.

Quite by chance I then got off with a librarian, a quiet, shy woman in her late fifties, with long, bushy grey hair that had clearly been her crowning glory her whole life and just because the colour had gone out of it, she saw no reason not to show it off as she always had.

I was sitting at one of the library computers, purely for the sake of being in the building where she and a younger colleague provided a nice, understated show of femininity. I had a perfectly good laptop at home, but sometimes I just felt like getting out and about like that.

So I was sitting there when she came through with an old couple who needed help with an internet search. They sat at the computer next to mine and she stood with her back to me. When one of them moved the chair to get closer, Wilma stepped backwards and her bottom lodged against my shoulder. I didn't flinch and nor did she. She didn't even look round to see what she was resting against, which I felt was deliberate, because she would then have had to apologise and beat a hasty retreat.

So, there we were with my shoulder between her buttocks, not one of the more common fantasies, but very enjoyable all the same. Eventually, the couple achieved their goal and left, and I struck up a conversation with this object of my desire. I asked her if she would like to meet for a drink after work and to my surprise she said okay.

She walked into the pub a few minutes late.

"Just nipped home to get changed," she said, a bit nervously. "I live in the flats down there." She gestured to the street opposite. We got along well and were soon cosily ensconced in our own little world, telling our life stories while the world went on around us and without us. The pub food menu was outrageously expensive, we agreed.

"I can knock something up for us," she offered hesitantly, and after a quick trip to the wine shop for a good bottle of Beaujolais, we found ourselves in Wilma's warm, friendly, scrupulously tidy living space.

After spaghetti bolognese, we sat together on the settee and the atmosphere was mellowing nicely. We discussed dating sites and what a lot of strange people they attracted, the women suspicious and easily alarmed (my point of view) and the men crude and over-eager (hers). This led naturally to some touching and a kiss, congratulating ourselves on having reached this point without online help.

I wanted to tell her about the woman who liked to watch a man doing the blue vein shuffle, but I didn't know how she would react. As the evening wore on, and with some very teenage feeling up and giggling between two mature people, I decided to go for it.

"There was this woman," I said, "a down-to-earth character, not much education, divorced a long time ago, and she said she liked to watch a man masturbate while she played with herself."

"Now she's not one of your wary ones," Wilma said. "Knows what she wants and doesn't mind talking about it."

"How about you?" I ventured.

"How about me what?"

"Do you like to watch a man doing that?"

"Well, no one has ever suggested it," she said, a little flustered but pushing herself through the embarrassment barrier. She left the subject hanging in the air, waiting for me to do something with it. I pulled her to me and kissed her deeply, taking her hand and putting it on my crotch. Then I unzipped my jeans and pushed her fingers into the hot, expectant jungle.

"Would you like to watch me masturbate?" I asked softly.

"I think you know the answer to that," she whispered back, then gave it a few seconds before adding, "Perhaps we should be naked."

My right hand, which had been up to no good inside her shirt, shot around to her bra clasp and undid it with a degree of skill I thought I had lost forever through lack of practice. Wilma wrenched the shirt off and dispensed with the bra with a flourish that shook her liberated breasts. She was enjoying herself and I was proud that she felt safe enough to do so. Her marriage had been short and then came her extended life of bookishness and, I assumed, abstinence. Yet apparently she was a red-blooded woman who believed in her right to enjoy sex in whatever slightly kinky form it might take.

Topless, she walked into the kitchen and came back with a roll of good, thick kitchen towel. She switched on a lamp and turned off the main light and then, secure in the near-darkness, we both undressed. She tore off two sheets of paper towel and folded them so there was a double thickness. Handing them to me, she sat back to enjoy the show. I leaned down to her lap and kissed her pubic hair and the mound beneath it. She smelled wonderful: clean but natural, and I made a mental note to give her a thorough licking later.

Wilma pushed me away playfully and said, "Okay, you're on."

Relieved that my erection was still pluckily standing and hadn't got stage fright, I took my cock in my right hand, as I had done so many thousands of times, and began to masturbate.

"You use the tips of your fingers and your thumb," she observed, ever the thinker, the observer.

"Do I?" I asked, knowing it must sound stupid.

"Don't most men make a circle and pump it like that?" she pursued. "And women doing it to men."

"You may be right," I said. "I've always done it this way."

"Sorry," she said. "Please carry on."

I resumed wanking in front of this lovely woman, who couldn't help touching my legs and lodging her fingers between my thighs. I was getting very turned on and knew I wouldn't have much work to do before volcano time.

Wilma surprised me again by urging me to lie down and kneeling on the floor with her head on my chest, watching intently, staring down the barrel of my love gun, about a foot away.

Now I was in the classic wanking pose, on my back as if I were in bed, but with one big difference: someone - a woman whom I hardly knew outside the utterly prim and proper confines of a public library - was watching me jerk off. In her flat, her front room, naked together on her settee. It was bizarre, hard to believe and unbelievably exciting.

She took the folded paper from my left hand and kissed my belly before retreating back up my chest to her comfortable, safe place.

As I came, my semen shot up into the air and Wilma caught it, placing the paper with remarkable accuracy in the region of my navel and waiting patiently as I delivered the sporadic remnants.

"Very impressive," she said, folding the wad to enclose its warm, ammonia-scented, jellied contents. She wiped the tip of my cock as I squeezed the last drops out. Then Wilma came up and kissed me, her fascinated hand gently squeezing my balls and one finger running up the hidden tunnel from my crotch to the base of my cock, encouraging any remaining fluid up to the surface and into her waiting cleaning pad.

"Now you," I said, aiming for a light-hearted effect that might put her at ease.

"Me?" she asked, surprised. "Do what?"

"You've seen me masturbating," I said, enjoying the words and knowing they would send a seductive, encouraging stimulus to the naughty part of her brain which was beseeching her to let down her defences and be a sexual being for a change. "You've just watched a man wanking specially for you." I paused to allow the smell of my semen to drift up into her nostrils. I sniffed, to make her more aware of it.

Wilma's eyes became slightly dreamy as her olfactory receptors communicated with her reproductive centre. She was further down the road to being a carefree lover of sex than she had been for a long time, possibly ever. I could see her weighing up the idea. Should she do what she did in private, but do it with someone watching. She didn't really want to, but she knew I wanted her to do it. And doing something for someone else was a good thing, a kind gesture. She looked deep into my eyes.

"Or do you want me to lick you?" I offered, and it might have sounded as if I were volunteering to help, but she knew full well I was just a lustful man who would love to get my tongue in her vagina.

And yet... and yet...

"You can't stare at my... bits," she said, far from a born negotiator but sensing that she had a significant say in the outcome. Finally, she snapped out of her reverie. "Okay?" she said, savouring her decisiveness. "Stay where you are."

Angling her legs away from me, she reached down to her pubic bush and began to play with her clitoris, first with one finger and then with a rhythmic flickering of all four. She was like a concert pianist, playing a brisk, lilting tune on her charmed instrument. Her face was a study in concentration as she conjured feelings of excitement from herself, the composer and player of her own arousal. Her legs drifted further apart and I knew she really wanted me to see what she was at the same time embarrassed about.

It took her back to earlier, more innocent days when she had sat on park benches on warm days, her legs slightly apart for the benefit of men who lazed on the grass a few yards away, up on both elbows, supposedly reading a book but casually looking up her skirt. She remembered how she would then hastily walk the few hundred yards to the family home and play with herself urgently, coming to a swift and grateful orgasm and then feeling ashamed.

But somehow now, I could imagine her thinking, she could have the orgasm and extend it into something romantic with this man - me - whom she liked and thought a decent, trustworthy person.

Careering towards the edge, she looked at me with something approaching panic and I flung myself at her, kissing her tenderly. As she began to cum, she withdrew her hand and held her thighs wide apart in invitation. I got on my knees and thrust my face into the fray. She was very wet and wonderfully fragrant with that inimitable female smell. I took all the folds and flaps and swellings I could find and sucked the juice from her. She was making suppressed noises of determination, lust and something like surrender as her orgasm exploded, sending shockwaves through her body. She twitched and lurched, wrapping her legs around my head. Then she leaned far, far back, exposing her anus to me, as an exhausted hunted deer turns to face its pursuers.

I licked her little brown hole and she cried out, then writhed some more, before pulling me out of the heavenly war zone and wrapping me in her arms.

 "What on earth have you done to me?" she mused. "I'm not like that at all."

"But you are," I countered. "You're a proper woman and you're actually kind of wonderful."