Harold was aching for her now. Under the tablecloth was his cock, rigid and throbbing. How could he be hard again so quickly and need her so badly?
Her foot slid up between his legs. Slowly along between his thighs. She’d kicked off her shoes and her toes were pressing his hardness against his belly. He groaned and closed his eyes.
“Here’s our breakfast,” she announced and plates appeared in front of them.
Her foot never left his groin through the meal. Her small, forever-wiggling toes kept him roused. He was never close to coming but her merciless foot kept him aching for her.
It seemed natural after the waitress had refilled their cups to work his foot out of its shoe and slip it up between her thighs. The sensation went far beyond what he expected. The heat of her thighs and the soft grip of them as she slowly closed her legs!
Her foot stilled as she focused on his. He could feel the rasp of her hair through his thin sock. Her eyes closed and her head went back.
“Is she OK?” said the voice in his ear. He’d not seen the waitress coming.
Out on the sidewalk Monica had a fit of giggles and then slowly recovered. Harold was struggling with his feelings as humour and embarassment fought for the upper hand.
‘Hers’ they decided when the question of ‘my place or yours’ arose. He drove them across town. They travelled in silence, both tired, both happy about what must surely lie ahead.
She took the first shower while he wandered around her small living room. Stuffed bookshelves spoke of an omniverous reader, he liked that. A big black-velvet bear that looked happy and sleepy. Very much her room. He found himself wondering why he’d been lonely for so long. Was she lonely too?
She emerged from the bathroom wet haired and bath-robed and radiating warmth. “All yours. There’s another bathrobe behind the door,” she told him.
Sitting on the bed with the hair dryer making her deliciously sleepy she wondered about Harold. He wasn’t old enough to be her father, not quite. That didn’t matter anyway she decided. He was gentle and he could think outside the sex and sports envelope. A rare attribute in the males of Monica’s experience. But most of all he was sexy. She didn’t think he knew it. Some primal piece of Monica seemed to glow deep inside when he was close to her.
The shower stopped and Monica came back to earth.
Soaping himself had produced a wicked erection and Harold had worried that it might never subside. The last few hours with Monica had been like nothing he had known in too many long years. She was magic!
The robe was short on him but he belted it around himself. He found a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. He was very happy to see hers alone in the glass.
He stepped into the living room feeling slightly ridiculous with the terrycloth reaching only to mid thigh. Two kitchen chairs stood facing each other in the room’s centre. Monica sat on one. She was still robed, her blonde hair fluffed and shining. But then Harold’s heart bumped, she wore fishnet stockings. He moved to the other chair and sat, anxious to hide the sudden stiffening of his cock.
“No waitress,” she said and they both laughed at the memory. She was recreating the restaurant scene he realised.
Harold ached with longing but somehow couldn’t bring himself to make the first move.
Monica had put on the pantyhose on impulse. Bought long ago because she thought they were so sexy, she’d never worn them for anyone before. Now she was suddenly afraid of seeming cheap. She liked this man too much to risk scaring him off.
“You look beautiful.” He all but stammered the words.
“I feel very shy right now,” she paused and gestured at her legs, “and rather silly.”
Harold started to say something.
She stopped him with words that horrified her, “But I want you so badly!”
He sat, silent, happily amazed. She could sense his hunger and knew it was going to be alright. She knew her next move would be alright after all.
Monica stood and moved across the space that separated them, loosening the belt of her robe. The robe opened and Harold caught his breath. The stockings were pantyhose, the crotchless sort he’d only seen in magazines. The front opening framed her pussy beautifully. He looked up at her.
The look on his face, in his eyes seem to echo her need for him. His hands moved to her hips. She bent and reached down, fumbling with the terrycloth belt of his robe. His cock was big and beautiful, its tip glistening.
Both of them stared at what both of them wanted. She bent her knees and squatted on his thighs. The column of his cock against her stomach. Her small firm breasts were level with his face, nipples jutted, big and eager. He kissed the nipples, one and then the other, very gently. She made a purring noise in her throat.
When she raised herself he felt her shower damp thighs peel off his and he knew what she was going to do. Monica moved forward and cock and pussy found each other. Their mutual wetness let him enter her easily, only her tightness resisting him. She froze, with only the head of him inside her. “Shouldn’t we …!”
“I can’t get you pregnant, not for twenty years …”
Neither asked the other questions. Each somehow trusted the other too much to think of asking.
‘Beautiful she thought, nothing between us!’
He wanted her to relax, to let him in. She waited and when he looked up he saw she was crying, she kissed him, “We’ll never do this again for the first time Harold!”
Then she relaxed and slid down onto him. Her tightness, her heat! He was so turned on he all but came as he speared up into her. Perhaps she sensed this, impaled she sat on his thighs, utterly still, giving him time, with him deep, deep inside her.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” she whispered and he realised she’d known, sensed how desperately close he was.
She was amazed at her self control. She was so desperate for that sweet cock of his. Desperate for release. So long since she’d felt this sweet fullness. Perhaps this was the first time it had felt really right. And here she sat still, with him buried inside her.
Finally, “I’m OK, … God but I was so close, … I’m sorry!”
“Shhh …” she whispered and raised herself. Ecstacy as he slid slowly out of her, inch by sweet inch until only the head of his cock remained inside. She paused and then lowered herself, taking him all inside again. Three times she did this, loving the filling and emptying. The beautiful pull and push of velvet tenderness.
She scrambled off him, hearing the wet slap as his cock flicked against his belly. She grabbed his hand in hers and literally dragged him towards the bedroom. Climbing onto the bed she knelt on all fours, her ass up and begging. Before he could get onto the bed she dropped down onto her elbows, cocking her ass still higher … her whole body now beckoning to him, robe up around her shoulders. The pose proclaimed her lust, a silent cry to him, for him.
The cutaway of the pantyhose now framed the spread cleavage of her ass, the dainty star of her anus, the pout of her pussy. She was fuck incarnate. She knew it. This was for him, for her.
Harold scrambled up behind her and simply plunged himself into her. She screamed, joy, not pain, as he entered. ‘So deep, so God-damned deep!’ Her body had been screaming for this since the moment her pussy had hit that handrail.
No play now, no endearments … they just fucked. Each desperately using the other, using, using. His hips slammed her ass as he fought towards release, driving her face and shoulders into the pillows. Flesh slapped flesh. Belly against buttocks, thighs against thighs. Both sobbing and gasping. He came first, a hoarse cry with each spurt, thighs, buttocks, his whole body taking her. Then, while his cock still pulsed and swelled, pulsed and swelled inside her, Monica’s orgasm rippled and ripped through her. Her vagina milking his cock like a thirsty puppy. Finally he collapsed over on top of her, marvelling at the tremors and spasms still rippling inside her.
When she woke, his limp cock was nestled wetly between her thighs. They’d rolled onto their sides and were now lying spooned, his hand held her breast. She lay listening to his soft breathing and trying to control her full bladder.
Carefully she squirmed off the bed trying not to wake him. She stood looking down at him, her hand cupping the slippery wetness between her legs. His wetness, and hers.
He stirred and looked up at her. She clamped her knees together, “Gotta go!” He watched her hobble to the door. Ass and pantyhose! Oh that ass! Falling in love doesn’t take long.
That evening he drove over with the first carload of his stuff. Her panties, washed and dried, were tucked into the pocket of his clean shirt. She’d phoned him while he packed, “Don’t forget them, I’ve only got the one pair.”
On the dash were the tapes. Maybe they’d make another movie together tonight or maybe next week … they had forever now.
If you would like to read more of Julius’ sexy stories go here.
Julius says this about himself: “ I love writing what I call smut, been writing it for years. Sometimes, to me anyway, written erotica is more arousing than visual. If others get a charge from my stories, that’s a bonus. So, let me know what you think of a story, good or bad. I promise to reply.”