10 comments/ 22372 views/ 7 favorites A Most Unwanted Present By: geronimo_appleby Here's my entry into the Winter Holidays Contest, albeit there's not too much mention of the holiday season in it. Not until the end anyway. I didn't intend it to be that way when I started, but the thing grew legs and wandered off and went where it wanted. In this one a middle-aged man is seduced by a twenty-something hottie. But the trouble is she's also a married woman. He tries to resist but is too weak and can't manage to find the strength to deny him, and her it seems, the pleasure. Just a note on the point-of-view: because it's in the first-person doesn't mean it's autobiographical. I anticipate there might be some confusion over that issue. Well, that's been my experience in the past, with some of the Public Comments and other feedback on previous first person POV submissions being of a personal nature, a lot of it regarding the marital status of my parents or accusing me of all manner of perversions in my mother's cellar, etc. Anyway, we'll see what happens, if anything. Some of the comments make good entertainment in their own right -- better'n the crap I write most of the time! Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy the short piece despite any shortcomings. Feedback is appreciated ... mostly. *wink* GA -- Ranong, Thailand -- 20th of November 2014. *** She breezed in on long legs and high heels, somehow slipping past and then leaving me standing at my own front door to gawp over one shoulder, stunned by the audacity. She was in my flat before I could stop her. I can't explain just how she managed it, some kind of sleight-of-hand Houdini technique it seemed: blink of an eye quick. A trick the old door-to-door salespeople would have coveted. "Hiya," she'd said when I'd responded to the knock. Then she'd flashed a smile at me to complement the cheery greeting before, somehow, she was past me and strolling into the living room. I recognised her as a neighbour from two doors along, a striking young woman not long moved in with her husband. I'd passed her once in the entryway downstairs, but only exchanged a nod in greeting on that occasion. I'd been going out and she was coming, her laden with a bag of supplies from the Budgens shop across the car park. We didn't exchange a word at the time, but I'd noticed her all right. She was difficult to miss with that platinum blonde hair and a propensity towards miniskirts. And why shouldn't she wear those skirts? There was no complaint from me, seeing her legs certainly brightened my day. And the rest of her, in my chauvinistic opinion, was worth a second look as well -- a good long look, too. But that's all it was, a look. I indulged as we passed in the vestibule, contriving a brief survey of her slender yet appealingly curvaceous frame from behind. I fully appreciated the moment, soaking in the sight of a very engaging feminine swing. I knew she was involved with someone, was spoken for, and I respected that. Plus she was at least twenty years younger than me, probably even a quarter of a century. I doubted she even registered my existence. Oddly enough the athletic way she moved, full of bounce and energy, caused me a brief stab of melancholy. It suddenly dawned that I would never experience such vigour again. I'd had my day, plenty of days in fact, but in the ignorance of youth I'd failed to fully appreciate just what it was I'd held in my hands, literally as well as figuratively. The blonde girl climbed the stairs and I walked out of the block, the moment passing as I went to my car, day-to-day matters displacing the young woman in my thoughts. I didn't really think about her again until I found myself confronted by her physical presence at my front door. Following her breezy entrance into my flat -- a what-the-fuck moment if ever there was one -- I closed the door and caught up with her in the living room. She stood there in front of the sofa, backlit by the afternoon sun coming in through the balcony doors. I have to admit she made a very appealing sight: high heels, long legs, hemline to the tops of her thighs. She also wore a canary-yellow 'gypsy' blouse loose about her torso, a garment that revealed nothing but somehow still emphasised the bounty beneath. In that way she reminded me of a lady I'd known a long time before, her charms concealed yet with me very aware. I had no way of knowing it at that moment, but this blonde would resemble my decades ago former lover in another way. Both women shared a very specific physical attribute, something I would help the young lady discover for herself that same afternoon. In my living room there was another flash of her smile and, before I could speak, before I could ask her just what it was she thought she was doing, the first words I ever heard her utter were, "I was just wonderin'..." She paused, face tilted in survey towards her legs and, regardless of my surprise at her not completely unwelcome yet totally unexpected intrusion, with my brain not processing much in the way of sense, it still filtered through that she was a long way from her home city. In that second or two I placed her accent at distinctly North West England, from somewhere close to the city that birthed The Beatles. All it took was that single word, the distinctly Liverpudlian drawl in the way she pronounced wonderin'. I was just taking in that fact when her face came up from the critical appraisal of her own legs, those eyes fixing on me, huge and blue and captivating. She blinked twice, flawless brow furrowing when she pouted, "I was just wonderin' if this skirt isn't a bit too short. You're a bloke -- what do you think?" Several impressions tumbled in my head, a tombola of thoughts, a lottery draw of ideas: Who bursts into a neighbour's home -- a man she doesn't even know, a man at least two decades older than she is -- and asks a question like that? What am I supposed to say? What does she want to hear? Why is she asking me? This has to be a joke -- where are the cameras? Fucking hell, she's gorgeous... Then I saw her looking at me intently and I realised she actually expected and answer. All I could come up with was a rather stunned, "What?" The word just popped out of me. It was the best I could do. I was confused by her presence, distracted by her legs. A minute earlier I'd been immersed in work, concentration focussed on the computer screen until the knock yanked me back to where I was physically. I'd only answered the door because of the rapping of knuckles against wood. If it had been the buzzer sounding I would have ignored it, but for someone to physically tap at my door meant they were already inside the block of eight flats. I couldn't ignore the fact a potential stranger was in the building. For my neighbours' security I had a duty to respond. Now I was being asked for my opinion on the brevity -- or not -- of hemlines. I was on the wrong foot, off-balance and struggling. The fact she was supremely good-looking and, in my opinion, superbly put together wasn't helping much either. As eye-catching as that hemline was my immediate answer had to be yes, the skirt was too short for decency. It barely came down to the undercurve of her buttocks. It wasn't suitable for public consumption. Another thought occurred to me: What would her husband-slash-boyfriend think of her flitting around with her pudding almost on display? My blurt prompted an eye-roll and a crossing of arms beneath substantial breasts. She cocked one hip and tilted her head, eyebrows arching as though she thought I might be a bit of an idiot. "I was tryin' on this skirt," she informed me. "I only got it yesterday. I loved it in the shop but I think it might be a bit short. I just wanted someone else's opinion." Then she uncrossed her arms and swivelled at the waist, craning round to examine the drop against her thighs as best she could without the aid of a mirror. I had to stare. I mean ... Jesus... When she turned to face me again her eyes were shining. She'd caught me gawping and the corner of her mouth twitched. "If I'm on the stairs," she giggled. "Anyone could see me knickers." That vision appeared across my mind's eye. In my head I could just picture her on the stairs ahead of me, giggling as she climbed, all plump and packed into her underwear. I could see the flimsy scrap of material nestled close to her body. During that quick fantasy moment I could just reach up and trace a finger against her cleft outlined against the filmy fabric. In real-life I gulped, desire fizzing until the girl's voice snapped me out of my led reverie. "So," she queried, "too short or what?" Before I could begin to formulate a coherent reply she nodded in response to her own question, crinkled her nose at me, and added, "Yeah, a bit too short." Then she stalked across the room to the sofa, with me boggling as she collapsed into it, legs sprawling, the skirt stretched tight as a drum skin across her thighs. I felt my throat working again. Swallowing heavily in a great gulp of anticipation it occurred to me that if I moved a few feet to my left I'd be able to see what she'd had for breakfast. The sound of her sigh came from a long way away. I knew I was staring but couldn't help myself. It was a compulsion to just soak up the image of her legs, a visceral uncoiling of something dark and primal inside me. My cock was hard, yearning a hollow ache, something primitive, something with an appetite. "Are you perving at my legs?" she asked, with no hint of objection in her voice. The primordial tug came again, more urgent, insistent when I watched her squirm her rump on my settee, gangly as a colt. Her eyes and smirk teased me. "You got a thing for legs?" I could have whined when she, in what seemed to be a deliberately provocative gesture, wriggled so the hem of her skirt rose higher and exposed the pristine white gusset of her underwear. Her chin nudged at me. "It sure looks like you've seen somethin' you like." She grinned and added, "Is it me legs or me boobs?" The vulpine smirk broadened. "Or is it me pussy?" The brazen tart paused, still smirking as she murmured, "You can touch me legs if you wanna ... Then you can touch me boobs." The way she looked at me and breathed those words had me across the room and on her in three steps. The woman, I didn't know her name at that point, yelped and giggled, wriggling as I plonked myself down and aimed myself at her so my hands could get to her thighs. It was mindless in those first minutes. There was no room for consideration inside my head: the work I'd been doing, deadlines, her husband. None of it mattered. There were no thoughts of what I was getting into, of where would it go from that point. I didn't care if this was premeditated on her part or just some spur-of-the-moment thrill. It was all about the physical: her legs and her body and her face, the undeniable urges raging within. My need was irresistible. Lust flared white hot and all-consuming. Desire was a ravenous, slavering beast roaring for sustenance, a hunger desperate to be sated. All of this was a great mass of yearning that needed to be drawn down through me, sucked down into my core until the pressure grew so great that sobbing relief pumped from my cock. "Tear it off," she urged, sliding down the sofa cushion until her backside hung over the precipice, thighs tensed because of her heels digging in to the carpet. It made for a very pleasing aspect, this aroused young woman mewling at me with her skirt riding high, her mound obvious beneath her underwear. "Go on," she urged. "Rip my knickers off." That whisky-voiced instruction and her heavy-lidded gaze caused the beast inside me to bellow. A quick rending of cotton and she was exposed. I could see she was looking up at me, expectant, but my attention was zeroed in elsewhere. All I could manage, when I saw her mons all smooth and bare was a gurgled, "Fuck." Then, without knowing properly what I was doing, I was down on my knees, my hands on her thighs as I forced her legs apart. I took a long look at her all vulnerable and glistening, her labia already tacky and folded back like butterfly wings. When my tongue found her, when I probed at her opening and then lapped at the taut and shiny clit she squeaked and then groaned, body jerking in response. "You dirty fucker," she cooed, holding my head and forcing me against her body, legs folding at the knees. "Lick it, lick my pussy." I did that all right. I slurped and slobbered at her. I lapped at her opening, probing with my tongue before flicking at her clit. The young woman squirmed, gasping and mumbling when I came up to look at her face. "You're gorgeous," I moaned when I'd yanked up the gypsy top to find her bra-less beneath. Her nipples were like the top joint of my pinky finger, thick and elongated in the coins of her areolae. She whined when I sucked at her, moaning and whispering profanity close to my ear when I went for the fleshy tip of her other breast. "You're absolutely gorgeous," I repeated when I came up and found her gazing at me. In reply, with my hands on her breasts, while I kneaded their spongy softness and marvelled at the shape and texture the girl squeaked, "Squeeze them. My tits. Really squeeze my fuckin' tits. Treat me hard." Then she gasped and pulled me to her for another kiss as I complied with her breathy instructions. I was still kneading and mauling and sucking when the kiss broke and she squeaked, "I'm so fucking horny. You're gonna fuck me, aren't you?" I had a voice like barbed wire when I replied with, "If that's what you want." I'd decided, in a vague, disconnected sort of way that of course I was going to fuck her. What else was I going to do? I was fifty-two years old, she could only be mid-twenties. I was enduring a drought, it had been some time, yet there she was, stunningly pretty and obviously predisposed towards getting what she needed. Her looks and her body had inflamed me beyond reason. There was a flicker of thought for her husband, a brief flash in my mind of him at work, oblivious while his wife squeaked and groaned and lay there on my sofa and offered me the use of that body. It shames me to say it was merely a fleeting thought; I had much more immediate concerns -- his wife peeling the gypsy blouse over her head being one; the ache of my erection and the need for relief just one more. Besides, I consoled myself, if it wasn't me it would be someone else. She was that hot, that revved up for a fucking. The woman herself confirmed my assessment by saying, "Oh, it's what I want." She pulled me in for another kiss, our tongues writhing for long seconds before she released me. We both gasped as I looked into blue eyes glazed with desire, another thrill of wanting her pulsing in my dick when she purred, "I want you to fuck me. I want your hard cock in my pussy." It was me who initiated the next kiss, my hands moving over the girl's body. I mauled her breasts and ran my palms down over her narrow brisket. I slid my wandering hands past the cinch of her waist, moving them down over her hips and onto her legs where I savoured the velvety texture of her thighs beneath my fingers. After playing that body I then arranged her to my liking. With her still scrunched up on the settee, chin on her chest, tits wobbling, legs wide, pussy at my mercy, I knelt next to her and split those sticky labia with a middle finger. She was so wet she took two digits easily. "Oh!" the girl yipped, blinking at me, jaw slack. "Oh, that's so fucking nice..." With the initial shock dissipating quickly I grinned and nodded and growled, "Wait and see." I'd been in similar situations before. I'd had women in this position in the past, them squirming against my fingers. "Just let me get you there. Trust me," I murmured. The blonde gulped and blinked before she nodded quickly and whined, "Uh-huh." So I went to work at her. Years before, in the summer of my nineteenth year, I had a temporary job in a coffee shop near an army camp. It was seven miles from my home at the time, a tiny bedsit off Grosvenor Road, Aldershot. The lady who owned the cafe was a doe-eyed Italian senora with masses of ringlets the same colour as her coffee beans, her skin the hue of cappuccino. She was early forties and possessed of a figure like Sophia Loren. She was, in short, exquisite to look at, and, as I was to discover very early on, had a rapacious sexual appetite. She seduced me at the end of my second day of working for her. I'd been eyeing her breasts for hours, wondering if they were as big and heavy as I suspected. My employer favoured summer dresses with a loose bodice, the jiggle of the promise beneath a constant draw for surreptitious glances. There was nothing overtly sexual in her manner of dress, it was simply the way her dress moved as she poured drinks, the hint at a ripe voluptuousness beneath while she served sandwiches and flirted with the young soldiers, using her femininity to draw every coin she could from them. Every man in that coffee shop had the same thoughts as me. Each one of us wanted her. It was unfortunate for them that they had duties that called them back behind the fence, which left me to soak her up all day. Early evening and we were closed for business. It was the end of my second day. She saw me looking as she mopped the floor, the side-to-side movement necessary causing her big boobs sway and roll, that soft, hypnotic swinging stiffening my cock. I pretended not to be looking. I feigned an overwhelming absorption in stacking chairs onto tables, busy at my work, dedicated to all things janitorial until, calm as you like, she told me to look at her and casually unbuttoned the dress. I boggled for a bit, jaw heavy and dangling. Of course I couldn't believe what I was seeing. She let me gaze for a time, standing there blithe and without inhibition, all her bounty revealed to my callow stare. Eventually, after ascertaining I was, in fact, a virgin, she took me upstairs. That night we left several cups in the sink and the coffee machine unwashed. I cleaned that machine early the next morning, physically drained yet buzzing with the thrill of what I'd seen and done and felt and tasted with my mature lover all through the night. For the next three months, every evening after work, when we'd properly cleaned and scrubbed the café, stacking the chairs on the tables before mopping the floor, with the coffee shop ready for business the following morning, my Mediterranean Mrs Robinson used my cock, my tongue and my fingers. Her rooms were directly above the café, a very convenient ascent from where we worked together all day. During working hours it was difficult to keep my hands to myself, especially in the hour or two leading in to closing. But sometimes, when business was slow she would lead me to the dry store, lift the hem of her dress and have me lap at her sex. Occasionally she would use her fist on my length, tugging me to completion, jizm spattering onto the tiles, with me mopping up the mess a few minutes later while she went calmly about the business of doling up the refreshments to customers unaware of what had been going on. After work we usually tumbled naked across her bed, often with her riding me, my hands full of her. I think it was three times I stayed with her for the entire night, our pleasure mostly frantic bouts of delightfully hot and urgent sex before the last bus passed through the village. Sometimes, on Sundays or when my day off fell during the week, when her need was on her, she would drive to town to visit me in the bedsit. During those times she would arrive with a bottle of red wine in hand and a glint in her eye, libido snarling and her pussy invariably sodden. Pleasantly squiffy on the wine and always naked we'd make love, sometimes tender and full of emotion but usually with an animal intensity that left us both spent and breathless and blinking, stunned, like victims of some violent crime. A Most Unwanted Present When that happened I would get a lift in to work, her desire satisfied for the time being while I saved on the bus fare. One weekend, one Sunday night early on in the relationship she left me with an empty bottle and, like Rod Stewart's Maggie May, a broken bed. As well as breaking that bed she'd also ruined my sheets, her squirting ardour blotting the cotton in a crazy pattern. A particular favourite of hers, one of the things she enjoyed most -- oh, her myriad pleasures -- a technique she taught me and for which I have been thankful on more than several occasions since, was for me to use two fingers inside her. That woman would wince and gasp and mutter words in a language I couldn't understand. I knew I was doing all right by her expression and tone of her voice, her squeaks and grunts and tensing muscles adding further clues when I couldn't understand a word she was muttering. I had to rub at her in a particular place, easy to find once she'd shown me the first time. When she first introduced me to her particular pleasure, that woman held my wrist in a grip like a vice and urged me through gritted teeth to probe deeper, to use my fingertips against her body, to rub at her while she grunted and squawked and whined. Pressure on that secret part of her brought forth a vehement and much unexpected response, with the woman writhing and grunting, either all bulging eyes or with the lids squeezed tight depending on how she was feeling in the moment. Garbled nonsense in Italian and English rushed from her mouth, a jibber-jabber of inane babble peppered with some profanity. She would snarl at me to go at her harder, stiff fingers fucking into her, the ends finding that odd little patch inside her. My touch made her claw at the bed -- or me, as often as not. My forearms were constantly criss-crossed with welts and scratches from her scarlet nails that summer. During those times, in the wild precursor to her climax, her whole body would judder and tremble, her limbs thrashing as she wailed and carried on like I was setting about her with an axe. What took me by surprise the first time it happened, as well as the sheer ... violence of her climax, was the stuff that squirted out of her. At first, with my mature Italian lover in a fit of writhing and squirming, bestial grunts of sheer joy exploding from her, I thought she'd pissed all over my arm. I was working at her pussy, marvelling and awed at the physicality of her enjoyment when, before my eyes, her cunt yawed, literally gaped like a hungry mouth, the surprising physical manifestation accompanied by a loud liquid squelch. Then I felt something splash against my arm, a clear yet viscous jet that squirted from the woman's body with some force. While I boggled at the sight in sheer disbelief she grunted and swore again, another spurt splashing against my forearm and wrist. At the same time, with those three or four jets hosing out of her, my lover's thighs shivered in nerveless spasm. It was like she'd been wired to mains electricity and someone had just flicked the switch. She juddered and jerked, thigh muscles rippling, yelps of absolute delight bursting out of her while her body convulsed. "Fucking hell!" I yipped in response, certain the dirty bitch had peed on me. But she just held me tight at the wrist and kept my fingers inside her, grunting at me to carry on rubbing at her. That was just one trick that delightful lady taught me, a technique I'd used with varying results ever since, and which I was about to try on the blonde temptress who'd appeared unbidden at my door. I had the blonde right where I wanted her, my fingers working at her, the muscles in her tummy tensing while she sucked in deep breaths and stared at my face in awe. "Oh fuck," the girl squeaked, trying to rise up on her elbows so she could see what I was doing. She struggled in vain for a few seconds, finally slumping back down, defeated. "That feels really fuckin' good," she gasped, blinking at me. She shook her head from side-to-side, slowly, like she couldn't believe my fingers could bring forth such sensations. The blonde gave a little cough, an ugh of pleasure at the back of her throat, jaw going slack, her look and entire demeanour telling me she was going to be a squirter. I wondered if she knew what her body was capable of. Had anyone tickled her in just the right way in just the right spot before? "Feels good, eh?" I asked. A squeak and her throat working quickly supplied the answer. "Oh," she whined, nodding, hips coming up off the settee. She bucked up at me, pelvis thrusting while my hand got busy, wrist a goose neck while I tickled her insides. "What are you doing here?" I breathed, more to myself and any deity listening than directly to her. "I don't believe it." "I was so fucking horny," the blonde mewled. She writhed and gasped and clenched her teeth, a spasm rippling through her. "I've seen you about," she gasped. "I knew you were home and I got thinking a few mucky thoughts." She grunted then, bottom lip going between her teeth as her eyes beseeched me to keep on doing whatever it was I was doing. "Fuck," she spat, "don't fuckin' stop... "If you... "Oh, fuck ... If you keep on fucking me with your fingers I'll come." Desire for her was hot inside me, and I did consider leaving it for the moment, just hauling down my jeans to free my erection so I could plunge my cock into her scarlet cunt. I could go at her until the blessed relief of my own spitting orgasm rolled over me. But, somehow I swallowed down the near irresistible urge to plunder that sodden pussy with my dick. Instead I used my fingers on her, knowing my reward would come later, the pleasure I gave her in the meantime only making that time all the sweeter when my moment arrived. It took a few minutes to get her close, her movements growing ever more urgent, her moans and squeaks and little yips of delight more emphatic. "You've got to stop," she eventually gasped, eyes wide, a scared look on her face. "I'm gonna pee if you keep doing it." "Let it go," I urged, working harder, rubbing at her. "I can't!" she wailed, one hand pushing at my chest. "Please, don't, I'll piss meself." Anticipating her struggles I maintained the pressure, relentless fingers squirming inside her while the girl writhed and yelped at me again, fighting against her body's urges. "It'll be okay," I said, the words strained between my teeth. It was difficult to keep at her the way she was squirming. If I could only convince her to give it up. "Just go with it. It's my sofa anyway." By then she was really anxious, chewing on her bottom lip, doe-eyed and fearful. But I'd seen it before, had witnessed the same anxiety in the past, with a woman so concerned that she was about to humiliate herself she fought against the tide. Then, as I'd hoped, the blonde succumbed. She glared at me, glazing over as the feeling hit her, eye-lids heavy when she uttered a mumbling, gravel-throated, "I warned you ... I'm gonna pee..." What happened next was just like I'd experienced with my former lover. The blonde tensed, every muscle clenching, sinews strained, jaw tight as she stared at me with eyes like boiled eggs. She grunted and spat obscenities, then let out a bestial grunt when the orgasmic bliss hit her. She juddered and writhed and tensed up again, everything wired tight until a sob burst out of her in a huge liquid blurt that told me she was there, right on the edge. "Oh my God!" she cried, eyes wide and fixed on my face. "Oh Fuck. Oh God. Oh you fucking...!" The first gush erupted and she jack-knifed at the waist, the second vehement squirt splashing over my wrist when she collapsed back again. Then the spasms hit her, her thighs doing that nerveless dance, muscles twitching. More of the stuff squelched out, accompanied by a snuffling from the blonde, a snort of urgency that brought my attention to her face. I looked at her and saw features so twisted with effort it seemed she was giving birth. "Come," I hissed at her. "Let it all out." I kept my fingers going, rubbing at her while she grunted and groaned and writhed. "That's it," I added, enthralled. "That's it. You just come, you gorgeous thing." "Jesus," the woman gasped, awe struck and limp as I left her to the aftermath. She gulped and blinked, expression amazed while I stood and stripped out of my clothes. "What the fucking hell did you do to me?" she mumbled at me, the words clotted, all thick as if having to move past swollen lips. I didn't answer, just cranked my cock with one fist, my eyes soaking up the detail of her physical appeal. "That's a nice big cock," she said, sucking in air as she eyed the jib of my hard on. "I was hoping you'd have a big one." Then she moaned when I clambered onto the sofa, hauled her about bodily so her legs were hooked around my arms, her pussy tilted and vulnerable, the length of me sliding into her unopposed. It was just one easy glide until my balls nudged the crease of her arse. *** It has to be said, that first coupling was nothing less than me plundering the girl. I went at her hard and fast and deep, her own delight evident in her squealing and mewling, her potty-mouthed exhortations to, "Fuck my pussy. Fucking smash me. Give me all of that lovely cock," pouring like a corruption from rosebud lips. If she wanted smashing, I was more than happy to comply. I had no thought at all for the consequences of what we were doing. Her husband was nothing to me, using a condom didn't register -- not that I had any in the flat, and I certainly wasn't making the trip to Budgens. No matter that the shop was a minute's walk away. I went at her with vigour, the blonde coming up to meet every robust downstroke. I pummelled and pounded, probing deep, squawks and yelps bursting out of her while she glared at me with eyes flashing with lust, pelvis thrusting, my hands around her torso beneath her surprisingly large breasts. Later on she'd tell me her boobs were enhanced, a fact I marvelled over since they seemed so natural, so real. I like big tits on slim girls so, of course, I spent some time weighing her breasts with my palms, testing their texture with my fingertips, sucking the elongated points of her nipples and, at other times, fucking my cock between her boobs, the flesh slick with pre-cum, me going at her until spunk arced out of me and into her hair, splashes of my goo sliding over her cheek, a pool of it at her throat. Inevitably, after a few minutes of such vigorous action, not to mention the pleasing aspect of seeing such a gorgeous young woman clearly enjoying herself, I felt the vortex of my orgasm surge through my core. It hit me, hard, my climax bursting from me on a bellow and a final lunge. I actually felt my cock pulse, girth expanding and contracting like a snake swallowing a frog, semen flooding the blonde. She, in her turn, was groaning and mumbling on about me filling her with cum, about how good it felt to feel me pumping inside her and how she was coming ... again. After that, when I withdrew and witnessed the lewd sight of cum dribbling out of her, the woman's labia slick and battered, I slumped down onto the settee while she smeared my outpouring over her sex, diddling her swollen clit with the tip of her middle finger. Then, without even telling me her name she leaned over to pluck the torn scrap of her underwear from the floor, wiped herself between the legs, dropped her ruined knickers into my lap, and then stood up. A shimmy later and the skirt covered her modesty -- just. She plucked the gypsy blouse from where it had fallen and pulled it on and, with no attempt to tidy the tangle of her hair, waggled her fingers at me. "Ta-ra," she trilled, beaming a Cameron Diaz smile in my direction, her cheeks dimpling. All I could do in response was gawp at her hip-swaying strut when she strode away like a stripper leaving the stage. "I'll pop round again tomorrow, should I?" the blonde asked, pausing at the door to turn and fling the question at me, a glint in her eye. "See ya," she added when I didn't refuse. *** Terri, as she introduced herself, returned the next day. She knocked at my door, which I nearly didn't answer. I'd been thinking -- a lot. "Yeah, hello, well--" I began, meaning to keep her in the hall. I didn't want her in my flat again. All through the previous afternoon and evening, and during a very uncomfortable night as well, my mind gnawed at the problem of what I'd done. I cursed myself for being so weak as to allow it to happen. In the minutes following her departure, while I lay on the couch, spent, the fires of physical desire cooling, the embers smoking like a campfire at dawn, that was when the full impact of my actions hit me. Like a train the awful realisation slammed into me: she was someone's wife, a married woman who had to be half my age. Nothing good could come of it -- and in that prescient assumption I'd prove to be correct. The blonde was most definitely a dangerous flirt, a tease, although in her case she didn't just leave it with a bit of banter, or even just a kiss and a cuddle. No, this woman took it to the extreme. After all, hadn't she simply swanned into my flat and basically asked me to fuck her? I spent the morning dreading her knock. I even considered making the short walk along the hall to her door but was put off because: a) I wasn't sure she would be alone; her husband might be home for some reason; and b) because I didn't have the guts for the confrontation on her doorstep. I had no idea of her temperament and didn't fancy her shouting and yelling and attracting all kinds of unwanted neighbourly attention. Despite it being a workday midweek, someone was bound to be home to witness any drama. And that kind of shit was very likely to stink so foul her husband would get a sniff. During the hours between me finally capitulating and crawling out of my tousled bed and her knock at the door, the ruin of the sheets testimony to a very disturbed night, I slurped black coffee and prevaricated between outright rejection or merely fleeing my home. Looking for another place to live was actually the more attractive notion at some points of the morning. It all depended on where my imagination took me while I considered the moment of confrontation. So, there it was, decision made when the woman eventually rapped at the front door. I'd decided it was over before it really started. There would be no repeat. The affair, brief as it was, was finished. Done. It had been extremely pleasant, absolutely fantastic in fact, but couldn't be allowed to continue. However, when I opened the door and went to utter my prepared speech she was quickly past me again. "Shit," I muttered, frustrated, but then it occurred to me that perhaps it might be better to have her inside my flat. If she started to rant and rave I had more of a chance to calm her down before -- gently and very kindly -- aiming her down the hall. Ah, such a simple plan. I followed her into the living room, the scene of the crime, DNA spattered all over the sofa cushions. I started in again with, "Okay, look, it's like this--" Then I crumbled when the blonde lifted her skirt -- another of the very brief variety; this one in black. "I've been thinking about what we did yesterday," she breathed, flaunting her depilated pudendum at me, showing off dark hold-up stockings. "I was just wonderin' if you'd do that fingerin' on me pussy again." Her eyes rolled with apparent pleasure at the memory before she fixed me with a look of twinkle-eyed mischief, her little finger actually held at the corner of her mouth, so falsely coy but an action that suited her. "I fuckin' loved it. It was so nice comin' like that. I came so hard. I had no idea I could..." Her neck flushed pink and she blinked, her intense gaze slipping away from my face. "...Well," she added, shrugging, "I didn't imagine I could squirt cum like that." Her full attention came back up to me. "I wanna do it again." I glanced down and gulped when I saw labia peeping in that delicate place between her legs. I took a few seconds to gape at her before I forced my eyes north to where I was confronted by her pulling a white tee-shirt over her head. I could have cried with the joy of seeing her lovely tits because, of course, she was naked beneath the tee-shirt. "Come on," she urged, sweeping an arm at the sofa. "Lick my pussy. Finger it. Make me squirt cum again." Her eyes flashed with devilment when she smirked at me, those Diaz dimples in her cheeks. "I'll suck your big cock," the woman added, "and you can smash my tight little pussy some more." I liked the way she kept on saying I had a big cock, a trick that worked on my ego. No words came from me as she gave that shimmy and the skirt fell to her shoes. The blonde stepped out of it lithe and graceful as a dancer and then turned to show off the delights of her derriere, taunting me with the feminine sweep of her body when she pranced to the settee. "I've been fingering myself all mornin'," she muttered, eyes glazed, legs wide, cunt scarlet and glistening. "Come and lick me..." *** It went on for another couple of months, the balmy Indian summer cooling to autumnal wet overnight. As winter approached, the inevitability of Christmas trumpeted in television adverts as early as November, some days, most days -- except weekends for fairly obvious reasons -- Terri would knock at my door. I was addicted, she was in my blood, narcotic, insidious as a virus. I hated and craved her simultaneously. Every morning I vowed abstinence. Or to be more precise, during the dark hours I lay awake I'd turn her over in my mind and swear I wouldn't do it again. I would tumble from my tormented bed, shower and sip coffee certain in the knowledge that the day had dawned when I would resist the blonde's advances. Determination was in my head and my heart: I would not succumb. I would stand fast. I would be resolute. But who was I kidding? Even as I muttered about "today being the day" part of me knew that when the knock came the excitement would course through me, blood thrumming. My cock would stiffen in Pavlovian response. I would literally jog to the door, eager for my fix. I couldn't resist her chirpy, cheeky charm. All she had to do was throw that impish smirk at me and dimple those cheeks, flaunt her breasts or flash her succulent pussy and I would drop to my knees and slurp at her. She loved it when I fingered her to a noisy, squirting climax. With the season of goodwill weeks away we'd moved from the sofa to the bed, with me even buying a special underlay to protect the mattress from long-term damage. I learned to keep a towel handy for Terri to use between her legs. She would be so wet afterwards that when she begged me to fuck into her it was impossible to find any friction at all. As well as all that, the blonde seemed to adore semen. She was fascinated by the way the stuff flicked out of my cock. Terri would use her hand to tug at me, goading me on to orgasm in her usual lewdly vocal manner, eyes fixed on the eye of my cock. It didn't matter to her if she got plastered in spunk. She could tug me until my dick squirted jizm, aiming the gush at her breasts or tummy, even sometimes gurgling at me to splash her face with the "hot stuff" -- to use her eloquent turn of phrase. And she didn't seem to mind me filling her pussy either. One night she surprised me by turning up, her husband at home just down the hall watching football on television. It was a frantic and extremely urgent coupling, me thrusting at Terri from behind, my hands on her hipbones, her buttocks thwack-thwack-smacking against my thighs as we fucked. Terri braced herself against the wall, resting on her forearms as she angled her pelvis to take me as deep as she needed me to be. A Most Unwanted Present "Fuck me, you dirty fuckin' bastard," she snorted, knickers taut as piano wire between her shins. The blonde groaned and gulped and thrust back at me knock-kneed, fingernails like talons clawing at the paintwork. "Come," she gasped. "Come in me. Fill me with that stuff." "But," I grunted in response, "your husband..." "He doesn't touch me. He's watching footie," Terri snarled back. "God," she wailed, head lolling, "just come inside me. Feeling you do it will get me there too." So I did and, as predicted, she got there as well. I squirted my desire into her, with Terri wailing and grunting and letting me know in a torrent of sewer language that she was, indeed, in the throes of a very satisfying climax. Terri eventually finished juddering and moaning, gasping about how much she loved to feel my dick splitting her open, about how she adored my jizm pouring into her. Then she abruptly hauled up her knickers, turned, kissed me an extremely ardent goodnight, and was gone. "I could feel your spunk sliding out of me for the rest of the evenin'," the blonde informed me a day or two later. "I could smell you coming up from between my legs," she added, that evil gleam in her eye. "I had to rub myself off again. I sat on the toilet and played with my pussy as the cum slid out." On that occasion, when she left my flat, brimming with semen and smiling like the proverbial cat -- well, she did get the cream -- Terri left a souvenir: the knickers she'd worn the night her hubby had watched football and she'd visited my place. The underwear, black and insubstantial, was stained with snail trails of dried semen, silvery smears of spunk that had leaked out of her afterwards. That was how it was with Terri: deliciously sordid. I couldn't help myself. When it had first started I'd somehow known it would end badly, which it did, just not in the manner I'd expected. Christmas Eve and there was a knock at the door. It took me by surprise, sort of. I hadn't been expecting Terri, after all it was the day before Christmas and I was sure her husband was finishing work early. Still, it wouldn't be an unprecedented move on her part. But when I answered the door, if I'd been anticipating Terri, I was in for a surprise. He stood there, his presence sending a sinker of anxiety plummeting into the pit of my stomach. "I need a word," her husband said. *** I played the old game of deny-deny-deny, or would have if he'd questioned me outright, which he didn't. Instead, what he did, standing in the hallway because there was no way I was letting him into my flat, was confuse me by saying, "I've got a new job." What was I supposed to say to that? I t seemed random in the extreme. I didn't know anything about the man -- I hadn't wanted to. I'd purposely never asked Terri anything about her situation. Most of my reticence was due to shame. It didn't seem right to ask about the man, not since I was tupping his wife on a fairly regular basis: almost daily in fact. With him standing there the embarrassment rolled over me in a hot wave. I could barely stand to look at him. But why was he telling me he had a new job? I was still trying to make sense of this statement when he added, "New city." His head jerked in what I assume was the direction of this unknown metropolis. "On my own. I'm leaving her. She's all yours." He grinned at me after delivering this jaw-dropping snippet. It wasn't a pleasant look: a smile like a knife blade, which is what I imagined him reaching for when he suddenly reached into his pocket. I flinched and he sniggered at my involuntary response. With derision in his tone he scoffed, "What ... you think I've got a shooter or something?" Rolling his eyes in contempt, he added, "You ain't that lucky." Then he carried on smirking that awful smirk. "I ... I don't know what you mean," I spluttered, wondering just what it was he had in his hand. It looked like a digital thermometer to me, a plastic stick and its purpose unknown. Disingenuously I played it dumb. "Why are you telling me all this?" I asked. "Don't you live down the hall? Haven't you just moved in?" He made the tutting sound again, eyes rolling once more. "Come off it," he responded. "You know who I am; you know how long I've lived here." This was accompanied by a snicker like a drain unblocking. "You've been shagging my missis for the past three months." He held up a hand, palm facing me, his eyes closing when my mouth opened to utter the denial. "Don't bother, mate," he said. Then the grin was back as he eyed me again. I definitely didn't like that smirk. It was as though he knew something dirty about me -- apart from the obvious that is. It was like he knew a nasty secret, something unpleasant. "Timing," the man said. "What?" I replied, totally confused by that comment and the ones preceding it. What was it with him and these random blurts? "Well," he said, shrugging. "I was just gonna bugger off and leave the pair of you to it. She's easy to get, isn't she?" Before I could respond he was continuing with, "I couldn't believe my luck when I first met her. I mean, you've seen Terri..." He snorted at that and shook his head. "Of course you have, you've fucked her, too. "Well, when I first met her and she fucked my brains out I couldn't believe it. A stunner like her...?" His cheeks ballooned as though still unable to believe his luck at snagging such a hottie. Then he became rueful, his expression changing. Bitterly, he snapped, "She's easy to get but fucking impossible to keep. Every bloke I know has tried to get into her knickers, and most of 'em managed it, too. She loves the attention. Terri can't get enough men to look at her. Trouble is she loves cock as well. Can't get enough dick." That's when he brought his gaze up from the carpet, from where it had rested during his tale of less-than-marital-bliss. The smirk was back when he, with some delight it seemed, told me: "You know she's been fucking the postman as well, hey?" He chuckled when my expression answered his question. "No? Fucking hell, fancy that. Bit of a cliché, isn't it, though? "I mean," he scoffed, "the fucking postie! She would've boned the milkman as well, if there still was such a thing. "Anyway, I was just gonna leave her high and dry." His grin slipped at that moment, his face revealing the anguish I was responsible for -- at least in part. "Should have left her years ago." The last was delivered quietly, as though he was talking to himself rather than me. When he carried on his voice came from somewhere distant. "Or I shoulda never gotten so caught up with her in the first place." Sighing, he blinked into my face. "Love," he said, voice somewhat strangled. "I just loved her too much. Denied it to myself ... That my wife was a slut, I mean." Then he shook himself and sniffed a bit, swallowing down the obvious grief. It was gut-churning to look at him. If I could have turned back the clock... But, apparently recovered the man held out the thermometer thing. "Anyway, I was just going to leg it and let her sink -- or whatever. But I found this today." He held up the device. "Couldn't believe it. It looks like it's a toss-up between you and the postie." His eyes narrowed and his face went all foxy, like a sly bookie calculating a bet. "My money'd be on you though. You're the one who's shagged her the most these last few weeks." Shrugging again, he added, "But she might have bent over for a couple of others in the meantime. "Knowing Terri, I wouldn't be surprised." I blinked at what he held in his hand, the truth of it ice cold in my chest when I recognised just what it was. That thin blue line in the tiny window confirmed my awful fears. "Nice little pressie to leave you with at Christmas, innit? You get the girl and the bun she's baking in the oven." When he thrust the pregnancy test kit at me I took it without thinking. "So, well, me bag's all packed and I've got a taxi coming to take me to the station. By-the-way, she's got no money of her own and the rent's due New Year's Eve." He turned to leave, with me standing there, jaw dangling, that damning plastic stick in my numb fingers. "Oh," he flung back over his shoulder. "If I was you though, mate ... I'd get a fucking paternity test ... Just to make sure." Then he winked and actually gave me a cheery wave, his parting remark coming on a wink. "Merry Christmas," he said.