He gazed at me and the bed.In the center of the bed lay the props I arranged, a rainbow of silk scarves.“Is that what you want,” he asked.“It�...s my favorite,” I said quietly. “I love everything we do together, but I have to admit it’s my favorite.” It was very rare that we indulged in this sort of play. I probably was a bit reserved about asking.I could see him stir, his boxers ever so slightly bulging.“I guess I didn’t know,” he replied.“You know, there’s not much I wouldn’t try once,” I. Peter noticed that I was distracted.“You’re very quiet. Is everything okay?”“Just a few things on my mind. No need to worry.”But I was anxious. I couldn’t get the images of Peter out of my head. Things got worse when I went to bed. I started dreaming of being in the sack with him. How could a fossil like me be thinking this way? My grandson was older than Peter, for heaven’s sake. Any desires for that type of action disappeared long ago, or so I’d thought. Was this a post-menopause crisis? Did. More

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