“Jack! Fancy seeing you here.”
The awkward moment of one-way recognition fell upon us. I’d been walking in a daze past a small pub tucked away in a row of houses. The woman who’d stood up from a table, where a friend of hers sat scrolling through her phone after glancing my way without much interest, was about ten years older than myself, wearing a black cardigan over a red shirt, a black skirt and black boots, drab office attire that gave the impression of a strong, curvy body, but an outfit that wouldn’t have been out of place at a funeral. She stepped across the grass and onto the pavement.
“You’re all grown up!”
Now she was stood directly front of me, blocking the path but in the kindest way possible, I remembered her as my sister’s friend, one of a group of girls ranging from seven to nine years older than myself who’d flitted in and out my teenage brain over a decade ago, each conjuring up varied scenarios of sexual conquest. Each had offered my ravenous libido something to focus on while I locked myself in the bathroom and whacked myself off.
I was still grasping for her name. I remembered her as the loud one of the group, the one who seemed to elicit the most laughs from her peers, the one who developed physically before the rest and who I remembered would chat naturally and brazenly to my dad while the other skulked and giggled behind her. What escaped me was her name. I was saved by the mousy girl at the table.
“Kirsty. Neil’s got to go a job. I’m on the school run. Sorry, babe.”
They pecked each other cheeks and said that they’d see each other on Monday. Before her friend left, she rubbed Kirsty’s arm and said, “Anything you need, I’m there. Bye gorgeous.” She hadn’t said it quietly, it seemed as though it was said for my benefit, as though she were warning me to tread carefully, that in during our break in contact, something heavy had happened. I usually switch off when my sister starts talking. I found myself wishing that I’d listened more. I could remember my mum’s consoling noises when Kirsty had come up during their interminable catch-up conversations in the kitchen.
“Want to grab a drink, Jack?” Kirsty asked me.
I was out for a walk, research papers spread across my desk while my flatmate made a racket cleaning the flat in one of his OCD spells that came about whenever work stress overwhelmed him. The thought of returning to the sound of the vacuum cleaner and sharp, overpowering smell of detergent quashed the fact that I felt a little conscious of drinking with one of my sister’s friends with whom I had little to no personal connection.
“A drink sounds great.”
I went and ordered myself a beer and a white wine for Kirsty. Through the windows I saw her checking her makeup in a pocket mirror before turning her attention to her phone. When I returned, she was furiously texting someone.
“Are you telling Becca?” I said with a grin.
She smiled but beneath it I could sense that her teeth were clenched together. “I’m texting my solicitor. My pig of an ex-husband has…oh, it doesn’t matter.” She raised her glass. “Cheers! And don’t worry, I think we’re old and ugly enough to have a drink together without me telling her. At least straightaway.”
“Well, you don’t look old or ugly at all. You look fantastic.”
“Divorce suits me, I guess. You look well. Are you still playing water polo?”
“On and off.”
“I tried to take up swimming, but these bloody things,” she said, indicating her large breasts, “are such a nuisance. I’ve scratched off running, swimming. I nearly knocked myself doing an inversion in yoga.”
I laughed. “Maybe cycling? If you crash, they might save you from serious damage.”
“They’re a bloody nuisance.”
“I bet they have their plus points.”
“Hmm. I can assure that they do.”
“Sorry to hear about your divorce. I think — I’m sure my sister said something. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s shit — was shit. But now I’m so grateful it happened. You can only waste so much time before you realise what you’re doing. I’m done with him and that relationship. Now I focus on making myself happy. I do what I want to do.”
“That’s a good attitude.”
This was perhaps the longest we’d spoken, and with her declaration of her newly forged independent spirit we lapsed into an impasse. In the past we’d only exchanged pleasantries, or more to the point, I’d blushed and grumbled hello as my sister and her friends had collected at our house to put on their makeup and do karaoke before going out. I remembered how I used to spy on them when they sunbathed in the garden during summer heatwaves, trying my hardest to commit their bodies to memory before dashing off the toilet and locking myself in. I remembered her as the large-chested one with the short hair and the widest hips of them all; she still met that definition. I was now taller than her, even in her heels, and her hair was still short but now clipped fashionably to a slanting line below her ear isveçbahis yeni giriş lobe.
“I think that Becca told me you’re finishing up your studies.”
“That’s right.”
We chatted through another drink as it became chilly. I told her about my studies and the looming worry that years and years of studious effort and dedication to textbooks and lectures had left me in no way prepared for the actual world of work. She talked unenthusiastically about her job in real estate, so our conversation about careers petered out. The link that connected us, my sister, wasn’t strong enough to sustain anything beyond these drinks. In fact, I thought I could sense some irritation in her by the way her eyes darted to the other men in the beer garden, as though wondering whether she could’ve been enjoying herself with them rather than her sister’s awkward younger brother. We sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us seemingly wondering for a polite way to say goodbye.
“I’m off for a wee,” she said.
I thought that she we would wrap things up when she came back and was actually keen to return to the work that I’d promised myself I’d finish that evening so I could go to water polo in the morning without what was unfinished distracting me. Yet when she returned, she was still wearing her jacket, but there was a difference which took me only a second to comprehend: she’d opened the buttons of her shirt, so that I could clearly see her cleavage and the frilly edge of a black bra. She looked around the punters at the other tables and finished her drink with cool detachment, as though revealing the tops of her breasts were the most natural thing as a cold spring night moved in. She noticed me glancing there as I downed the dregs of my drink.
“Oops,” she said, “looking down. I’m all on show.” But she made no move to do up the buttons. “Are they distracting?”
“They are.”
This exchange lasted fifteen seconds, but in that brief time the vibe between us had altered completely. I suddenly felt pent up, twitchy. My cock was awake. I could smell her perfume and her lips now looked tremendously full and the look in her eyes was intense and lustful. The night of the drinkers became muffled as we focused intently on each other. We said nothing but gave each knowing looks. I longer tried to hide my glances at her chest. She edged her chest forward an inch, allowing me even more of a view.
“I remember you were a shy boy, very handsome buy very shy. Are you still shy?”
“Less so. I don’t think you’ve ever been shy.”
“I get nervous, but I’m happy to put myself out there.”
“I can see that.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Do you fuck many of the girls on your course?”
“Not as many as I’d like.”
“Why not?”
“I think I lack the chat.”
“So, you’re always waiting for the woman to do the work, chat you up and let you fuck her brains out?”
“I suppose so. It’s not working out very well.”
“No, and it never will. Tell me,” she said, leaning across the table and lowering her voice. “What would you like to do right now? Be truthful.”
And there it was, the question to which my response would decide where this was really going. With lust for her coursing through me, I took her hand in mine and stroked it, moving over the finger where he wedding ring had been just a few months ago. “I’d love to kiss her and feel your body. I think you so very sexy.”
She gave me a single kiss before saying, “You can do better than that. Tell me what you want to do.”
I felt myself redden. “I want you to suck my cock.”
“What are we sixteen?”
“I want to taste your cunt.”
“Better.”
“I want to suck and lick those tits and shove my dick deep inside you and cum over your sexy lips.”
“Which lips?”
“Huh?”
“I’m playing. Would I only be the only one of your sister’s friends you’ve fucked?”
“What do you think?”
She drew small circle with the index finger of her right hand over her left breast. “The truth is this: I’m horny as fuck. Your handsome and I want to show you there’s life in me yet.”
“I would love that.”
“Have I turned you on?”
“You have.”
“Are you,” here she paused, doubt rearing up in front of her confidence, but then she said in a firm, controlled voice, “hard?”
“I am.”
“Let’s go get a room.”
And we did. Well, she did. She was the one who drove us to a hotel at the periphery of the city and led us up to a room with a view of the river. She was the one who insisted I open the bottle of wine she’d bought from a convenience store the hotel and pour two glasses while she went to the bathroom. She instructed me to set the mood with the lights, open the curtains wider and try to find a television channel with suitable music. She delivered these instructions with the same calm matter-of-fact tone as competent teacher used when guiding an able and obedient student through something only mildly challenging. isveçbahis giriş I could hear here shuffling around in the bathroom as I completed my tasks. When she opened the bathroom door, the neutral, distanced tone with which she told me what to do was now mirrored in her eyes. She crossed the metres between us and pulled me into her.
We kissed for a few minutes. I spent the time clawing at her large breasts, the largest I’d ever been able to touch, while she rubbed my back muscles, which I could tell she enjoyed by the way to explore the limits of that slab of muscle with her roving fingers. Eventually she pulled away, sucking on my tongue ever so slowly until we parted. She was breathing deeply, sending her breasts up and down. There was now something new in her eye, a glint of power. It was as though she were considering me for the first time in our new surroundings and that she wasn’t entirely sure of what she made of me, but confident that she would find out.
“Undress me,” she said in the tone of a woman who will not take ‘no’ for an answer, the stern teacher having substituted her empathetic peer. Obliging, I removed her cardigan and began unbuttoning her shirt. “Fold it, on the chair.” The enormous ovals of her pale breasts reared up as I wriggled her arms from her sleeves and did as instructed, carefully placing her clothes on the back of one of the room’s chairs. “My skirt.” I worked at the zip beside her hip and dropped to one knee in an effort to pull the material over her wide hips. She was a large woman. There was more to her than perhaps my last two girlfriends put together. I found her full body incredibly exciting, a planet to explore and enjoy rather than wispy things I’d had recently fucked and tired of doing so. She was a three-course whole food feast whereas I’d been snacking on snacks that never really satiated me.
While I was on my knees, she unhooked her bra and dropped it on the chair. Her breasts were larger than I’d imagined, hanging down her stomach a few inches with stretch marks spreading out from their ample undersides. Just lovely. Her nipples were round and firm, as large at the tips of my own thumbs. Her areolae were covered with small pricks and had a large, perfectly round circumference. Mesmerised, I forgot to stand, which was not what intended for me anyway.
“Take off your top and lay down.”
“Yes,” I said in a wispy voice, the first thing I’d uttered in a long time except appreciative whispers about new areas of her bountiful body.
Laying on the coarse carpet, I watched her pull down her black knickers, noticing a white smear on the insides of the black material, and flick them with the toes of her large right foot past my head. She positioned herself over me, looming above me like a monolith with two blimps swaying ripe and heavy.
“I’m going to fuck you face and you’re going to lick my cunt.”
She lowered herself slowly. Her pent-up smell reached me seconds before she sealed herself onto my waiting mouth. She settled her sex onto me; my mouth and nose seemed to be absorbed into her slick wetness.
“Yes,” she groaned. She placed her knees beside my head and began to move herself hips back and forth in slow, gliding movements. “Lick me. Lick all of me there.” And she asked rhetorically: “Does it take good? Taste that sweet cunt. Yes.”
With my mouth occupied, I groaned in acknowledgement and did as I was told, reaching my tongue all around her cunt, enjoying her warmth and rich metallic taste. Her movements gathered speed and soon she was hunched forward so that her breasts were hanging above my head. I reached for them but swatted my hands away and replaced them by my side.
“Not yet,” she said in a panting voice. “Make me cum and you can. Just carry on like that. Lick that cunt. Lick me.”
As if responding to her own commands she began to move more furiously until she was grinding herself across the lower part of my face. It was as though she were shedding all her built-up emotions and frustrations on me while pleasuring herself. We’d talked fairly intimately at the pub, sharing information about our tentatively connected lives, yet I felt as though I could have been anyone at that moment in time and, consequently, curiously detached from who I was. Was I lapping hurriedly at her wet cunt, or was her wet cunt lapping hurriedly at me? My neck and the base of my tongue hurt from the strain, and my body ached for her to touch me somewhere. I needed to please her so that she might see me as more than the warm-blooded shape of a man beneath her body, a hungry mouth and a rock-hard cock. Yet she continued to grind her cunt across my now completely smeared face. Her back arched more and more so I as she slid forward so that tongue slipped into her tight asshole. She ground her hips downward so that my tongue penetrated her hole. I gagged on the musky release, a whimper of suffering which only caused her to push harder so that my whole face was enveloped and breathing suddenly isveçbahis güvenilirmi impossible.
She was using my face the way I’d once used an ex-flatmate’s knickers: as an object for sexual gratification. I’d spied them in the dirty clothes basket. After smelling the crotch while stroking my swelling cock, I wrapped them around the base of my cock and masturbated furiously until I came all over them. I placed them back in the clothes basket. They were a means to end, discardable, forgotten about as quickly as the urge to pick them from amongst the socks and t-shirts.
She was still plugging my face. My muscles tensed from the panic induced by a lack of oxygen. She relented and lifted her hips for a moment, just long enough for me to take two gasping breaths before she resettled the warm liquids folds of her pussy over my mouth. I could feel her fingertips tapping against my chin as she worked her big clit. She grinded herself onto my face faster and faster, not as fast as the rhythm of her fingertips but fat enough to generate the sound of her wetness smacking the angles of my nose and chin. Soon her thighs tensed up, trapping my head in place so that I could barely hear a thing except her muffled groans. She fell forward and convulsed and trembled and whimpered. A hot release of liquid trickled down the sides of my face and down my throat. I felt her body shudder, which caused her to clamp down even more on my head.
“Fuck,” she whispered. She groaned and made a few final glides across my face as I felt the final tremors move through her body, each one a beat farther from the last.
Eventually she slid from me and sat back on the bed while working her hands around her cunt and occasionally up to her breasts, slowly, almost in slow motion after the sexual madness she dipped into. I became aware of her foot tapping across the floor, like a hand searching for something to do in the dark. I realised what I was supposed to do: I took her toes in my mouth and sucked at them, tasting the musky soles of her shoes while staring up the edge of the bed and listening to the groans of the woman out of sight. She switched feet.
We remained like for some time. She eventually pulled her foot away and stood up. Drinking directly from the wine bottle, she looked down at me on the floor as though I were a bag of shopping to be put away. While liberated from eating her pussy, when my tongue had been between her toes, I’d taken the opportunity to release my cock and had been slowly pumping it. Precum had matted the hair beneath my bellybutton. She kicked away my hand and placed the sole of her right foot on my shaft.
“That’s enough of that,” she said, placing the bottle down with a thud.
She placed her feet either side of my shoulders and grin with one side of her mouth. She released a trickle of her piss onto my chest and stomach. She rubbed at her clit which sent clear beads of her urine raining onto my face and hair. Its warmth surprised me, shocked me. Initially I felt insulted, then I was even more aroused. She finished, took her piss-wetted fingers and shoved them between my lips.
“Such a handsome boy,” she said, looking down at her damp plaything who was sucking her piss of her fingers, the man she’d chosen to restate herself as a strong, desirable women who would no longer be fucked around. I don’t think she pissed on me for sexual pleasure but rather to see if she could. She knew I would acquiesce, that I was a safe bet, as mild as her husband had been domineering, as trustful as he’d been wayward. And truth was, I was loving it, specifically the sheer filth of it, the scent of her piss on my skin, the taste of her deepest innards on my tongue and the fact that any eager eyed passer-by could watch a tall, muscular man being led through this depravity by a powerful woman bent on making up for years of submission.
“Sit on the chair.”
Her liquids and my sweat had left a darkened ring around my body. I sat on the coarse fibres of the room’s only chair as she knelt in front of me.
“Put your hands here,” she said, indicating the arm rests, “and don’t move them. Let me have a proper look at your cock.”
She pulled it toward her and glanced at it from all angles. “Very nice. Not bad for my sister’s little brother. You’ve definitely grown up.”
“Thank you.”
“Nice to see a man with hair down there. I got sick of fucking a Ken doll.”
She leaned forward and took a long, drawn smell of my member, running her nose up and down my shaft and finally resting her nose in the soft, wrinkled folds of my scrotum.
“Musky. That’s one thing I’ve definitely missed. The smell of cock. You smell good. Let’s see.”
She peeled back my foreskin. A fat goblet of precum sprung from the tip. She dabbed her thumb into it and then made small circles around the back of my swollen head. “Hmm. You like that, don’t you? So, what did you do after spying on us? Did you go and play with yourself?”
“Yes. I went into the toilet right away. I couldn’t control myself.”
“Did you think about me as you wanked this heavy thing?”
“I did.”
“Liar! I bet you thought about Kelly’s cute body and her perky tits. Be honest.”
“I thought about you all. I thought — think — your tits are amazing.”