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Afternoons

By: JulietteLeM



I step out of the bath first, drying myself, looking down at Philip, at his rippling eddying body, wrapping the towel around myself, pulling it under my arms, over my legs, between them, rubbing my pubic hair, patting the tender damp skin of my sex, staring down, looking, at his firm hairy body, his soft swirling penis. Then standing back, dry, taking the towel away from myself, standing in front of him naked, letting him look, reaching for a fresh towel, inviting him out. 

And drying him. Feeling his body, his arms, his shoulders, his tight chest, reaching around to his full firm ass, sliding down and up his legs, scrunching over his thick dark bush. And looking, oh god, seeing his soft penis start to stiffen, watching his small cock start to get bigger, pulling the towel over his male part, then dropping it to touch him there with my bare hand, feeling his delicious warmth, the hardening of his aroused organ, pulling, stroking him, his skin tight and clean from the bath, letting myself look at his smooth shiny tip, feeling him become erect again, fully, thrillingly erect, his foreskin slid away from his glans, letting me look, letting me stare at this most intimate part, Philip's is so smooth, shining, soft, pink, a slightly more reddish pink than the creamier, browner skin covering his tumescent stem. I stroke him, I want to see that first delicious drop of sweet liquid appear in his opening, I grip his sex until it is upright, until his cock is sticking up between us, full, thick, long, hot, always, why does this always surprise me, the heat of him, and so ready, the undisguise-able reaction of his body, that erotic chain of mind and sensation. 

But, moving back, already looking, looking down, feeling my breath, my belly, my pleasure, feeling my own body react, sensing my own hidden responses, my own sweet swelling, the slick moisture seeping from within my sex. 

And my mind, I stay still, Philip looks at me, as I shift my feet apart, as I offer him the most teasing view of my naked genitals, as he stares down, lingering over the moist folds of my warm cunt. I feel myself pulse with wetness, slip and slide with hot arousal. 

My mind follows my eyes, I live again, back again. 

He asked me out for coffee, or was it a drink? Casual enough, friendly enough. Laurent, our beautiful young male model, did not return, not for those classes. We saw the two women, and another man, older, again, though not old, in his forties I guessed. He appeared for our last class. Do I remember him? From those sessions? Do I trust the source of my own stories? My visual memory is clear though, is detailed for him, for everyone I have drawn or painted, clothed or nude. At least, again, I think it is. How would I know? 

Our final model entered and nodded to the teacher, smiled at a few of us as he walked to the screen. I sensed the confidence of his experience. Within moments he was in front of us again, covered in a black robe. I sharpened a pencil, and waited. And looked. Without looking, at his short grey hair, his bare feet, his smooth naked calves. And then he undid his robe and dropped it behind him. He stood naked. And stepped into a pose. I looked carefully now, with fresh attentiveness. At his tight body, at the hair around his nipples, at the centre of his chest, at the small bulge of his belly, at his dark, thin looking patch of pubic hair, flat looking, not cut, I was sure, but it grew close to his body, his skin. I let my eyes slip lower and look at his suddenly exposed penis. 

He stood, turning, extending, stepping. I watched. His soft penis wobbled and swayed. His cock was quite long, quite thick, and very circumcised. I supposed he was good looking enough, unobtrusively handsome, not a man you might stop to look at, to look back at, but someone you could get to like. My obsessions reverberated within me though, my physical pleasure at looking at nude men, naked women. I stared. The model was still, his cock hung down in front of him, touching the valley where his thighs met, his large oval tip in view, the tight slit of his opening, his long stem, oh god, his gnarled veined thick shaft, dark, the skin of his sizeable penis was darker than the rest of his body, the smooth bare cap of his glans just slightly wider than his fleshy stem. 

His balls hung behind his cock, held tight, gripped by his exposed pouch, perhaps slightly lower than our younger model, showing around the sides of his penis, the crinkled skin of his scrotum slightly relaxed. I could see his large testicles shifting, swaying, as he breathed, as his body pulsed and expanded. 

I explored my wicked imaginings, as I drew, as I studied him, my depraved fantasies, to have him undress for me, with me, for me alone, to draw him, to lay him down, to arrange him into a pose, and to request tumescence, to watch the first pulsings of arousal, to instruct him, to order him to touch himself, to masturbate until he was suitably erect. Watching as he did so, watching his penis lengthen, thicken. Drawing quickly, as he let go, sketching his bare body, the unambiguous focus the long extension of his sex sticking up over his belly. 

And to reach for him, to let him soften, to hold his warm, soft organ, take that long soft penis in my mouth and suck him until he was rigid, to draw, to hold a mirror and draw myself, my face, my mouth open, stretched around his erect cock, to pull it away and take one of those large pendulous balls between my lips. 

I enter myself once more, I drop back, back inside, to thoughts as clear and affecting as the tile under my bare feet. Thinking, re-living, living.

Do I have a thing for older men? I hadn't considered this before. For men? Any man? I think of sketching him, and undressing, simply, wordlessly, stripping for him, letting him look at my smooth firm young body, my small breasts, my tight dark nipples, my thick bush. Holding his stiff penis, pulling him against me, sliding my moist sex along his thick hard stem, sitting over him, feeling his taut smooth glans stretch into my vagina, and pushing down hard, enclosing him, enveloping his long thick cock deep inside my tight little cunt. 

The hours pass, as quickly as usual. He is a good model, his poses are challenging, he stays as still as anyone we have had, I draw quick charcoal renderings of his firm smooth body, his small ass only just betraying the deflating signs of age, longer pencil drawings of his large fleshy soft penis, hinting at experience, at life, and hands, mouths, openings, closings. Making me, oh god, it makes me think of him hard, I think of him fucking, holding the swollen tip of his penis to a lover's opening, a woman's slippery warm vagina, a guy, I think of him with another guy, both naked, both aroused, kissing, touching, stroking each other, finding their rhythm, turning, opening themselves, kissing and moistening the other's tight asshole, entering him there, fucking, fucking his lover in the ass with force and need.

But then, in a moment he is by himself, in bed, in his apartment, in the afternoon, undressing in the daylight, his curtains drawn, a fifth floor, naked, already half erect, finding himself aroused, masturbating quickly and easily to orgasm, spurting thick loops of semen over himself, over his hands, his smooth belly, his hairy chest.

When he chats to the teacher between poses, during one of his breaks, he remains nude. I remain transfixed. As he steps and sways, as his soft cock swings and shakes, as his relaxed scrotum holds his testicles, as they hang lower behind his long penis. 

His long pose involves him reclining on a long flat seat, long leg raised, the other flat, his penis hangs over his thigh, his soft pouch allows us to look at the shape of his balls. 

My thighs are closed together throughout. 

When I pack up it is with a large amount of sadness, that our course has finished. I know I will have to find another one, more models, nude men, nude women, posing for another group, for me. This thought has dangerous appeal, that I could ask people, friends, boyfriends, strangers, to pose for me? Could I? Would they? Then, one cascades into another, that I could pose. I barely move, I have slowed my packing to an absent shuffling of my papers, as I imagine undressing behind a screen, a class waiting, stepping out, letting my robe fall from my naked body, having a group of young artists look at me, at my bare skin, watching as I strip, as they are suddenly able to look at my breasts, my dark bush, my soft dark sex. 

I linger so much over this thought I am the last one to pack up, to leave. Our teacher is still there, also packing. And he catches my eye. 

"Juliette, how did you enjoy the course?"

"Oh, very much, it was new to me, but I enjoyed it immensely."

"Good, I am glad you got something from it."

"Do you teach may other classes?"

"Sure, a couple of others. You should try them, you have talent I think, you should develop it."

"Oh, thank you, I might, I mean, if you could let me know? Where they are?"

"Of course, um, are you free now? Would you like to get coffee?"

This surprises me, it continues to, when I am asked out, if that's what he is doing, when a conversation takes that sudden shift. Do I want coffee? Do I want to spend time with him? Do I sense any other interest? Does he? I answer a quick, if tentative yes to all. 

"Coffee would be nice, yes."

"Are you okay to give me a minute to close up?"

I give him his minute, and wait, glancing out (was it winter? Do I remember cold weather? Our breath hanging on the air? Clouds, the sky low, having to go inside, when you could still smoke, double espresso for him, cappuccino for me. Cigarettes for both of us. 

Had I looked at him before? For more than a passing glance on the way to someone nude? He had a nice face, creased around the eyes, his mouth, blue eyes, dark brown-black hair. And a thick dense beard. We spoke. I know we spoke. Conversation came easy. I don't remember any of it. Until the subject turned to painting, modelling, nudes. He asked if I had ever done any life modelling. I took it more as a flirt than a suggestion. Until I asked him in return if he ever had). 

"Yeah, when I was younger, a few times, for girlfriends, a few times for classes. I liked it."

"Really? Nude?"

"Sure."

I let the image grow in my mind. Of him, undressing, standing, naked, his body exposed, his penis, his tight balls. 

"What's it like?"

"Uh, quite... pleasurable, sensuous, sort of, but, I mean, the need to stay still takes over, and you do forget that you are nude, you are the only one who cannot see you after all."

"Of course."

I look at him. Are we flirting? Am I? With intent? I look at his hands, at the light blue packet of Caporal, the thick, between them, an unfiltered Gauloises sending up pale grey-white ribbons of smoke, held between the first two fingers of his left hand. A thick gold band visible next one along. 

"You are married?"

"Uh-huh."

We leave this alone. 

"Do you fuck around?"

"Oh, no, of course not."

I study his face. And take a chance. 

"You don't have affairs? With your students?"

He leaves this alone. Only smiles, shakes his head. What am I doing? Am I disappointed? Do I want to be that woman? That student? He is catching me in a dangerous place though, at the consuming height of erotic intensity. I would usually be home now, undressed, on my bed, touching myself, holding my bare breast, cupping my damp sex, savouring the physical release of so much pent up erotic stimulation. It overpowers me. The desire for more, to see more, to have more. 

"Can I draw you?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean... can I draw you?"

I watch him. Is he considering? Really? Or wondering if I am really asking something else. I wonder if I am asking something else. I am. I am not. I only want to draw him. Drawing is an essential part of what is an erotic encounter though. Does this matter? My brain is too cloudy with arousal to work this out. Is he thinking of it? Is he reacting? I wonder if my question has affected him, I wonder if he is not sitting opposite, his penis stiff in his trousers. 

He takes a breath of smoke and blows it out of the side of his mouth, away from me.

"Yes."

"Yes? Really? Thank you, fantastic, now?"

"Can I draw you?"

The thought enters me, penetrates me. We look, we stare. I am trying to catch amusement, condescension, the raised eyebrow or curled mouth of someone playing. There is nothing. Honesty. He looks suddenly more handsome than a minute ago, his eyes have a measure of green within them, hold my gaze with beautiful sharpness. I am aware of my own hypocrisy. I don't care about drawing him, not really, or being drawn, I am not playing, but I am driven by physical not aesthetic desires. I want to see him nude, undressing, stripping for me, exposing his soft penis, his tight balls, his full ass.

"Juliette?"

Undressing for him, looking at him looking, standing in front of him, nude. 

"Yes."

"Okay then."

And we walk to my apartment. We haven't agreed to draw each other nude of course, yet this is my thought, that we will both undress, and pose for each other, naked. Is he thinking this? 

(I remember his grey tweed jacket, his thick navy sweater, a scarf. I remember walking in near silence now, with the trembling pleasure of anticipation, not of sex, not quite, he was married, I had to have a line somewhere, but of exposure, of being nude in front of someone. That same strange thrill I used to get on the way to the beach, when I got older, with my parents, my brother, their friends. Undressing, stripping, looking, being looked at. That sweet denial of the erotic. 

By the time we had climbed the five flights to my front door we were both breathing loudly and heavily, I felt the prickle of sweat on my neck. I looked. Did I know his name? I must have. When did I ask? Had he introduced himself at the start of the first class?)

I unlock and let us in, dropping my keys on the floor, looking at where I lived, for the first time, through someone else's eyes. Other people had been there, but nobody who wasn't my own age. I look with Fabrice's perception. Is he noticing the glasses still stained with last night's wine? The overflowing saucers of cigarette ends outside on the windowsills? The unshelved books? The unmade bed? The scattering of discarded clothes, the unfinished drawings, the careful clutter of art equipment? I feel suddenly young, slightly more ill at ease than I am comfortable with. I imagine his house, his floors, his studio, an attic, a basement, some apportioned space devoted to his work. 

His wife. Artistic, like him? Is he successful? I am at the age when I have criteria other than mere happiness, this is not what it's about is it, creative achievement, exhibiting, critical acclaim, critical contempt. Extreme reactions. His wife. 

I take some time to imagine her, as we enter, as I take my coat off, let the seconds of silence extend into minutes.

Is she beautiful? Tall, dark, poised, French. Stripping in front of him in one swift elegant motion, stripping still with things to do, undoing the one button as she walks away from him, sliding a couple of shoulder straps with her back facing, a single smooth unzipping, stopping as her dress falls around her feet, stepping free with one high heeled foot after another, exposing her long slim figure, naked, apart from those shoes, a pair of black stockings, held up on their own, her waist, her back, her hips, her full firm smooth ass. Walking, naked, still in her shoes, into the kitchen, their living room, letting him watch her, turning a record off, putting one on, tidying, getting a glass, two, whisky, letting her husband stare at his wife's bare ass, her shadowy cleft, naked, bending, that quick glimpse between her legs, dark, hairy, the mound of her pussy, the hint, still hidden, the idea of her tight anus. Finally stepping to him, facing him, letting him look at her full firm breasts, those dark stiff nipples, and her shaped but thick dark bush. Knowing he is hard now, seeing the bulge of his swollen penis, and reaching for his trousers, the front of them, then in, reaching in, unbuttoning, unzipping enough to find his thick stem, opening her long fingers around her husband's stiff penis. 

"Okay, who is first?"

Stroking him until he is full, firm, until she can tell he is completely erect, leading him to a tall bay window, leading, leaning onto it, bending, pushing herself back, offering her ass to him, her sex, her damp pussy.

"Um, well, I asked first, I think it should be me."

"Fair enough."

"Would you like a drink of something? Wine? Um, some whisky, I think, somewhere?"

"Wine, might be nice, if you are joining me?"

I find some clean glasses, a reasonably fresh bottle, pour us both a large swash of Margaux. I stand opposite and watch Fabrice first sniff, quickly, casually, and take a sip. I am looking as if I want a reaction I realise, some approval for my choice, as if I just retrieved this from my cellar. I drink. 

"Okay. Are you going to..."

I leave this as well. I know what I mean, I don't know whether I really mean it, mean to really suggest it.

"Where do you want me?"

"I thought, just, standing really, by the window, with the light."

"Okay, sure, good spot."

He stands. I pull up a chair, paper, charcoal, pencils. And sit. And watch. My heart is racing, this is so silly, he is not here to pose nude, am I really going to suggest this? To encourage him to strip? He is married, fifteen, twenty years older? My heart is connected to my pussy though. My pussy is directing me. My pleasure has not been met, my physical arousal is leading better judgements into dark hidden corners. 

I wait. He is still, ready to be drawn. "You are not doing anything?"

"Oh..." 

Am I, can I? My breath has stopped, my mouth is dry. My genitals are soaking. "... I thought... I mean, you are not... going to undress?"

He says nothing. Oh fuck. I have ruined this. The room is gripping me in its silence, the hums and clicks and crackles are nudging and poking different parts of me.

"You want me unclothed?"

I say nothing. I don't trust my voice. Do I? Just to draw? I want to see him naked. I want to look at his bare body. I want to look at him nude, unclothed, his soft cock, his tight balls. 

"Really? I didn't... I mean... this is what you thought? For you as well?"

This causes me to leap forward, to the idea of myself undressing, for him, in front of him? Do I want this as well? My body answers, my body tells me. Being looked at is almost as wonderful as looking. 

"Of course, I would love for you to draw me nude, I would love to pose for you that way. And for you...?"

"Well, for this I better have another drink."

Pleasure rises within me, my stomach is churning with excitement, I feel sweet moisture between my legs, oh, oh yes, undress, strip for me.

Fabrice takes a large swallow of wine, and places the glass on the floor, bends after it and unlaces his boots. I watch, I stare with greedy appreciation as he first steps with thick-sock covered feet on the dark wooden boards, then as he pulls and stands with bare feet, large male feet. His toes are long, I notice, slim, for a man, any mistake avoided by the covering of dark hair on his larger toes, striping the roof of his foot with badgery tufts of black. 

He stares at me again. Should we smile at each other? 

"I haven't posed for anyone for nearly twenty years you know, not nude."

"Uh-huh."

I force myself to pretend this is casual, that I am indifferent to how nervous he might be, as if I am the paragon of detached artistic virtue. My vagina tightens. 

He unbuttons the same thick blue shirt I remember him wearing for our first class. I watch as he exposes his skin, his chest, his belly. He tugs it up from the waist of his trousers and shakes it away from his shoulders, down along his arms. He waits for less than a second. I stare. I am unsure of my expression. Do I look calm? Disinterested? I stare. At his broad shoulders, his thick forearms, the covering of hair, spreading wide over his chest, his small nipples, thickening at the centre of his torso, a trunk of dark pelt running down along the centre of his firm belly, furling in fine arcs to the raised furrow that leads to his deep wide navel, that invites my eyes lower, over his abdomen, towards the denser forest of his pubic hair. Still hidden. Still held back by his black jeans, his brown leather belt, his underwear. 


Afternoons at the Supermarket



When I was four years old my mother warned me not to feed the pigeons.

"If you feed them once, they'll follow you everywhere," she said. Of course I ignored her as any little girl would have done; I tossed kernels of popcorn at the flock of gray and black birds gathering around our park bench. Sure enough, when I ran into the playground the birds followed right along with me. I was thrilled about it; a gleeful smile filled my face. They were my new little friends just because I fed them. Those birds followed my mom and me half way home before she finally shooed them away for good.

Today, at twenty eight years old, I've learned that men behave just like pigeons: feed them a little something and they'll follow you wherever you go.

I can find pigeons in the park; I like to find men in the supermarket. That's right, the neighborhood grocery where I can find aisle after aisle of anonymity. And opportunity. I try to get there after the morning rush when all of the stay-at-home moms do their shopping. They're usually rushed, harried, and dragging along whimpering four year olds. Why don't they go to the park and feed the pigeons? I'm usually at the supermarket at around 1:30 in the afternoon. The pace is a little bit slower in the afternoon. 

Whenever I walk in the store, I wave to Jimmy, the produce guy. He always has a big smile for me. As usual, I was wearing something comfortable—a buttoned down shirt with the top three buttons left open. It looked nice. So did the little pleated skirt that goes to about six inches above my knees. Sexy, but not too much so. Open toed sandals completed my outfit. I liked the way they showed off the blue nail polish I use on my toenails.

On that outing, I headed down aisle two, where the canned soups could be found. That's the aisle where a handsome young man happened to be trying to decide whether to buy Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup or the Tomato Rice. I strolled over.

"Excuse me," I said to him, flashing a big smile, and slightly flicking my shoulder length blonde hair back over my ear. Then I crouched down to carefully study the selection of Cream of Mushroom soups. From his vantage point, Handsome Young Man had a clear view down the front of my shirt. Did I mention that I don't like to wear a bra to the supermarket? It just gets in the way. My breasts are firm; big enough to jiggle but not so big that they sway when I walk. So why bother with the bra?

Handsome Young Man didn't make a move. He just stood their looking. So I turned a little left and a little right. I made sure my tits jiggled in the shirt so he got to see some nipple. Little shivers slid down my body as my nipples brushed against the fabric of the shirt; they perked up from that. Well, they got really hard, but not just from brushing against the fabric; I was liked knowing that Handsome Young Guy was watching. I put a can of soup in my cart, bending low as I did so. That way he could look straight into the neckline of my shirt and see how my tits dangle down.

Once he's seen nipple, he'll follow me anywhere. I walked around to the next aisle. Spaghetti, rice, beans and along comes Handsome Young Man from the other direction. I'm sure he raced down the soup aisle, quickly turned the corner and then slowed his pace to a casual stroll when he saw me. Fortunately, what I wanted was on the bottom shelf. So let's see, what did I want? Oh, the cracked barley looked good. So again, I crouched down, this time to study the choices of packaged cracked barley. Handsome Young Man was about twenty feet in front of me.

Proper etiquette for a woman crouching in a supermarket aisle requires a careful bend at the knees; legs held demurely together; body turned at an angle to the shelves. I'm pretty good at the position, except I sometimes forget the part about keeping my legs held demurely together. This gave Handsome Young Man a very nice view of the rose tattoo high up on my inner thigh. The tattoo is only about an inch long. The flower is deep red, and the stem is green with three little leaves on it. I like my tattoo; it kind of pops out against the pale flesh, drawing in a voyeur's eye. As Handsome Young Man walked slowly toward to me, he sidled up closer to the shelves. I know this gave him a better angle to look past my tattoo; exactly as I had hoped.

He figured I'm looking at cracked barley; while I know he's looking at my pussy. From where he was standing about ten feet away I'm sure he had a clear shot between my thighs. Did I mention that I wasn't wearing panties? Yes I did: just a shirt, skirt and sandals. Nothing else. At all. Handsome Young Man is trying to be discrete, sort of looking at the food shelves but really looking at me. He can see my puffy vulva hiding my inner pussy lips. Meanwhile, I can feel the moist lubrication collecting in me. If I were wearing panties they would have had an obvious wet spot on them by then. I'm sure he can see the patch of blonde pubic hair too. I used to shave myself bare, but I decided there was less to see that way. It wasn't as exciting for me. I'm not sure if all the guys agree, but no one has ever complained.

I thought about rubbing myself, give him a complete thrill. I decide not to do that because up till then he didn't know if I knew he was looking. If I ran my finger through my dripping wet pussy, and maybe licked it clean, he'd pretty much figure out I was playing with him. Just then a cart appeared turning into the aisle behind Handsome Young Man. I stood up just as a sweet, blue haired, old lady came around the corner. Phew. I can get away with a lot at this store, but I always avoid flashing the blue hairs. One time, at another store, one of them complained about me to the manager. I had to find a new supermarket after that.

I took the opportunity to move down a few aisles. Frozen pizzas. I stood in front of the glass freezer doors, finger pressed against my mouth, trying to decide: pepperoni or sausage. Maybe eight seconds later, Handsome Young Man found his way into my aisle. 'Once you feed them, they'll follow you wherever you go,' I thought. A smile came to my face.

On the bottom shelf of the freezer, I saw my favorite brand of individual serving sized, sausage topped pizzas. I opened the freezer door and bent at the waist to look at the selection. My little skirt rode up just to the bottom of my butt. I could feel cool air swirling around my inner pussy lips; they were swollen and opened up like a little flower. That's what happens when I get excited like this. My pussy lips open up. I'm sure he got a perfect view of them peeking out below my raised skirt and my tight but cheeks. Still bent over, Handsome Young Man standing a few feet behind me, my right hand on the pizzas, I placed my left hand at the tip of my crotch. He couldn't see this from where he was standing; I used the middle finger of my left hand to lightly stroke my clitoris. Not hard and only two or three times. My breathing stopped for a moment, my sphincter contracted, my abdominal muscles pressed down. I even let out a little whimper. I love cumming in the supermarket. I'm not sure, but I might even have dripped a little when I came. I hope Handsome Young Man was close enough to notice.

'Pepperoni or sausage?' I think. Who cares? I've given Handsome Young Man enough of a show. It's time to leave so I grab the nearest package of pizzas, stand up, put them in my cart and head to the cashier. Handsome Young Man followed right behind, not even pretending to be shopping anymore. I paid for my small basket of groceries and headed to the car. By the time I had put the grocery bag in the trunk, Handsome Young Man had made it out of the store. He's practically racing to follow me now. Well, since he'd made the effort—as I sat down to enter my car, I made sure to spread my legs nice and wide; it's like tossing one last piece of pop corn to my pigeon.

I'm glad my mother taught me about the pigeons; but my father taught me how to fish. I learned that it takes a long time to lure them in. At first they don't think you're offering anything real, just a fake looking fly; but once you get them to bite, they're hooked.

If men are like pigeons, women are like trout.

I was back at the supermarket just two days after my little adventure with Handsome Young Man. I like to buy small amounts of groceries at a time. That way I can keep returning to the store. I was wearing a silk blouse with a flower pattern and a short, rather tight skirt. Instead of sandals, I was wearing open toed strapless pumps with a two inch heel. My pretty painted toes still peeking out. I wasn't dressed like a hooker; but no one would confuse me with their first grade teacher either.

I went right over to the fruits and vegetable section. There were four or five other shoppers looking over the produce. As usual Jimmy, the tall, skinny produce guy was working. He always smiles at me when I come into the store; but he never follows me around. I'm pretty sure he's gay.

"Hi Jimmy," I say, "What looks good today?"

"Its all good, Ma'am," he responds, in his usual chipper voice.

I chuckled at his reply, as did a few of the other shoppers who were close enough to hear. This gave me a moment to check out the scene. I knew to avoid the sixty-ish couple over by the melons. Flashing older men can be a lot of fun. They seem to appreciate the attention and the effort, but I didn't think this guy's wife would be too happy with me. There was a nice looking guy at the salad bar, but I was in the mood for something more challenging. That left two women to choose from, a tall brunette and a pretty blonde about my height. I decided to try for the blonde.

She was cute, that's for sure. She had long straight hair flowing about half way down her back. She was wearing tight jeans that showed off a very nice ass. I was getting myself worked up just looking at her. I made my way over to the tomatoes were she was making her selection. I leaned over to reach for a tomato, allowing the neckline of my blouse to gape open and gave this pretty blonde a clear shot of my tits. She looked; I'm sure of it. Then she picked up another tomato and walked away. That's another way that women are like trout: sometimes they're hungry and sometimes they're not. I looked over at Jimmy. He had seen the whole thing. He gave me a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

So that left the brunette. I'm five feet four inches tall, five-six in my pumps, and she was easily four inches taller then me. She was maybe thirty five years old. Brunette was wearing a long grey skirt, red blouse, and a gorgeous short-strand pearl necklace. She also had on a diamond engagement ring and wedding band. She was altogether a very practical looking married woman. If I wanted a challenge, this looked like it.

She was standing by the apple display. I walked over and picked out two Granny Smiths, weighing each in my hand, appearing undecided about which to take. As I reached over to put one back in the pile, I made sure to turn just enough to give my girl a good flash of breast. I've used this move before; it pretty much gives a full view of my right tit, from cleavage all the way to nipple. Lot's of areola shows too. Brunette looked and got an eyeful. She didn't walk away. Maybe I'd found a hungry trout.

"Do you think the Granny Smiths are good at this time of year?" she asked me.

I was a little bit startled; most trout don't speak. "They're my favorite," I answered, "and this is prime season for them."

"Great, thanks," she returned. She picked out four apples and placed them in a plastic bag. 

We both made our way over to the pears. I'm not a big fan of pears, but I wanted to stay close by. I reached across her this time to grab a Bosc pear; again giving her an unobstructed view of my hardening nipple. When I stood up, both of my nipples were clearly outlined in the soft silk of my shirt.

"I don't usually buy pears," I said to her. "What do you think of this one?" She reached over and slightly squeezed the fruit, touching my fingers as she did so.

"Hmmm, I think that one is a little hard. Here," she handed me a different pear, "This one is ready to eat today. It should be sweet and juicy."

Was she teasing me? I wondered. I took the fruit she had selected and placed it in my basket while she chose several for herself.

"So what are we having for dinner?" I asked. This is the kind of joke that sometimes works between two strangers sharing a grocery shopping experience. She laughed at it to my delight.

"Oh, I don't know," She answered, willingly picking up on the conversation. "My husband and I have been in kind of a rut lately, not eating together, or not eating very well when we are together. I decided that I'd try to make a nice dinner for a change. Any suggestions?"

"I'm a salad and pizza girl, myself," I said. "I don't think you had pizza in mind for your nice dinner. But I can help with the salad. Come on."

She was hooked.

I walked her over to the individual dried fruit selection. I took a plastic tray and selected four dried peach halves. I placed them into the try with skin side down and the fleshy side facing up. The thing I like the most about dried peaches is that they look exactly like a vulva; the wide outer perimeter forming the labia majora, the fleshy inner ridges surrounding the dark center look just like labia minora. You might even imagine a little clitoris peeking out at the top. They are easily the most erotic fruit in the market. "Try these on a bed of chopped curly endive," I suggested.

Brunette didn't flinch. "You serve them just like that, no dressing or anything?" she asked. I liked this girl; she had spunk.

"Oh, definitely with a dressing," I said.

"What kind?" she asked.

"That depends."

"On what?" She asked, willing to play along.

"Boy or girl," I answered quickly.

"Boy or girl peach?"

"No," I said. "If my dinner companion is a guy, I drizzle something creamy right in the middle of the peach. Maybe get a little on the endive too. Not too much. You don't want to overdo it."

"Guys like that, huh?"

"They love it. Try it on your husband; I bet you don't even make it through the salad course," I assured her. With my big smile, I made sure she understood what we were talking about.

"Hmmm. What about girls?" she asked. Now she was smiling at me.

"Over here." I said, walking to the little section where the store had the bottled dressings and condiments. Facing each other, we both crouched down to look at the lower shelves, where the oils and vinegars were displayed. "I like a little extra virgin olive oil and a sprinkle of white wine vinegar; maybe add a dash of cinnamon to give it a slightly spicy flavor." I reached down as if to take a bottle from the shelf, but instead slipped my hand between my thighs. I kneeled deeper in my crouch, resting my butt on my heels. My little rose tattoo was certainly visible. She watched my every move. I rubbed the top of my pussy for a few moments, right on the edge of my neatly trimmed pubic hair. I spread my knees wide so she could get a clear view well beyond the rose. If she was still wondering why I liked the look of the dried peach halves, my wide open pussy lips would make it clear. Round and round I rubbed. Then I ran my middle finger up and down between my lips, just a few times. I wasn't going to last long like this. With my palm pressed firmly against my bulging clit, I pressed my middle finger deep inside my pussy, all the way up to the knuckle. My new friend gasped, startled as she watched my sudden penetration. I twirled my finger inside of me two or three times and that's all it took. 

I shut my eyes and breathed in deeply. The contractions in my pussy gripped my finger; my nipples sent electric sparks through me as they rubbed against my silk shirt. I hoped she was watching everything my hand was doing as I continued pressing on my clit and twittering my finger inside. As my orgasm subsided, I was finally able to open my eyes. My girl was transfixed. I pulled my finger out of my pussy and brought it up to my mouth. The finger was glistening with my juice. Brunette looked at my finger like a child looking at an ice cream cone. I licked the fleshy side of my finger and then placed the whole thing into my mouth. Slowly I pulled it out, savoring the flavor.

"I think you would like the way it tastes," I cooed at her.

"What?" She replied, startled back to the discussion, unsure what I meant.

"The dressing," I teased. "The one I was telling you about. The oil and vinegar and cinnamon. The one I use when I have a girlfriend over to eat." I stared directly into her eyes as I said this.

She smiled back at me. "Yes, I think I might like it," she said as we both stood back up.

"Go ahead, try the other way with your husband tonight. I'll be here tomorrow at about the same time. You could stop by and tell me how it went. And maybe sometime we could try my dish together."

"I might like that, we'll see. I'd better get my shopping done so I can be ready for this evening." She smoothed out her skirt with both hands, clearly needing the pause to regain her composure. "Thanks for everything. I'm sure my husband will appreciate your suggestions." She took the tray of peaches I was holding and smiled at me. I watched her as she headed down the aisle to finish her shopping.

I stood still for a few minutes, not fully trusting my legs to carry me just yet. "So, what do you think, Jimmy?" I asked when he walked over to where I was standing.

"I think I almost came in my pants watching you two."

"You should have," I said, "I did."

"I know. I was watching."

"I didn't think you'd be interested." I said.

"Hey, sexy is sexy," he said. I took it as a compliment.

"So what do you think?" I asked again.

"What do you mean 'what do I think'?"

"Do you think she'll be back tomorrow?"

"I think she'll be back," he said.

"I think so, too," I said with a smile. 

Jimmy handed me a rose from the flower display. "Here, it's on the house," he said. I kissed Jimmy on the cheek, said "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon for sure," and headed to the cashier line.



Afternoon's Delight



One day Sir Patrick took His girl Ella, his lover, by the hand and led her to a special room. Ella was his lover. He was older and played the daddy part well. Ella was a gorgeous, sweet faced, lithe, long, dark haired, mixed race, firm breasted beauty and a lovely piece of fuckmeat. Sir Patrick loved his younger girl and Ella loved him a lot too. This day was special for two reasons. Ella had never been fisted before and she was about to get the experience of a lifetime. The other reason it was special is that Ella was about to become Sir Patrick's real life lover and this was His gift to her for this special day. Sir Patrick knew Ella would surrender to him totally and finally as he knew she would have no strength to resist his overtures after he was done with her this afternoon. She would be taken in fold and truly owned at days end, (Master Patrick had an evil grin.)

As Sir Patrick led his girl into his special playroom, he commanded her to strip off all her clothes. Ella knew Sir Patrick meant business when he was harsh and firm like this. She acted immediately as a good cunt should and started to remove her clothes quickly. Sir Patrick moved in close and kissed her on the forehead as she bent over to remove her panties. His eyes sparkled as he saw the target of his desire. It glistened in the dim lighting from her wetness exuding from within. She always got wet immediately when Sir Patrick was this way because she knew something very naughty and sensual was about to happen to her. She moaned even as she thought about what delicious things Sir Patrick would do to her, not knowing what it was, only knowing it would be magnificent in her exploding desire for it.

Sir Patrick watched as Ella's titties exploded into view. He smiled and took on an evil grin as he saw her naked body ready to be used and used. He clenched his fist in anticipation. Ella looked up at Sir Patrick in wonderment and anticipation of her own desire for Sir Patrick to take her in any way he wanted. She smiled and said, "Ready Sir Patrick!"

Patrick took her by the hand and told her that this day was special.

Ella had no idea why and asked, "Why is it special Sir Patrick?"

"You will see soon, My lovely cunt," said Patrick.

He told her to sit down and be still. Ella did as she was told. She was very obedient with her Sir Patrick now for a long time. Patrick went to the closet and took out something black that looked a bit ominous to Ella. She wondered what it might be but sat patiently, saying nothing. She forced a smile as she looked into Sir Patrick's eyes. "What are you thinking, cunt," said Patrick.

Ella said, "Nothing , just wondering what that is."

"Nothing you should be concerned about, slut, what you need though," said Patrick.

As Ella watched, Sir Patrick suspended the black thing on cables hanging from the ceiling. Finally she saw it was a sling, large enough to hold her. Now she knew she would be lying in this soon and smiled with a sigh of relief. Patrick saw her smiling and smiled to himself as well.

Now the sling was in place. Patrick walked over to Ella and held out his hand looking menacingly at her. That made Ella uncomfortable but her fears were unfounded and did as she was told. Sir Patrick had helped her overcome lots of fears in the past and she was sure almost that he would never really hurt her. He had made overtures to hurt her but had never actually hurt her except in good ways! She was thankful for that. Sir Patrick was far stronger than her. She stood up and followed Sir Patrick to the sling. Patrick helped her into it placing her in the center comfortably and placing her lovely legs in the loops at the end of the sling. This kept her legs spread wide apart for Sir Patrick's exploration. He tied one arm to the head, end support and left the right arm loose. Ella expected both to be tied off and wondered when it would happen, but it did not. "Huh," she thought.

Then Sir Patrick did something she hadn't seen him do before. He put a latex glove on his right hand and began covering it with lots of KY jelly. Now she was really curious. Patrick walked over to Ella and buried his face between her legs. He started licking furiously and Ella started to moan immediately. With his left hand Patrick reached forward and twisted and pinched Ella's nipple some back and forth. Ella winced, grimaced and made loud moans. She was very excited now and already cumming some. Then Sir Patrick stopped suddenly. He looked at Ella as she looked back at him in amazement. Patrick smiled that evil grin he always had when he was about to do something new and exciting. Ella's heart started to pound.

Then Patrick took the gloved hand and inserted one finger into her pussy. He made small circling motions with it and then larger and harder motions. Ella could feel herself opening up to Sir Patrick's actions. Then Sir Patrick inserted a second finger and continued his ever circling motions. Ella could feel herself opening up more and more and her desire for Sir Patrick's entry was overwhelming almost. She wished for him to enter her with his whole hand now. What she didn't know was just what was about to happen. Patrick now added a third finger, then a fourth, continuing to open up Ella's soft, sweet, wet pussy. Ella was moaning loudly now. Finally Sir Patrick added his thumb and made a point with his fingers and thumb. He continued his motions, opening up Ella's cunt more and more.

Now he felt she was ready and thrust hard with his hand into Ella's cunt. Ella screamed in delight as she swallowed up Sir Patrick's hand totally. What an awesome feeling she thought. But this was just the beginning. Now Sir Patrick's hand was in a fist and making the same circling motions as before. But now Ella was in heaven and gushing cum like never before. Sir Patrick was teasing her clit with one hand and fist fucking her with the other. She was cumming all over the place and screaming her head off, moaning woefully in between screams. These were screams and moans of absolute pleasure. Sir Patrick was happy to make Ella cum a lot.

He kept fucking her till she finally screamed for him to stop. Patrick looked up at her and continued his fisting. Ella finally settled back and just let it happen, screaming and moaning in delight. Finally she could take no more and screamed again for it to stop. Patrick stopped this time as he knew she really could take no more. Twice is the rule of thumb, then a woman is drained completely.

Patrick let Ella rest some before attempting to retrieve his hand. It was stuck tight. Now he caressed her breasts as he watched her in sheer heaven. Now he warned her that he was going to pull out of her and told her to relax as best she could. He pushed on her cunt lips surrounding his wrist. Finally he was able to break the vacuum and remove his hand as he eased out of Ella's now tender pussy. His hand came out with a popping, sucking like sound and both laughed a bit. Now he took off the glove throwing it in the trash. He came over to Ella's side and asked, "How ya doin' baby?"

"Mmmmm," said Ella, "so good, mmm!"

Patrick kissed Ella on the lips and she responded to him in a long sigh. He caressed Ella some more and let her lie there in dreamland. Then he went off to draw her bath water, something Ella had always done for Sir Patrick. She tried to get up, but almost couldn't move. She was drained completely and fell back into dreamland. Sir Patrick came and picked her up out of the sling carefully. Ella could not even help she was so drained. Sir Patrick put her in the bath and washed her all over, then let her lie there to soak with incense burning and making the bath very sensual. Patrick readied their bed. Then he went back after a while, picked Ella out of the water and wrapped her in warm towels. He carried her to their bed, fed her soup and water with nutrients added to help get her body fluids back in balance. He dried her off good with finesse and crawled into bed beside her. He held her tight all night as she slept in blissful peace.

The End



Afternoon's Entertainment



A tale

So there I lie. Hands tied: check. Each one snaked across to the top corners of the bed. Legs tied: check. Metal cuffs on each, stretched out to their respective corner. Metal cuffs, why did I let her get them, not a chance of getting out of this one. But then that's what the fun is all about. I can hear The Wench moving around downstairs, 'getting prepared'.

And so I lie there. The sun is shining in through the open window, everything is fresh and airy. She has been downstairs for a while now, but I could think of many ways less pleasurable to spend a Saturday afternoon than tied to the bed! After about half an hour of lying there (damn you clock on the wall with your slow tick), I hear the sound of feet on the stairs. Even though the air is warm, I still shiver slightly in anticipation.

Slowly, the door opens, and there you stand. It was worth the wait. The knee high boots are tight, keeping the leather taught across your calves. Moving up come the stocking, suspender belt and the most wondrous corset. You have been making fashionable corsetry for a while, but this is something else. It exudes sexuality from every inch of the fabric, enhancing your hourglass figure. I never thought it would be possible to guild this particularly lily, but this is certainly a damned good effort.

And there in her hand it sits. Something that I really didn't expect. It fills me with a sense of excitement and a sense of panic all at the same time. A strap on. You see the panicked look on my face, but all I get is a raised eyebrow, with the very merest hint of a smirk to compliment it.

Slowly, you saunter over to the bed. One foot placed so delicately in front of the other, your hips moving back and forth, the straps on the suspender belt alternating between loose and tight. As you reach the edge of the bed, you slowly bend over at the waist to kiss me, showing me the beautiful site of your full cleavage, held close in the confines of the corsetry. The kiss is delicate, slightly teasing, and your hair tickles as it brushes my face. When you stand up again, the strap on has disappeared. I have no doubt that I shall see it again however.

As you strut your way around the bed that you are very much enjoying yourself, and also the effect that your handiwork has had on me. My cock is standing at full mast, and you haven't even touched him yet.

"Now." you say, "As you know, this little session is for your enjoyment. But don't think that it comes for free, you are going to have to earn every last minute of it. Are you ready?"

"Yes, as ready as I will ever be."

"Excellent, then we shall begin."

With that, you start to crawl from the bottom of the bed until you're sitting on my upper chest. My entire line of sight is taken up by your beautiful form as you grip the headboard.

"You know what to do here, don't you?"

"I sure do indeed"

"Well get to it then"

With that, you shift your weight forward and onto my waiting mouth. Ah, that beautiful, beautiful pussy, moist and inviting. It was clear that you were anticipating that afternoon's activities as much as I was, you were so wet. With great relish I buried my head in a frenzy of licking, kissing and nibbling. Almost immediately you start to rock forwards and backwards on my face, grinding yourself down.

"Get that tongue inside me now boy!"

Not that I need an invitation, but just hearing you say that drove me wild. I start jabbing with my tongue, deeper and deeper into your incredibly tight pussy, almost delirious with desire. I can tell you are getting ever closer to that moment where your world explodes. As it gets closer, I can feel your weight shift off my arms as your knees clamp tight around my head.

I keep up the barrage of contact on your clit, in between probing runs to that inner place. Then it hits you, and the power of it lifts you off me as you arch your back in that moment of ecstasy, before you come crashing down on top of me again.

"That, dear boy, was rather good" you say, a rueful grin on your face, "but now I feel that I should return the favour".

As you clamber round to face the other way, my cock twitches in anticipation of the soft contact of your mouth. Once again you lower yourself down so that your pussy is over my mouth again, and then kiss my cock, ever so gently on the tip.

"Whilst you're there" you say, "lick my ass for me"

I almost come right there an then when you say that. Did you know something, or were you just getting creative? Hell, I didn't care. As your mouth completely engulfed my cock, I lifted my head and licked at your puckered hole. Slowly, and with great relish I push my tongue forward. You moan, and I can feel the vibrations up and down my cock. As I continue to work my tongue in and out of your delectable derriere, you start to bob your head up and down in time with me.

I can feel my nuts start to tighten in preparation for the pending release, as your mouth is driving me wild. And then you stop. I am at the point of bursting, needing just the merest of touches to push me over the edge. But nothing happens. Gradually, you sit up, your whole body weight directly onto my face. Then you start to grind, starting with tiny little circles. My tongue is still wedged firmly in your hole as start to tense around it.

"Fuck me with your tongue boy"

There is no ambiguity in the tone, and I start to plunge in even further. My balls are still in something of a state of shock, not quite sure why it all stopped. My cock is still standing rigidly to attention. And then I hear the slap, followed by a stinging sensation, right on the tip of my cock. Dammit, you appear to have bought a whip as well, what else have you got in store for me this evening?

Smack!

Again, that stinging sensation on my poor head. I moan into your ass, as the stinging sensation makes my penis tingle.

"Does boy like that then? I think he wants some more"

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Each one landing right on the tip. The stinging has turned into a raging sensation of heat now, but it has also kept my cock as hard as a rock. Then your weight shifts, and I feel the soft moistness of your mouth engulf me again. Ah the release that gives. I am still so incredibly close from your earlier efforts, and you know it won't take much. With your mouth just covering the head, you start to move your hand up and down my shaft, getting faster and faster.

At last, my body convulses and a great stream of spunk shoots forth. You catch as much of it as possible in your mouth, still positioned over it. Then you rise and come to kiss me. It is only as your tongue enters my mouth that I realize; you haven't swallowed. In my helpless position, there is little I can do but try and choke it down.

"There, that wasn't so bad now, was it" you say. I keep quiet. I don't want you to know just how degrading that felt.

"Now, onto part two"

There's a part two? What does she have in store for me now? Oh yes, the strap on!

To be continued...



Afternoons with Mrs. K



Do you find that in this sometimes painful sometimes wonderful world of ours that life's pleasures are best enjoyed when they come unexpectedly? I do. That's how it was with me and Mrs Kellerman. Unexpected, and fine, very, very fine.

I met Mrs K when I was staying at my aunt's house one summer. At the time immediately before I met her, I was in a kind of down-hearted frame of mind. Shortly after I met her I was flying high on my own personal cloud. Now, I have a precise, precious memory of this beautiful, curvaceous woman of, I'd guess around her mid-fifties (it is rude to ask I've been told), with a warm smile and a kind heart, not to mention a ripe full figure and accommodating wet and warm mouth, pussy, and asshole.

Mrs Kellerman was a neighbour of my aunt's. I hadn't stayed at my aunt's for many years; she and my uncle had a large, rambling property in the West Country of England and my visit was not out of choice, it was a necessity. I'm in the British Royal Navy; I have been for the four years since I left university, struggling in vain so far to rise from my junior officer rank. I'd just finished a five month tour of patrol duty with no leave in a frigate around firstly Gibraltar, then the Gulf and the coastal waters off Iraq, not far from Basra. Not fun. Routine, mundane stuff, but with just enough possibility of violent encounters to never relax properly.

When leave finally came I headed back to my flat in London and looked forward to a couple of months relaxing playing sports, drinking with my buddies and making up for lost time with my girlfriend Fiona. This was not to be, however. Firstly, Fiona, who seemed to have lost about twenty pounds in weight in my absence making her appear drawn and skinny rather than the full-figured girl I first fell for, gave me rather a cool instead of warm welcoming home, and announced that she had got a "great" new job with an American publishing company and would be working in New York for several months, starting immediately; and secondly, and equally depressingly, a mere 24 hours into my leave I got a call from my ship's captain outlining the charming fact that in one month I would be skippering a motor patrol boat between the dangerous Iraq-Iran waterways for at least six months, and that as from the next day I would be on a three-week intensive Arab language course at a college in the West Country. It was not very welcome news, to put it mildly, although I'd do the best I could. 

After one night with Fiona and an unsatisfactory, quick fuck, which for me was just a brief release of tension and for her a quick break from talking about her bright future, I threw some clothes into a rucksack and caught the train West after my car, my very expensive car, whose rash purchase had left me flat broke for the immediate past and future, had refused to start. With my expenses to be paid, in true fashion, "at a later date," I rang my Aunt, who fortunately lived near the college and I arranged to stay there. 

My aunt and uncle were due to leave for a weeks break in Ireland the day after I arrived which meant I'd be alone with time to reflect on my dissatisfaction with my naval career and my clearly failing relationship with Fiona. Too much time for introspection, is not often a good thing, I've found. The college I was to attend, although a regular civilian, not military one, was on its summer break, so there were not even any fine eighteen year-old girls to admire. Instead, there were only a few language summer courses being run, and my time there was spent in a class with a dozen middle-aged male government employees brushing up their language skills for brief, lucrative postings in the Middle-East. The teacher was an annoying Algerian guy with a particularly sarcastic sense of humour, and I found learning the Arab language simultaneously both tedious and difficult. All in all it was a chore and a bore.

The town itself was small and insular in outlook; the nightlife where I could spend the little money I had seemed to consist of a couple of pretentious, expensive wine-bars full of couples, and scruffy pubs largely frequented by groups of late teenagers resplendent in their baseball caps and gold sovereign rings, swearing and sometimes dancing to loud garage and rap music. Neither entertainment was my thing. It seemed a few really dull weeks were likely, especially as the first weekend found me too short of money to even scrape the train fare home. Saturday passed studying and watching sports on the TV, and eating a bad microwave meal, followed by a couple of hours drinking alone in the local pub.

After a lazy Sunday morning spent reading the newspapers, followed by some lunch, I decided to do some work on the property outside, partly to ease my boredom and partly to catch some sun on a rare hot day. I started by checking the wooden fence which ran at the back and one side of the property, both adjoining a field and separating my aunt's garden from her neighbour's, Mrs Kellerman's. The fence was in fairly good condition, it just needing some panels renailed, and a small section of it begged some fresh paint. I found some tools and paint in the garage and set to work. After a while I began to get the satisfied feeling I have found before when working with my hands, and as I was only wearing a pair of denim shorts I was also enjoying the feel of the hot sun on my body. I was in a welcome kind of contented, dreamy mood.

I became aware of the sound of someone working close by on the other side of the fence, and moving to a part of it short in height I gazed over the panels and saw a very shapely female form tilling the soil of a vegetable plot. I recognised her as Mrs Kellerman, who I hadn't seen for years. I recalled my aunt telling me that her husband Alan had died a couple of years previously, and that her children had now left home. I guessed she must be fifty at least, but believe me she was in seriously great shape. She had that kind of body that carries a few extra pounds well. That is to say, she was a medium height curvaceous lady with very big breasts and a large, though shapely backside, with proportionately fairly narrow waist. She had a seriously sexy mature womanly body, a real old-style full hour-glass figure, which, as she was dressed only in a rather too-tight pair of shorts and a sleeveless close fitting T-shirt, was on glorious display.

My eye-feast was broken by her sensing my gaze and turning to look at me. She had shoulder length fairly wild dark hair with loose curls, and a smooth looking face, which was both very pretty and suggested intelligence. After a second's summing me up she recognized me from my childhood.

"Hello, it's Jay isn't it?" she enquired with a light smile on her face.

"Yes. Hi, Mrs Kellerman, what a beautiful day."

"Indeed it is, and please call me Hazel" she replied, and I became aware that she was looking at my face and bare upper body in an approving manner. 

My eyes met hers, which were a deep, dark brown, and her full lips formed into a really affecting smile, which I returned. My face then felt slightly flushed, and felt a familiar swelling in my shorts, as it hit me that there was obviously a mutual connection between us, a kind of lust at first sight.

We chatted away for a while, a light inconsequential conversation, but one which flowed effortlessly. All the while I could feel my cock, concealed as it was by the fence, hardening as I stole glances at her kind, high-cheek boned face and her ripe, full body. I realised I was turning into a fully fledged milf fancier. Normally I'm not much of a conversationalist but with Mrs Kellerman, things seemed easy and natural. 

Eventually our chat was broken by the sound of a phone ringing somewhere inside her house, and she excused herself, but not before inviting me to come inside in a while for a cool drink.

"Oh, I will," I virtually shouted out at her retreating figure. 

She glanced back over her shoulder and threw me the most killer sexy smile. I idled the next few minutes away, in absent minded fashion tapping in a few nails, receiving one sore thumb and two sore fingers for my lack of concentration. I knew there was chemistry between us, and fortune favouring the brave, I intended to 'try it on' soon.

After what seemed an age, but in reality was probably only a few minutes, Hazel appeared by her back door and gestured me in. I followed her into a tasteful drawing room and sat as directed on a soft leather sofa. Hazel joined me but sat a frustrating couple of feet away. We chatted for a minute or so and to my delight she was coyly stealing glances at my groin. Her expression suggested she liked what she saw.

"Oh, sorry. I forgot myself, what would you like to drink?" she asked.

"Oh anything would be good, but a cold beer would be great."

"I'll join you," she said, and I noticed her voice had taken on a girlish, slightly giggly form.

Hazel moved from the sofa to a tasteful wooden drinks cabinet at the far side of the large room to get the drinks, which allowed my eyes to take in those full, ripe ass-cheeks which filled out the cotton material of her shorts so nicely, and swayed seductively as she walked. It was warm outside, cool inside and burning around my crotch, as I felt a familiar light fluttering in my lower stomach and a hardening in my shorts. 

I was close to making the move, and a sense of anticipation coupled with a kind of 'naughty boy' mischief, thrilled my senses as the chance of having sex with a curvaceous woman who was about thirty years older than me was close. After popping the tops she returned with two near ice-cold bottles of Becks lager. Hazel's face was now coming out in a kind of blush and I noticed her eyes again fleetingly gaze at my swelling bulge. I was feeling confident, and in a way both chilled-out, but with now heightening senses rising, especially as I noticed her nipples, huge and erect, straining beneath the material of her T-shirt. I knew what I wanted, she knew what she wanted, and it was showing.

Sitting next to me so closely that our thighs touched, I saw tiny beads of perspiration had formed on her forehead despite the room's cool air-conditioning, and a vague slight musty sweet womanly aroma assailed my nostrils. I guess she was seriously horny. I took one good, very deep shot at the ice-cold beer and placed the bottle down. I stroked her tanned upper arm, and looked into the dark pools of her brown eyes. She was relaxed with my touch.

"You're a kind of a good looking woman," I said.

"Only a kind?" she joked, her voice now really girlish.

"My kind," I countered, and I stroked her hair gently as we moved our mouths into a kiss.

Her lips were full and soft, her breath fresh and her tongue probing. We kissed deeply for what seemed a pleasurably long time. Breaking the kiss, I moved my hands under her T-shirt at the back, stroked her smooth back and then unclipped her bra, feeling her big breasts drop slightly against my chest. Trying to ease her T-shirt over her head I suddenly and surprisingly felt her stiffen very slightly. I paused and looked at her slightly questioningly.

"It's been a long time," she said, "two years since Alan has died, and he was sick for a while before. There's been no-one else" 

"Shush," I said, "relax, everything is okay." 

I held her hands then stroked her cheekbones and kissed her once again. Now, with her assistance, I lifted the T-shirt over her head and freed her big womanly breasts. Beauty filled my eyes. I blatantly stared at them as her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and lust, and I lowered my head and firstly licked, sucked and very lightly nibbled on her huge distended dark red nipples, the sexiest I had ever have seen or tasted. Hazel emitted a low moan of contentment, and a hushed "yes" was repeatedly audible.

Without my guidance, Hazel stood and took my hand, pulling me willingly to her bedroom, which had a large four poster bed covered in pristine sheets. I sat on the end of the bed and she sat astride me, her legs either side of my thighs. She pulled my chest to her mouth and kissed my nipples as I felt my cock strain against my shorts, more so than ever when Hazel traced the outline of my cock gently with her fingers.

"Be my guest," I invited.

"Well, if you insist," Hazel replied, now with mock coyness. She slid the shorts down and my cock reared up hard, full and throbbing, pre-cum seeping from the head.

Her eyes widened slightly, "Big," she muttered, "Alan was..."

"Shssssh," I interrupted.

She gazed up, those dark eyes deeper and blacker than ever. I nodded toward my groin and she dropped her mouth and sucked at the cock-head, rimming around the glans with her tongue and cupping and very gently squeezing my full balls in her delicate hands. I lay back and savoured the delicious feeling as she slowly, languidly feasted on me. Her cunning mouth gradually took more and more, until it felt like most of my large tool was wedged down this mature beauty's silky throat.

"Ah, fuck, fuck," I groaned as I knew I was about to come.

"I'm going to shoot," I said, which merely induced Hazel to suck more frenziedly as my balls tightened beneath her grip.

"Fuck!" I almost screamed as I climaxed massively, shooting wave after wave of cum into that pretty mouth. 

Gamely Hazel sucked most of the love-juice down, but as she rose and smiled some fluid dripped delightfully from her full lips. I lent forward and lifted her on top of me and as I eased her up the bed I tasted myself as we were entwined in a deep kiss. I was hardening again within a minute.

"Thank-you Mrs Kellerman," I stated, my mock formality turning into a spontaneous heart-felt laugh.

"You're most welcome, Jay," was her giggled reply.

I was temporarily lost in a glow of utter satisfaction; while Hazel looked lustfully at me. Moving above her, I kissed those soft lips again, and then lightly traced a line down her throat to her rounded belly with both soft and strong kisses. Her pussy was giving out a strong, wonderful aroma. She raised her butt for me as I slowly pulled her shorts and silk panties down her legs and off her feet. I threw them across the room. Her bush was dark and full; her slit was long, pink-red and glistening with moisture. I placed one hand on her right breast, rolling a huge nipple and from my other hand put two fingers in her mouth, which she sucked. Hazel spread her legs very wide. Her clit was large and prominent. I traced its outline gently with my tongue as her body heaved. I rolled her big clit with my right fingers as I inserted first one, then two, then three fingers into her flowing wet pussy. I finger fucked her in a way so as to almost stroke her clit from the inside. Hazel was rocking to meet my fingers.

"Fuck, now, fuck me now," she commanded as her pussy gushed an orgasm which literally dripped down my fingers then my wrist.

I positioned myself and eased into her steaming, streaming pussy. Savouring the heat, I held my cock still, and then worked deep, slow strokes into her womanhood. Hazel worked her pelvis to meet my strokes in unison, and we mutually moved up a gear as I slammed home. 

"Hard, deep, harshhhhhhh," she almost screamed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck that cunt, fuck that cunt, God it's fuckin good," I gasped out in joy, as sweat poured down my face.

I felt Hazel's pussy contract and her juice liberally coated my balls, as I came with her, shooting my seed deep in her love canal. 

I pulled free and moved under Hazel on the bed. We kissed deeply and then just held each other very tight in a lengthy embrace. A while passed with our bodies entwined, I felt her body's heat and her heart pulse. Gently fondling my balls and stroking my cock, Hazel twisted and rose above me, got me hard and eased my cock into her silky pussy. She rode me gently and for a long wonderful time, easing up and down with a contented, lusty look on her pretty face. I was content just to rise my hips in unison with her, savouring the pleasure as an orgasm wracked her heaving body. 

I sensed I was going to cum, and I eased back. Hazel read this as a cue to lift herself off me. Gently, I motioned Hazel to roll onto her stomach. I put a pillow under her hips, raising her thighs and ass high into the air. 

"Do you know what I want now Hazel?" I asked.

"My ass," came her reply, which she followed with a contented sigh. 

I kissed my way down her arching back whilst firmly fondling the big, shapely globes of her butt-cheeks with my hands. I felt great. Removing my mouth and gazing at the magnificent flesh, I felt a new heat of excitement; my mouth began to salivate, and my cock pulsed almost painfully hard. My eyes were drawn to between the valley of her magnificent full backside, as I spied her asshole. What a beauty! It was a duller, darker pink colour than her pussy, and was slightly puckered, with a tight mass of wrinkles. I was almost giddy-headed with lust.

Gently, I spread her ass-cheeks apart, and lapped around her glorious ring. Hazel's breathing became laboured.

"Do it, tongue out my ass, eat my asshole," she implored me. 

I inhaled as much of the delightful, ever so slightly musky aroma as I could, then centred my tongue, as Hazel removed my hands from her ass-cheeks, replacing them with her own. She pulled her own ass wide apart and I slipped my tongue in the tight opening, as deep as I could. I licked around, almost stroking her bowels with my tongue. 

Hazel's sphincter tightened hard briefly, and then relaxed delightfully, loosening up my entry. Lapping inside Hazel's puckered ring was so fine, so good. I ate her for a long, wonderfully pleasurable period, whilst reaching under her sides and playing with her two massive hard nipples. My feast was only interrupted by Hazel pulling free. I briefly feared she'd had enough, but instead she twisted slowly so that she was on top of me. She then turned and placed her pretty mouth on my cock sucking away as I was reacquainted with that wonderful pussy of hers, and we devoured each other in a sixty-niner.

I playfully lightly spanked her big butt-cheeks, all the while gorging on Hazel's still streaming cunt. My cock was slick and pulsing in her clever, cunning mouth. Her tongue danced along my length, her throat contracted and loosed and her lips sucked at my flesh. I teased her clit, feasted on her pink-red folds and fed my fingers in her ass. Again I felt Hazel cum, her juices sharp and welcome to my mouth. I savoured her as my balls contracted and I fleetingly almost lost consciousness, giddy-headed in pleasure in the moment before I came, in wave after wave. Hazel moved around and we shared one long kiss, before, spent and utterly satisfied I fell into a sleep, my head cushioned against the womanly softness of Hazel's big breasts. 

To be continued...

XXXXXXXXXX

This is my first story. I intend to post some more. Comments and/or advice are very welcome. I will reply to any mail at my address. 



Afternoons



"If you are sure?"

"Uh-huh. And... you would pose for me this way?"

"Oh, this way?"

"Yes, holding your... self, holding your penis, gripping yourself, as if you are masturbating?"

There are several beats of silence. We are staring at each other. If Fabrice's penis lost some of its hardness as he stood and walked, the idea of posing so explicitly demonstrates its appeal, I look as his naked cock jumps up, pulses up, thickens and lengthens some more. It stands upright, sticks up between us, achingly hard, vertical, out to form a beautiful V between his stomach and the rigid, curving stem of his erection. 

"Yes."

And for the second time his voice carries the weight of his body's arousal. It is thick, rasping. 

"Yes?"

"Do you want to pose, on the bed, for me, now?"

I step back, unsteady, on a precipice of desire, ready to sit, to pull his penis into my mouth, to make him come, to feel his thick sweet sperm cover my flickering tongue. 

But I sit, just, and pull myself back, until I am fully on the bed, laying down, kicking the covers away, using a pillow, looking. Fabrice steps back, holds up paper, a fresh pencil, staring at my sex, my midriff, and I push my legs apart. I nearly climax. I show him the dark moist mound of my naked pussy. I know how wet I am. He will see this now, my arousal will be as blatant as his. He will be able to see how my labia have swollen, how my vagina is seeping my warm moisture. I leave one leg straight, and bend the other out at my knee, as I do, it feels so filthy to pose this way, whore-like, pornographic, displaying my most intimate behaviour to another. I slide my hand over my breasts, grazing the sensitive peak of my nipple, creeping over my stomach, entering the warm triangle of hair above my sex, lower, between, as if for the first time, I open my hand and drape my fingers over my bare vulva. 

I fight an orgasm. The contact, the physical connections in my body are overwhelming. I gasp. I hear myself. Breath is dragged in and out of my nostrils. The urge to stroke my genitals is almost too great to resist, to slide a finger between my thick damp lips, to penetrate myself, to rub my tight little clitoris. 

"Okay, are you okay if I draw you like this? Exactly this way. Do not move. This is perfect."

"Uh-huh."

I can feel how hot I am, how wet. The tender skin of my pussy is slippery, god, I cannot remember feeling myself so warm, so swollen and moist. And I cannot move. I cannot stroke or part or circle. I want to reach for a draw and push my dildo hard inside my vagina, I lay and hold my sex, and imagine fucking myself in front of Fabrice, thrusting my real-looking silicone cock deep inside me, lubricating it, rolling over, doing something I have never done and penetrating my anus, my smooth tight virgin asshole. 

I am sure I am coming, in ripples of pleasure, small lapping climaxes teasing me towards something unprecedented. I lose track of time, am just able to turn my eyes to look at Fabrice, standing over me, his beautiful hard cock still completely erect, jutting out like a small limb of male sex, his foreskin stretched taut now, I can see his small opening, the soft lips of his urethra. My vagina tightens. I feel myself throb. 

The tip of Fabrice's stiff cock glistens with his own liquid. His penis is coated with a slick of sweet clear moistness. I have to concentrate now, I have to force myself to think of other things, to ward off what feels like the inexorable rising of erotic sensation. Have I had an orgasm before without being touched? I move my fingers, one finger, rolling it along its joints between my aching lips. Have I come without someone, without me having touched myself more forcefully? 

The image of Laurent returns, his long hard naked cock, the sight of him becoming stiff, in front of the class, the idea of him being here now, next to me, on top of me, inside me, in front of Fabrice, drawing his cock as it enters my vagina. Ripples are rising into one large growing wave of impossible pleasure. I can't. I have only posed for a few minutes. I can't. I have to move. My breathing betrays me, the flush of mauve rising on my neck, my breasts. 

"Would you like to move?"

"Uh-huh, sorry, is that okay? To draw you?"

There is silence again. I move. I let my legs spread as I sit on the bed, facing him, moving, allowing the accidental interpretation, I sit on the edge of the bed, naked, my legs wide, my feet still up, my sex splayed open. I see him looking, I look down, to his visibly quivering cock. I know if he moved to me now I would let it happen, I would meet his movements with my own, if he reached, touched, I would reach for him, and touch his rigid penis, and pull him to me, pull him between my legs, pull him with abandoned greed inside me.

Neither of us say anything. His eyes rise to meet mine. I stand, we are so close, so near, our breath, I can feel the warmth of his body, I glance down, staring, fixing the image of his rigid cock in my mind, the shining mouth of his wet opening. We move without words. I step to the side as Fabrice hands me the pad of paper, his pencil, I look at the drawing he's made of me, seeing myself as others do, naked, nude, reclining on my own bed. I see my body, the inkling of my features, my bare breasts, the shadow of hair above my sex, my hand, oh god, I can see my arm stretching over my stomach, my hand, my fingers stroking my vulva, I can see the cleft of my pussy, the dark thick line of my labia. 

I step back with weak legs. Fabrice is sitting on the bed now, in the impress my own bare ass had just made, his penis is still upright, is pointing up, away from the tightened pouch of his balls. I hear my own voice suddenly fill the room.

"Perhaps, lying back, as I was, one leg, a little away from the other, and... and if you could... hold your penis, pull... I mean, as if you are... masturbating..."

"Uh-huh."

He moves, heavily, my bed creaks, I watch him lay back, his stiff cock springing up and down, he slides one knee away from the other. 

"And you want me to..."

"Yes, touch yourself, please, as if... grip your cock, hold your stiff cock."

"Like... like... "

"Down, yes, slide your foreskin back, so I can see the bulb of your penis, as if... yes.."

He does. My pleasure begins to fill me, I am not going to manage this, the sight is going to be enough, his mouth is open now, Fabrice moves his hand over his chest, his stomach, to his penis, I watch him graze his fingers along his own quivering length, open them over his scrotum, then grip his stiff stem, and stroke himself, once, slowly, I watch, I look as he exposes this final part of himself, as he pulls his soft skin back over his smooth dark damp tip.

"Oh... oh fuck... oh... god..."

The tip of his cock is soaking, he looks as wet as I am, seeping, coated in a thick translucent layer of sweet male moisture.

I know, we are meeting in the centres of our separate mutual climaxes. I hear paper and pencils hit the floor, as I drop my hand to my sex, as I thread a finger between my slippery hot lips and enter myself, the swollen soaking walls of my vagina close and hold my finger, I slide up to my clitoris, my orgasm is instant, is detonated by the perfect sight of Fabrice, he's not been able to resist movement, the moment he felt his own raging sex he gave in to his body's demands, he had to stroke his erect penis, once, three, four times only, it is irresistible.

"Oh Juliette, oh god, I'm sorry, fuck, I am sorry..."

"Please, do it, let me see you, oh, oh, masturbate for me, come for me, let me come for you, watch me come, watch me stroke my hot little pussy."

And his fingers closed around the rigid stem of his cock, sliding his foreskin over his trembling tender glans, he loses himself in his own pleasure, his hand is quickly a blur, thrilling, it is a thrilling contrast to his stillness, his calm, watching, his hand moves fast on his cock, his breath, his voice, his large balls slapping heavily against his thighs, so beautiful, large oval balls being bounced so needily up and down within the dark, creased skin of his scrotum. I stroke my own sex as I watch Fabrice masturbate with abandoned lust, uncaring how he looks, how demeaned, degraded. 

And I am the same, we are both lost in this strange moment of mutual display and witnessing, inviting the other into our most private behaviour, transgressing our most private space. 

He is now motionless, his hand stopped, his cock so stiff, his glistening bulb. I see it, I see Fabrice start to come, his first long white lash of semen bursting from his bare slit, we come together, astonishingly, my climax crumbles me into a kneeling heap, my fingers darting, stroking, as I watch him coming, four thick spurts of creamy male ejaculate splashing out onto his chest, I barely have to touch myself, points of pleasure blur into a delirious epiphany of ecstasy. 

I fall onto my back. I listen to the sounds of our breathing, the room thick and warm with our sweat, our sex, our eruptive moisture. Fabrice lights two cigarettes and rolls across the bed to place one between my lips, we barely have the strength to smoke. We don't touch. Still. Not even our hands meet. 

Our minds do though, words escape us, next week, when we are both free, Wednesday again, in the morning again we will have to draw each other, again.