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“Fuck is that the time, I have to go” he said pushing back the sheet and climbing quickly out of the hotel bed.
“Why, what’s the hurry?” I asked sitting up my full tits flopping around all over the place.
“Oh bugger,” he said as he caught his fingernails on the bathroom door. “I er, um, promised my son I would pop in this evening.”
“What for, it’ll be very late?”
“Yes I know, but I promised.”
I got up and walked naked over to the bathroom where he was showering. He was working hard with a flannel, almost scrubbing himself. I didn’t think any more of that and returning to the bedroom, I poured myself a drink from the mini bar. Just because he was leaving didn’t mean I had to, after all he had paid for the room.
He came back and started gathering his clothes together. I went up to him and put my arms round his neck. We kissed, his soft cock felt odd against me, for I usually only felt it pressed against my stomach when it was rock hard. We squirmed our bodies together my tits feeling great squashed against his firm, hairy chest. I slid my hand between us and held his cock, it started to grow.
“Are you really sure you have to go?” I asked as the heat of arousal flooded through me.
He was sure, so I had to rid myself of that arousal the best I could alone.
Unpacking new lingerie and feeling it is almost as arousing as putting it on for the first time. So, as I unwrapped the burgundy coloured bra and thong from the luxurious Jane Regar cellophane and tissue wrapping I was starting to feel those familiar sensations. As I removed the two garments and held them in my hands, I could feel a throbbing starting in the pit of my stomach. I ran the lace waistband of the thong across my bare breasts catching it on my erect nipple. I stroked the silk gusset across the swell of my breasts, imagining his mouth doing that, very soon now. I let the thong fall down my body and nestle in my lap on top of the landing strip of dark, but not as black as my long unruly head hair, pubic hairs.
It felt nice resting on that so sensitive skin on my inner thighs. I stroked it with my fingertips and ran it up and down my closed thighs. I started to pant a little as my other hand found my breast. I squeezed the double D+ mound and pinched the nipple, sending lovely feelings through me. I eased one of the lace cups onto one of my breasts. It was nice and snug, just as I like it, and was cut low so that it almost showed the edge of my areola. I stood up, dropping the thing to the floor and walked over to the full-length mirror.
‘Not bad for forty three’ I thought looking at my OK body, dominated by what most men, and a few ladies, called my great tits. I liked them too. I got the bra into place and reached round and did up the clasp. Naked apart from the deep burgundy, diaphanous silk and lace bra I thought I looked good and contemplated opening the door to him like that. Smiling I rejected the idea on the grounds that ‘It’s more interesting with more to take off.”
I slipped into the thong. It really was tiny and so delicate hardly covering even the narrow patch of hair that remained to ‘reduce friction’ when fucking, or so the magazines say, but not in as many words. I turned and looked over my shoulder. Ok the bum’s a bit big, but hell my hips are only thirty seven so it aint that of a BBW. Full, ample, rounded, curved, slightly Rubenesque, nice and wobbly are all epithets that have been used to describe it. And the thong looked great vanishing from view between the cheeks.
Did I have time to masturbate I thought, my entire body tingling from the lovely feelings of the lingerie? I wanted to, badly and I knew it might actually help when he got here for he gets me aroused so much and so quickly that I often cum before he’s even taken my panties off.
I undid the packaging of the stockings and took them out. Fuck they felt lovely, so soft and smooth, long and slender, lacy and nylon. I brushed them across my waist, the tops of my boobs, my bum and my legs, that felt good, but my eye caught my watch. ‘Shit he’ll be here in ten minutes, I have to hurry” I thought realising that solved the ‘to wank or not to wank’ question.
I slid my legs into the luxuriant material and wiggled them as I looked over my shoulder in the mirror to make sure the seams were straight. I pulled the lacy tops with the circle of rubber on the inside up high and tight. The dark nylon made my slightly chubby thighs look slimmer, that was good. I was ready, well apart from the long black, flowing, lacy robe I was going to wear to open the door.
My mobile rang. It was him. My heart sank. I pressed the disconnect and flung the phone down. “Fuck the bastard” I said out loud “He’s not coming.”
“This is getting daft,” I said as his fingers slid inside my bra.
“What is?” He replied finding my nipple and pinching quite hard, just as I like it.
“Doing this in the car all the time.”
“Well we can’t go to your apartment can poker oyna we with your sister there?”
“No but why not yours?”
“I’ve told you Tina, it’s a grubby little bedsit, you wouldn’t like it and I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking you there.”
“Jerry, I really wouldn’t mind, I don’t feel that comfortable doing it in the car all the time.”
“Tina, just as soon as I can sort out a few more things with Clare I’ll get a nice flat and we can go there.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last two months, ever since we started going out.”
“I know darling,” he said kissing me, and wiggling over the centre console so we were both on the fortunately quite large front seat of his Mercedes. “But things will change soon”
His tongue slid deep into my mouth as just at the same time he pushed his hand up my skirt. I wasn’t wearing tights and his fingers felt good on the bare skin of my inner thigh.
“I do hope so” I groaned as his fingers rested on my panties right by my clit. He was so good at finding my hot spots. He pressed and my body jerked. He rubbed and my body jumped even more. He wiggled his fingers downwards trying to get between my closed thighs. I didn’t move and he pushed harder.
“No, we can’t”
“Yes Tina, we can,” he said taking hold of the waist of my panties and pulling
“We shouldn’t not here.”
“We can, we have before it’s safe,” he said as he pushed harder and let his erection press against my hip. It felt so good. I felt him moving and heard his zip being undone. He took my hand and pressed it against his bare cock. I jumped and gasped. It was so hard, warm, round, long, thick and throbbing. I wanted it badly. He pulled harder, I stayed where I was.
“Come on darling, you know you want me,” he whispered, his mouth by my ear, his tongue licking me as he thrust his cock into the surrogate cunt I was making with my hand.
He put both hands up my skirt, which was now bunched almost round my waist and took hold of my panties.
“Please Tina, you have got me so worked up,” he said thrusting even harder in my hand the top of his cock rubbing on my leg.
Slowly, somewhat reluctantly, but with high anticipation about the fuck that was about to happen, I raised my bottom from the leather seat so that he could take my knickers off.
It was simply sublime, a perfect afternoon, a period of wonderment.
We had a light lunch in an Italian restaurant sharing a bottle of Chianti and enjoying the beautifully prepared pasta. We chatted easily about a whole range of topics and although our eyes sent strong messages to the other we did nothing more overtly sexual than that. That is unless you call the light-hearted flirting the two of us did with the Italian waiters, overt. We didn’t and I don’t think they did either. It was quite refreshing to be having a romantic lunch without a foot in my crotch or a man’s fingers all over my hands.
We caught a cab to Cassie’s flat in Shoreditch. It only took a few minutes from the restaurant near Victoria Park, which is close to where the Olympic stadium and other buildings are going up so quickly. That is an awesome sight.
We held hands in the cab; I don’t think the cabbie saw, but he may have done, who cares? We didn’t by then.
Once in the Hoxton Square loft apartment that Cassie and her long term partner Mike bought before either, lofts or Hoxton were fashionable, Cassie offered me a drink. I didn’t need one and neither did she. Women don’t seem to need the effects of alcohol to diminish their inhibitions.
She took my hand and led me up the staircase to the open mezzanine floor which contains just a large, low bed and a small shower room and toilet in the corner. When I first started visiting Cassie and Mike, I found it odd that he would go to bed yet could and would still join in our conversation.
Cassie was wearing dark blue leggings and one of those awfully fashionable things that are partly a long, mid-thigh length blouse and partly a short dress. It was pale blue, with white trimmings, lace round the collar and buttons up the front. I was wearing blue jeans, tucked into black, patent leather, knee high boots, a white tee shirt and a blue vee kneck cashmere sweater with a black leather jacket on top.
Standing beside the bed, we said nothing, but simply looked at each other. There was none of the rough and tumble groping there normally is with men, none of the, almost, tearing at clothes and none of the running hands all over each other’s body. No, like two sophisticated and well behaved grown ups, we simply undressed. Yes, of course we ogled each other. I enjoyed seeing Cassie undo the shirt dress and confirm her lack of bra. I revelled in pulling the sweater and tee over my head in one go and watching her eyes feast on my boobs, which were encased in a see through bra that really was a last year model for it was only a DD and not the plus or E that I really needed. My heart started to pound as she slid her leggings off canlı poker oyna and stood before in just a pair of dark blue, lacy shorts. I slipped out of my boot and jeans and loved seeing her eyes roam up and down my bare legs taking in the little white, cotton thong.
We stopped for a moment or two as we sort of reacquainted ourselves with the other’s body; it had been some time since we had slept together.
Cassie is slightly older than me, by a year or so, and really, we’re a pair of contrasts physically. Whereas I am slightly taller than average at five seven, she’s beneath the norm at just over five feet two or so. She’s slim, I’m rounded, I have long, black hair with a couple of greying streaks, hers is short, straight and blonde. I have heavy facial features, a largish nose, prominent cheeks, full lips and and prominent cheek bones, she’s delicate and rather angular. I have big tits, she’s got little ‘uns, she has dark, almost brown areola and nipples, mine are coral pink. So physically we are quite different, but emotionally we are like twins. Oh yes I also wear glasses and she doesn’t
Oh there’s one other key difference, she has a long term partner Mike, a Slavic looking Adonis of a man, I’m a divorced, single woman. We are both bisexual.
She is my dearest friend. I have known for some time and before my divorce the four of us spent a lot of time together. They sided with me when I split from my husband and they were heavily involved in my ‘recovery’ from the disaster of him finding me in bed with a woman. The fact that he had been fucking every little tart he could get his hands on and cock in for years didn’t seem to affect his ‘disgust’ at me having sex with another female.
They were involved to the extent that when they saw I was unable to forge a relationship with men after having been let down so badly by my bastard of a husband, they even helped me there. Cassie lent Mike to me and we slept together. Since then, with Mike’s full knowledge and blessing, Cassie and I meet and have sex every couple of months or so.
She smiled at me. “Come on darling, let’s go to bed.”
We both removed our knickers and lay on bed. We sort of melted into each other’s arms our bodies moulding together into one mass of tingling, sensitive female flesh with my oversized tits engulfing her darling little boobs.
As usual, our lovemaking was gentle, relaxed, calm and patient. We helped each other build up gradually to our orgasms holding, cuddling and comforting when needed and coaxing, caressing and urging when appropriate. We slithered round the bed altering our positions to suit the circumstances. Mouths were filled with nipples, hands went between legs, fingers were warmed and soaked as they were buried inside the other’s body.
We stroked, we rubbed, we kissed, we licked and we sucked. We found lips, chins, heads, necks, chests and bodies. We anointed the others breasts and we ducked downward satisfying ourselves with the ultimate of lesbian delights as our faces went between willingly opened legs. We supped on the fruits of female pleasure that our partners secreted for us and we gloried in the almost continual orgasms we provided for each other.
There was no hurry and no urgency. We didn’t have to rush away, no one was demanding we be home, there was no ‘little wife’ angrily waiting for anyone. It was just Cassie and I, me and Cassie, us, two lovers luxuriating in the pleasure of each other.
I guess I have always been bisexual. But then I think everyone probably is given the right circumstances. There’s hardly a woman I know who, at the right time and in the right place and with the right person would not indulge. I mean, all the time women walk around arm in arm, we kiss and embrace more readily than men and we dance together at parties. You can hardly go to a club without seeing girls involved in what, at the least is, heavy petting and the papers, books, films and TV are full of it. Lessy action is the vogue.
Obviously, the need to be machismo and the stronger social conditioning imposed on men reduces their bisexual activities, but then think of the ancient Greeks and Romans, when there was no conditioning! A quick google on gay saunas tells you something, but I won’t dwell on changing the other gender, mine is enough.
I’ve played around with my sexuality since I was a kid at uni. My involvement with women has ebbed and flowed with the success, or otherwise of my marriage. Since that failed, so my interest in, and involvement with women, has increased.
The above three episodes with men and the one with Cassie should be saying something. They are to me. And that is I’ve had it up to here with men. I now say fuck ’em and I am going to try to lead a man free lifestyle.
But what is that? What does it mean?
The above events happened over the last year or so. They are not just examples of my clear inabilities to pick men effectively, but also of my gullibility, I really do believe them internet casino when they say they are separated or ‘My wife doesn’t understand me.’
They also illustrate how easily I fall and how, under my solid pillar of the middle class respetability, lays a rather low moralled old biddy. I would never have believed during my fifteen or so years of marriage when, with one exception, I was totally faithful just how easily my knickers come off now I am single again. But then isn’t that supposed to be the case with forty something divorcees, aren’t we all supposed to be gagging for it? Aren’t the men who pay such attention to us, when their wives aren’t looking of course, so caring, just helping us overcome the frustrations that they know we are suffering from; they’re providing a service really aren’t they?
I gave up dating. It was a waste of time in any case. I couldn’t stand being dependent on anyone again, not after the way I became so on my husband. I couldn’t let myself become emotionally entangled with a man. But I do want sex. But I don’t want sex with the sort of man I meet, usually married, but ‘living separate lives.’ Yeah right, I can now say. Late forties or early fifties, just on the sexual wane, so most aren’t much good in any case. Has to get home, so fits me in between meetings or rounds of golf, usually at a hotel or sometimes in his car.
It gives me such guilt and remorse. I need to feel something, other than a hard cock, when I have sex. I need to involve my emotions, but I can’t let go enough to do that yet. And that’s a bloody good job really given the jerk off merchants I tend to attract.
What a fucking great big Catch 22!
I’ve stopped going to places and doing things that bring me into contact with men. I’ve left the tennis club. The temptation with some of the younger guys was just too much. I know full well that if I feel a lot of remorse and guilt on being fucked by a fifty year old it will be so much worse if I go with an eighteen year old stud. But by Christ seeing them parading their youthfully taught, tanned bodies in their shorts and tees and eyeing me up in my low cut top and tennis skirt, the temptation is incredible. I have resisted so far, but as I have recently been trying to kid myself that a quick fuck or two with teenager is different, my resistance is weakening. So I left.
I only play golf with women. I drop out of all mixed comps and don’t enter, even with three other girls, open competitions at other clubs where during the day and evening I will be in men’s company.
I rarely visit the agencies that provide me with work, unless the client is a woman that is, but that’s rare, advertising is a bit of a male bastion.
It’s always been awkward going and taking briefs. My client typically is a Creative Director or Copy Chief. They tend to be young, late twenties and early thirties being the norm. The scenario is: I’m female, single, a divorcee and ‘older’ woman and I want work. They’re male, single or not, doesn’t matter, they have work. The unsaid, but implied message often is what will I do to get that work?
Yes it’s a bit tongue in cheek and I have never actually given a sexual favour to gain work, but it’s the game female freelancers in the ad business have to play.
Actually, it is the fucking games I have to play as much as the guilt and remorse about being shagged in a hotel room or finger fucked in a car that gets on my tits. It’s hearing the reasoning, the excuses, the assertions and the lies that slip so easily from actual or potential lover’s mouths.
It’s having to pretend that I believe such bollocks as:
‘We both agree we only stay together for the kids.’
‘My wife has no interest in sex, we don’t sleep together anymore.’
‘I can’t make it weekends, I do charity work.’
‘I can’t stay the night, I have to sleep in my own bed, it’s my back.’
Yes ok I’m a fool to fall for it in the first place, but then single, forty something women tend to be fools that way.
So avoiding men is hard. I do try though. Hmmmm it’s not that easy, particularly if you have even a modicum of a sex drive as I do and especially if you have large tits like I also do. Most ‘full breasted’ women will confirm that those big jugs are like fucking magnets. Men seem to assume that because a woman is ‘well endowed’ she has a high need for sex, probably a rather loose attitude to those she has it with and how often she needs it. That, and the inflated mounds of flesh, creates the honey pot, men become the bees.
When I was married, I probably had sex, with my husband, three times week, which is a lot of fucking to miss. Alright, there are toys and fingers, but they aren’t enough. Even for someone like me who doesn’t want to be emotionally entangled with men, sex needs to be rather more than a vibrating, plastic tube or looking at white painted nails as the fingertips under them rotate that wonderfully sensitive piece of gristle.
And of course with men off the radar screen I have to turn elsewhere to get those tender touches, gentle strokes and loving kisses that turn ‘having sex’ into ‘making love.’ And there is only one place to turn for that and that, of course, is other women.
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