skirt

Jet lag can be a killer but it can also be a giver. If John McClane hadn’t been fighting his jet lag in the corporate bathroom, he would have been rounded up with the others and the Die Hard franchise would have been snuffed at birth. Yippee-Ki-Yay mother hubbard!



I’d been burning the candle not at both ends but burning it twice as fast on the work end. No work/life balance and spending another late night at the office the day before the red eye to Tokio. The saving grace being I would arrive on a Sunday and get a night’s sleep before my day with prospective clients.



Comfortable flight, but again I’m on my laptop for most of it so not topping up my sleep tank and by touchdown I’ve slept six hours in the last 48. Not good. Check-in is a blur at the hotel and no sooner in the key in the door than the sheets are back off the bed and I’m enveloped in Japanese linen which smothers me into unconsciousness.



As a result, I oversleep and when my bleary eyes focus on the clock, there’s less than an hour before I’m due in an office ten blocks away. I ring down to reception to ask for a taxi and there’s nothing to be had for another hour. With the sublime politeness that the Japanese have, the receptionist asks me where I’m trying to get to and then tells me that a super efficient public bus service will leave in twenty minutes from outside the hotel and stops within five minutes of my destination.



A hurried shower and as few clothes as I can get away with the combat the heat and the potential running around I’ll have to do and I’m barrelling out of the hotel doors and joining a queue clambering through the rear doors to board a spotlessly clean bus.



It’s only after the doors close and we set off that I realise that every other person on this bus is in a uniform. At least they’re all of a reasonably mature age and I won’t have to endure erupting acne or the tinny zizz of badly insulated headphones.



Instead, this group were texting and smart phone surfing their social media fingers off. I was on the wrong bus. In my overslept haste I had jumped on the wrong bus. This one was, according to the signs, on a bus bound for Tokio university.



I hadn’t managed to get a seat so I slumped against a pole to do my own smart phone surfing. Not for social media but for a map to see where I was going and then to send an email to my hosts, begging their forgiveness, patience and hoping that this was not the sort of dishonour that would cause anyone to lose face. Or any other bodily part.



Now that I knew that I was heading further and further away from my destination, and that this bus didn’t stop again before it got there in over an hour’s time, I called base (forgetting the time difference) and shared my shame. All in all, it seemed best to re-schedule the whole day’s worth of meetings for tomorrow and start again.



Today was my own and I could do as I pleased so I decided to explore wherever it was that I got to before trying to find a taxi that could take me to back to the city centre and preferably to some sort of baths or spa where I could steam out my frustrations and get a pummelingly good massage.



Once I had hung up, the young student nearest me turned her beautiful Asian face to my chest and asked if I was alright. Her English was faultless, albeit with an American dialect. Certainly better than my Japanese, which was non-existent.



So I explained my mistake and cause and my companion made all the giggles, smiles and blushes that you would expect from an excruciatingly polite and shy Asian damsel. Being the best part of a foot taller than her, in order to be heard she moved closer. And with the aforementioned height difference, that put her head just below my jaw and in order to maintain eye contact, I was obliged to look down and as a result look down the gap in her browse to enjoy the sight of pink lace wrapped jiggly womanliness. The jiggliness coming courtesy of the bus’ suspension, despite the pool table smooth tarmac.



Now that the ice was broken and the distance between us closed, we continued to speak and share life stories and dreams of what she hoped to do after graduation and what I wanted to do next in my career. She was delightful company and being in higher education, her conversation was informed and topical.



As I became engrossed in our chat, my Neanderthal brain was soaking up her appearance. About 5’2″ as I said but at a guess, I’d say size 8 and a generous 34B. She was dressed, as I mentioned in a blouse, which happened to be crisp white to the point of appearing starched with too many buttons undone to be decorous. Neanderthal man was grateful for the high humidity in Tokio for that. And below the waist was a pleated, plaid skirt. Although clearly having left school some years ago and above the age of consent, she had opted for the schoolgirl look, complete with knee high socks and Mary Jane pumps. Neanderthal man was grateful was odd Oriental predilections.



As smooth as the tarmac was and as efficient as the bus’ suspension was, there was undoubtedly forces at work that were determined to rub a twenty-something’s nubile body up against mine. This made it very hard. Hard to concentrate on our conversation and hard to conceal just how hard all of this was making me.



This was embarrassing enough but in my pursuit of combating the humidity, I had sacrificed any form of underwear and the fabric of my trousers was closer to a lightweight linen than a sturdy worsted. As a result, blood engorged flesh snaked down the leg of my trousers and made a distinct manprint.



A manprint that stoked its length against the thigh of my travelling companion and drew pleasure from the encounter. Subconsciously or not, this self same companion continued to rub herself against me and if I’m not mistaken, she was actually spreading those thighs so that the throbbing, rubbing trouser snake was clamped against her skirt and jammed into the apex.



With a flutter of dark, dewy eyes my companion looked up at me and bit her lower lip in a way words can’t describe but which will be imprinted in my memories until the day I die. Or Alzheimer’s robs me of my faculties. Her tiny hand, with perfectly manicured fingers, timidly touched my chest and those nails seem to scratch the cotton of my shirt and my skin beneath tingles and yearns for more.



I clench and unclench my palms, unsure what to do. We’re surrounded by other passengers. If I’ve read the signs wrong, she screams and I get arrested. After that comes a whole world of pain that at best includes deportation. So I continue to talk about what I hope to do with my extra day off and to ask her what there might be at our destination for me to enjoy.



With the look I can’t describe in words, she looks at me again. Or rather, straight through me into my soul. She then asks if I need to wait until I get off the bus before I enjoy myself. Do I not enjoy myself in her company? And as she speaks, her hand runs down my shirt and into my lap. There’s no mistaking her intent as her fingers encircle my almost fully formed erection and stroke it up and down.



My mouth opens and closes, but no words emerge. I succumb to the sensations and a fully fledged erection swells and fills her hand. Finally, I confess that I am enjoying our time together immensely. In fact, if she’s not careful, my enjoyment will climax unceremoniously. As I say the words, I hope that her English will understand the double meaning of my words.



In response, I get the look again and you squeeze closer. Under the cover of my jacket, your hand deftly slides down the zipper of my trousers and reaches inside. When she is wrist deep inside, her hand retraces its grip around my shaft and pulls it to the open fly where she pulls it free.



Her eyes moisten and dilate with desire as she looks at me again and she bites her lip more deeply until I fear that she will draw blood. They remain fixed as she jostles and manoeuvres herself. I am puzzled at first but then I feel fabric against the tip of my penis and those eyes now glint with more mischief.



It now becomes clear what her re-position was intended to achieve. Her skirt drapes over her busy hand which conceals her actions and it would seem that she is rubbing her swollen sex with mine, through the cotton of her panties. My mushroomed crown presses into the creased folds of her labia. The sensation drives me crazy and I start to buck my hips against her until I remember we’re on a crowded bus and restrain myself.



My Asian princess then moves up on tiptoe and places the softest and most fragrant kiss I can recall upon my lips. Then another. And another. And each lasts longer than its predecessor until there is no gap between each and they melt into a passionate onslaught on my senses and desires.



Whilst enraptured in her kiss, her nimble fingers slide down and pull on the waist band of her panties. I feel the band strum against my erection and then I am pressed against warm flesh. She resumes rubbing me against her, her against me but now there is nothing, not a single scrap of material, linen, cotton or nylon between me and full penetration. Not a thing, not even the confining latex of a condom.



The sudden realisation of the situation overwhelms me and my knees briefly buckle until I recover. The movement of recovery makes me thrust up against her. A tiny gasp bursts from her lips as her keep is breached. This is madness, sweet intoxicating madness. A girl at least ten years my junior, in a foreign country, whose name I don’t know, whom I met ten minutes ago, dressed as a college girl, studying for her masters in political science is about to commit the most intimate of personal and tender acts with me. I am one inch out of eight towards being balls deep in her.



Neanderthal man speaks. Not with words but with actions and grips her hips before slamming up and deep, lifting her off of her feet for fractions of a second but on her descent the final penetration is complete and her shaved (who knew?) groin is pressed against mine. Any pretence of normality is gone and I thrust back and forth, now our union sings with slap after slap of flesh on flesh, punctuated by the gasp and moan of her pleasure.



Jet lag. Ninety nine times out of a hundred it’ll rip your face off and spit in the sockets but today jet lag was fated to deliver me to this moment. This perfect moment. Bruce Willis gets to shoot bad guys and blow stuff up, I get to pound my cock through the youngest woman I’ve had in over ten years.



Reality bursts back and I feel exposed when my Asian princess (when would be the appropriate time to ask her name?) moves away and un-sheathes herself from me. She steps down and turns around, pushing her panties all the way off and stepping out of them. She backs up to me and lifts her skirt, making a new revelation as I see her peachy cheeks for the first time.



And then they’re gone again, covered my her skirt as the distance is closed and her velvet gloved pussy admits my steely cock again and those cheeks part and envelope me. Pleasure is restored and we move to make our lovemaking into sounds. Slap, slap, slap, gasp, moan, grunt. On and on with a vigour and stamina I have not felt in years.



My hands reach under her to pull the blouse from her skirt and admit access to what lies beneath. Across her smooth stomach, encountering a small stud in her navel (again, who knew?) until I can pull at the flimsy edges of her bra. It’s a front fastener so it soon yields to my command and delivers its warm, fleshy contents to my eager palms.



This stirs something in my companion and I can feel her pelvic muscles ripple and wriggle around me. A sensation I have never known as I am expertly and deftly milked and squeezed. In response, I cup each breast and caress each nipple as I bring them to proud attention, the areolae around each engorging and stiffening in plump arousal.



Once more, I feel exposed as she ends our union to step away. She turns and kisses me again. I drown in the intoxication of the moment as we explore each other’s mouths. I break momentarily to ask her name. I can’t continue with such anonymity during such an intimate act.



She tells me that her name is Akira and I tell her that my name is Jim. And then she bends in front of me, on her knees and licks my cock. It glistens with the sweet musk of her fluids and she savours each lick and suck and swallows whole. Her nose presses to my groin and her tongue laps at me inside her mouth.



She lubricates the act with her spittle and soon I’m gliding back and forth through a heaven seldom known. Her throat offers brief resistance and it feels as I am actually fucking her face. I have lost track of time and have no idea how much longer until we reach our destination. Which personally speaking, I am all too likely to reach of a more climatic nature soon.



Lust filled eyes lookup at me as she senses a straining and stiffening in my actions. It takes every sinew of self control not to explode in rapture when she mumbles a query (she is talking with her mouth full after all) to enquire if I want to cum in her mouth or inside her.



In response and conscious of the fact that we’re nearly there, I pull her to her feet. She rests her head on my chest and then, in a move a gymnast would envy raises her left leg to grab her ankle and rest it on my shoulder before reaching down to guide my wet, eager, hair-trigger penis back to her labia and to enter sweet nirvana again. Hands grasped on her buttocks and I slam home.



We kiss again and she whispers in my ear to cum inside her now. I submit and comply. This unusual position tautened and tightened her muscles around and within her sex and once more her muscle control rippled and gripped me tightly and expertly squeezed me until sweet ecstasy of ecstasies, I unloaded.



But this was no ordinary ejaculate. My toes curled, my ears sang, my blood pulsed, my senses heightened and I pumped. And pumped. And pumped. And pumped. I kept pumping and discharging my seed into Akira. No thought for precautions or impregnations, only the symphony and desire of the moment.



She bit into my shoulder and whimpered her appreciation of the deed, sighing and moaning with what I now realise was her own orgasm. Panting gave way to deep breaths, gave way to regular breathing and she brought her leg back down again. We kissed once more and she buttoned her blouse back and I slipped my withering manhood back within my trousers.



In bending to retrieve her panties, her peachy cheeks were exposed again and I groaned inwardly at the sight and the memories it brought back already. Before I could raise my zipper she stuffed her panties into my fly and patted them. Saying that she wanted me to have something to remember her by.



There was no way I would not remember this day and the pleasures it had brought. I took a card from my pocket and slipped it into the fabric of her freshly re-clasped bra. I told her that I was staying at the Hilton and I would be delighted to see her again and spend some time together in a more conventional way.



With a huge laboured hiss, the bus pulled to a halt and the passengers threaded out and onto the pavement. Feeling slightly foolish now because she didn’t respond and made no indication of what we had just experienced. In fact, she joined her friends (I assume) and they walked across the concourse.



But just as she was almost out of my eye line, she turned to blow me a kiss and flipped up the back of her skirt to expose those peachy cheeks again. Then she signed the universal gestures for I’ll call you, and disappeared.



Thoughts of exploring this unfamiliar place went out of my head. I needed a drink and a seat to take the weight off. I was working through my third Asahi beer when my cell phone chirped.



“Please don’t rush off, my lectures end at 4 and I would like to travel again on the bus with you. It was very much fun!! Aki xx”



O God, how could I not accept the prospect of time with her again. But that’s another story.

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Copyright jeanne_d_artois June 2010



The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.



This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.



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Laundry Tale Seven: Bustling



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The main attraction of the former laundry room, which is my workroom as a potter, is Martha, the resident ghost. As a child I would sit on the scrubbed table and ask Martha to tell me a story. She always did. When I became an adult, she told me about incidents in the lives of people at the Hall. Each time I became a participant in the story and experienced the events exactly as that person had. This is part of the series of those adult stories. It can be read as a stand-alone story.



One of my regular customers came with an unusual request. She wanted me to produce a porcelain figurine from photographs of one of her Victorian ancestors. I had produced figurines before using standard moulds but I had never tried to produce a realistic likeness of a specific individual. I could reproduce photographs on plates and other pottery items. I had sketched likenesses on to plates before firing. I had moulded full size three-dimensional heads after considerable practice and several initial failures. I ought to be capable of moulding and painting a figurine. I just hadn’t done one.



We discussed a possible price. The customer was willing to pay me a reasonable amount just to try. If I produced a successful figurine, she would want ten copies to distribute to her relations at Christmas. She would pay me at least one hundred pounds for each of them. A thousand pounds would be a very useful sum, covering my basic overheads for at least six months.



She had provided me with several copies of the photographs on paper and a CD of them. One photograph had been hand-coloured. Although it had faded, I could still work out the colours of the lady’s skin, hair and clothes. In every photograph, she was wearing the extreme bustle fashionable in 1885. The dresses varied but the basic shape of the bustle hadn’t.



That evening I sat down at my drafting desk with enlarged prints of the photos spread out. On my sketchpad I had doodled several views for a figurine about twelve inches high. I sat back in my chair, thinking.



I heard Martha’s voice inside my head.



“She’s got a big backside, hasn’t she?”



“It was fashionable then,” I replied. “Not for long. It soon looked ridiculous.”



“I know. They were a pain for the maids to keep in shape. Ironing the dresses was fiddly work.”



“I can appreciate that, Martha. What I can’t see at the moment is how that dress would look in the round. I have several seated pictures from the front, one standing with her body slightly turned, and a couple of her facing straight at the camera. The bustle is obvious because it is wider than her waist but…”



“In your clothes box from The Hall you have a bustle from that era. Why not try it on your mannequin?”



“Why hadn’t I thought of that?”



“That’s why you need me. There is a silk petticoat and I think there are petticoats and a dress that goes over the bustle. Go and get them. I’ll be here when you return.”



I should have been suspicious. I suppose I was too tired to think straight. As a ghost, Martha can be with me anywhere. She doesn’t have to wait for me. She is just a voice in my head even if a voice that can persuade me to experience an alternate reality.



Of course she was right. In my collection of historic clothing from The Hall there was a bustle of the right shape. Next to it was a thick black silk petticoat and two cotton ones, all with added material at the back to cover the bustle. Hanging up in the old wardrobe was a grey serge walking dress. The train was bunched on the floor of the wardrobe. It was very heavy. I draped it around my shoulders as I carried the bustle and petticoats back to my workroom.



“Blast!” I blurted as I realised that my mannequin wasn’t in the workroom.



“You don’t need it yet,” Martha’s voice said, “just try the bustle on yourself and I’ll tell you a story about it. You are too tired to plan a figurine this evening.”



As usual, she was right. I stripped to my bra and sensible cotton panties. Martha’s expert advice helped me to fit the bustle correctly. Without her I wouldn’t have been able to dress the mannequin.



The bustle felt odd. Wires sewn into two arcs of quilted padding shaped a silken hood at the top. The rest was a skeleton of tapes with three semicircular hoops. My backside fitted into the hood. Long tapes wound around my waist tied at my back. Tapes attached to the three hoops tied around my thighs and below my knees.



Once the bustle was secure I tried swinging it. It slipped to one side as if I had a large bum bag on a hip. I tied it tighter. My legs were restricted but the bustle stayed behind, where it should be. I wriggled into the black petticoat and the two outer cotton petticoats.



The dress was very heavy with a double layer in the skirt. The thick serge was silk lined. The bodice had a row of functional buttons from the low neck to the waist but laced at the back. I couldn’t fasten it myself. Whoever had owned it must have needed a maid or female relation to dress and undress. Martha’s ghostly fingers deftly laced the dress around me.



“Try walking,” she suggested.



I stood up. I nearly overbalanced. The bustle pushed my chest forward, exaggerating my bust. I felt as if I had acquired a camel’s hump behind me. Once I started walking I soon acquired the knack of arching my back to compensate for the bustle. I seemed to have grown a couple of cup sizes. The skirt’s short train followed me but I was dragging a heavy weight. I had to brace my shoulders to take the strain.



“Now sit,” Martha ordered. “Hitch the bustle up.”



I perched on the edge of my chair. The bustle folded up behind me with a large bunch of the dress’s material in the small of my back.



“Comfortable? Then I’ll tell you a story about this dress’s owner.”



I wasn’t really comfortable. As Martha began to tell her story I pulled at the skirt and wriggled.



“This dress belonged to Alison. She is one of your great-great aunts. She was wearing this dress when she became engaged to Stewart. He was a distant cousin who was visiting with his parents. He and Alison seemed to have similar tastes. One Sunday he returned, on his own and asked Alison if she would walk to church with him. She did, wearing this bustle and dress for the first time, and on the way back to The Hall Stewart proposed…”



As usual, when Martha started to tell a story about past people at The Hall I began to experience what the main female character felt. Perhaps it is because Martha’s story seems to be right inside my head.



It was a glorious Spring day as we came from the church after morning service. My hand was resting lightly on Stewart’s crooked arm. As we passed friends and neighbours Stewart would raise his hat and I would bob a light curtsey. Each time I was conscious of the drag of my heavy skirt and the unfamiliar movement of my bustle.



Stewart put his other hand over mine.



“Shall we take the footpath past the woods?”



“Why not?” I replied as lightly as I could although I couldn’t stop a faint blush. I knew that Stewart had spent an hour with my father last weekend.



We passed through the kissing gate. I had to hitch my bustle up as I negotiated the gate. I couldn’t make that into the elegant movement recommended by the Lady magazine. Stewart even had the effrontery to grin as I pushed my bustle back into place.



“Don’t you think it’s a silly fashion?” he asked.



“Heresy!” I protested. “All fashionable ladies are expected to dress like this.”



“Perhaps, but maybe the fashionable ladies don’t try to walk through footpath gates.”



“Of course not. They are expected to glide elegantly through the superior parts of London or Paris. I don’t think country footpaths are sufficiently eligible locations.”



“Of course they are. This footpath is eminently eligible.”



“For what is it eligible?” I asked.



“Wait until we turn the corner of the wood,” Stewart replied.



Once past the wood the view was extensive across the fields. My father had installed a bench so that people could sit and enjoy the prospect.



“Please sit, Alison,” Stewart asked.



I hitched up my bustle and perched on the edge of the bench. Despite the bare earth, Stewart dropped to his knees in front of me. His valet will not be amused when he tries to brush Stewart’s trousers this evening. I knew what was coming.



“Alison? Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”



All the fashionable journals recommend some show of reticence before replying to a proposal but I couldn’t stop a smile on my face.



Stewart added, before I could reply formally, “I have your father’s permission…”



“I know you have.”



“Well?”



I opened my arms to him. He shuffled forward. More mud for his poor valet. I hugged him and whispered “Yes, of course” in his ear as his head rested between my breasts. He tried to move. I hugged him tighter.



He gasped suddenly. I looked down. One of my buttons had slipped from its buttonhole and his nose was touching my bare skin. I liked that and squeezed his head against me. A button popped off and his face was deep between my breasts. He struggled. I held on. I liked having Stewart so close to me.



Unfortunately for him I had totally covered his mouth and nose with my soft flesh and my new fiancé couldn’t breathe. His hands pushed against my shoulders to give himself room to gasp for breath. I slumped backwards. As I did, something snapped behind me.



I let out a startled “What?”, released my hold on his head, and felt the back of my bunched skirt. My bustle had crumpled.



“Let me up, Stewart,” I asked. “I think something’s wrong with my dress.”



Reluctantly he stood up and gave me his hands to help me from the bench. He looked disappointed.



“Never mind, new Fiancé Stewart,” I said “I’ll hug you like that again, many times, if that’s what you want, but we need to check my dress. I’ve lost a button, one is undone, and my bustle feels wrong.”



It was. My bustle was lopsided. I heaved at it through the layers of skirt and petticoat but I couldn’t get it to sit straight.



“I can’t go home like this!” I wailed. “I can cover up the lost button but how can I explain a wrecked bustle? People will think…”



“Not if we can mend it, Alison,” Stewart said. “It must be a simple device.”



“It might be,” I retorted, “but as it’s under my clothes I can’t see how it can be fixed here, now.”



“You could take it off and we could find out what’s wrong.”



“Take it off? How? It’s tied to me in several places and buried under my skirt and petticoats…”



“You could let me see…”



“See! You may be my fiancé, Stewart, and have been for several minutes, but that is suggesting taking liberties that are reserved for a husband…”



“…and smothering me with your naked breasts isn’t a liberty?”



I blushed.



“Very well, Stewart, but not here. We can be seen for miles.”



“Just inside the wood there’s the gazebo.”



I knew the gazebo. So did Stewart. We had kissed there several times.



I picked up the loose button and put it in my reticule. I wanted to rearrange my gaping bodice as we walked to the gazebo. I couldn’t because I needed both hands to lift the train of my skirt and petticoat that were dragging on the ground. Stewart was no help. He was too busy watching my chest for interesting glimpses.



The gazebo is built around an old tree trunk that supports the roof. Around the trunk is a circular bench. We walked around the trunk to where we would be concealed from any passers-by. Stewart helped me to stand on the bench with my face to the tree trunk and my rump facing him. He knelt behind me and lifted the back of my skirt up to my waiting hands. As he started to lift the black petticoat I felt it snag. So did he. He paused a slid a hand up inside. I jumped as his fingers brushed my naked leg.



“I can’t see where it is caught, Alison. I’ll try to ease it outwards.”



Ease? As he pulled at my petticoat I nearly fell backwards. I had to let my skirt go and grab frantically at the tree trunk.



“Watch it!” I screeched. “You…”



“Sorry, Alison. I slipped.”



Stewart’s voice was muffled. I looked back and down. His head and shoulders were inside my skirt. Still holding the tree trunk I tried to lift my skirt off him. One-handed, all I did was dislodge the folds on the bustle and my skirt swamped Stewart. I saw the tips of his shoes before they vanished under the train of my skirt.



“What are you doing?” his muffled voice asked plaintively.



“Trying to get my skirt off you and failing,” I replied.



“I can feel that. I’m stuck between your skirt and petticoat with my face rammed against your bustle. There’s something sharp under my chin. I daren’t do anything until I can get that point away. I can’t see a thing and your skirt is too tightly wrapped for me to reach with my hands.”



Stewart’s voice was even more muffled than before. I felt a sense of power. He was trapped under my skirt with his face against my backside, even if it was my bustle instead of my own rump. Without my help he was stuck there.



“Keep still!” I ordered.



I used both hands to lift my skirt very carefully. As Stewart’s head emerged he had his eyes tight shut. His face was sunk back to his ears in my black silk petticoat. I felt under his chin. There was a sharp point. I grabbed it through the silk and pushed it down.



“Stewart! You can lift your head now.”



His face was flushed. With my free hand I ruffled his hair.



“Can you look where I’m holding and see what it is?”



“Only if I lift the petticoat, Alison.”



“Then do it.”



He lifted my petticoat until my hand was sunk deep in its folds.



“Got it!” he exclaimed. “It a wire, come out of a sort of pocket. I’ll try to put it back.”



He turned around, still holding that wire, until he was sitting down, facing outwards, trying to feed the wire back into its padding.



“You can let go now.”



We should have worked out who was holding the petticoat. I wasn’t. I had been holding the wire. He wasn’t. He’d just pushed it out of the way to take over the wire from me.



Stewart disappeared again, this time under my black silk petticoat. I tried to catch it as it dropped. All I did was let go of the bunched skirt that slithered over the silk to conceal him again.



“Mmph!” Whatever Stewart was trying to say was lost. The back of my skirt was waggling frantically. I held the tree trunk tight.



“MMMPF!” Stewart was obviously in some difficulty. The back of his head pressed against my naked rump. My bustle was shaking violently.



I decided that his immediate need was greater than mine. I used both hands to drag up the layers of skirt and petticoat. I expected to see his head. I didn’t. It was securely jammed in the hood of my bustle and neither he nor I could release it. I pulled at the bow on the tape holding the bustle to my thighs. That gave Stewart just enough space to pull his head down and out. He panted for breath.



“What happened?” I asked.



Stewart kept breathing heavily before he replied.



“As your dress slipped I tried to catch it. I let go of the wire but the weight of your skirt forced my head inside your bustle. I tried to shout. The padding filled my mouth and gagged me. Your skirt fell further; the bustle dropped lower and I was trapped. I was unable to breathe. Sitting down I couldn’t get any leverage to lift you, nor could I get my hands up to pull off that damned bustle!”



“Stewart! Such language!”



“I’m sorry, Alison, but I was in real danger under there.”



“You’re safe now.”



“Yes. And there’s no way I’m going under your skirt again. I’ve nearly been smothered to death several times since you said ‘yes’ to me. I’m not sure I’ll survive the next time.”



“So what do we do now, Stewart?”



“Come down. I’ll sit on the bench, and you…”



He pulled me face down across his knees and pulled my skirt and petticoats up. With my bustle completely exposed it took him only a few seconds to replace the errant wire. I was wriggling in a most unladylike position.



Then he slapped my naked rump. Not hard, but just enough to let me know he could, before he pulled my bustle into position, my petticoats and skirt down and stood me up.



I wanted to protest but his lips prevented my objection. We kissed again and again as he sat me on his lap in a more conventional manner. Eventually we stopped, both of us nearly as breathless as he had been when trapped in my bustle.



I used a couple of pins to replace the button on my bodice. He brushed ineffectually at his dusty knees. We were almost presentable when we arrived back at The Hall but both of us changed, as we would normally have done, before lunch.



My maid and Stewart’s valet had to work on our clothes to make them presentable. My maid asked about the damage to the bustle.



“I caught it going through a gate,” I answered. I don’t think she believed me but she repaired it.



Our engagement was announced at that evening’s dinner. Over the next few months I smothered Stewart many times. Somehow, whenever I was with him, I was wearing bodices that unbuttoned and his face met my breasts. He learned to salute them with his lips and tongue.



It wasn’t until we were married that I used that bustle again on Stewart. Sometimes he ended up with his head hooded in a bustle, clamped tightly against me, his lips and tongue busy, but the bustle was usually in front of me.



The bustle was only behind me when I needed him to atone for some husbandly fault. For a minor fault, I would use the bustle to clamp his face between my rear cheeks. For a major transgression, I would secure his arms and legs with stockings, face him outwards, gag him with the padded roll, pull the bustle’s hood down, secure the tapes really tight, and trap him under the black silk petticoat. Only if he had been really insufferable would I add my heavy serge walking dress and let him struggle to breathe.



Although I appreciated having Stewart as a gagged, bound and helpless prisoner at my mercy, I preferred him to take an active role as he became more expert with his lips and tongue. In our first months of marriage we had to make sure that our bedroom door was firmly shut or my excited screams might have startled the servants. Sometimes I had to gag myself to reduce the noise.



I kept my walking dress, petticoats and bustle for years after they became unfashionable. They were no longer worn in the day but only for bedroom role-playing. Even when our children had grown up and set up their own establishments I used to trap Stewart just to feel him kiss me down below and sometimes vainly struggle in his dark perfumed prison.



Martha’s voice died away. I sat there, dressed in Alison’s heavy dress, wishing that I could feel Stewart’s lips down below just once more.



“You can, you know,” Martha said. “Just think of Alison when you are in bed, nearly asleep, and you’ll be Alison again with Stewart kneeling at your feet.”



She helped me undress. The next day I brought the mannequin and fitted Alison’s clothes. I had to try to see what Stewart’s experience had been like. I slid myself under Alison’s skirt and petticoats. There was still a faint trace of her perfume in the complete darkness. I wriggled around to the bustle.



“I wouldn’t,” Martha’s voice sounded in my head. “Alison isn’t here to let you out and that bustle would trap you just as effectively now as it trapped Stewart. Wait until you can find a man to trap for yourself. You will…”



I crawled out from under the skirt. I will find a man? When?

This story is based on true events from some years ago, and is one of my favorite memories of my bachelor days. Your comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated!







I had been a pilot for a company in the Midwest for several years, and on this beautiful fall day I had a mission to fly to a city in Colorado, pick up just one passenger, April, and bring her back to our home base in Minnesota for business meetings of some sort. Usually I knew the people I flew, but I’d never heard of this woman before and just hoped she wouldn’t be a nervous flier; I much prefer people that aren’t nervous and uptight on my airplane. When I saw a drop-dead gorgeous blonde dressed in a stunning business suit with high heels and an incredible figure walk in, I only hoped that would be my girl, nervous or not. It was.



She was polite, but not overly so, and only made small chit chat until we got under way…..it was just her and I on this trip, which was unusual, so I offered to let her ride up in the front seat of the airplane with me if she wished. April said she had work to do en-route, and wanted to ride in the back seat so she could prepare for her upcoming meetings. I gave her the usual safety briefing, only in greater detail than normal, trying to spend as much time with her as I could. Her perfume was sensational, and I hoped she couldn’t tell that I was trying to drink in her incredibly feminine scent.



The flight was slightly bumpy coming out of the mountains, but then smoothed out and the rest of the trip was uneventful, just the way we pilots like them. About 20 minutes before reaching our destination April was satisfied her work was complete and started chatting up a storm; we really hit it off. I tried to concentrate on my flying as we talked, but she was very distracting in a great way, which definitely put me to the test. As we started the decent for landing I pointed out the window at the beautiful colors of leaves down below that were just at their peak, and she enjoyed the gorgeous fall view. I wanted to impress her with a smooth flight and a perfect landing, and fortunately that all worked out pretty well.



As we pulled up to the hangar, I asked April if she would be interested in dinner and drinks this evening since she was to spend the night in town alone at the local hotel. She said yes, she would like that, so I gave her my business card and asked her to call me later to confirm a time if she was still interested (I was trying to avoid a harassment case) and to keep it “classified.” The smile on her face told me the phone would be ringing soon.



I needed to find a way to work off some nervous energy as I was REALLY looking forward to seeing this beautiful woman in a casual setting, so I washed and waxed my truck before getting myself cleaned up, then when the time was finally near, I drove to her hotel to pick her up. My plan was to take her to my favorite local watering hole where I knew we would enjoy a great atmosphere, reasonably decent food, and very cold beverages.



I nervously knocked on her door, and to my delight she quickly answered dressed in very tight, not-so-professional low cut blue jeans, and a sexy, sheer short sleeved top that was also cut low in the front, sharing her generous cleavage with me and everyone else that happened by. Pearls with her blue jeans – I think I love this girl already! The shiny silver heals she had on helped display a most delicious rear end, and she was all grins as she whirled around so that I could take in the full effect of her attire. She looked H-O-T hot, and she knew it.



As the drinks started to have their desired effect, we played a few games of pool, and flirted a lot. She was killing me by bending over a little more than she had to and I’m sure she new I could get a great view of her lacy bra as her boobs jiggled just the way I like. Try as I might I couldn’t make out any panty lines under the jeans and couldn’t help but think this night was going to turn out terrific! She was getting a lot of looks from the other patrons, men and women alike, and since neither one of us seemed terribly interested in shooting more pool, I offered to take her back to my place to play a few more “games” and she readily accepted.



Upon reaching my home, I invited her in and mixed a couple more drinks for us both, then proceeded to give her a tour of the house, including the bedroom where she let out a giggly smile when she saw the king-size bed. We completed the tour as I led her down to my newly finished basement where I turned the stereo on low and lit the gas fireplace. The fireplace was the only source of light, and I loved how it flickered in her shimmering eyes, transfixing my gaze upon her as the bass of the music vibrated our bodies just slightly.



We were sitting on the couch getting to know each other and talking like good friends about her job, when I decided to quit wasting our time, and interrupted her mid-sentence by leaning in close to her face, but not quite all the way, just close enough that I could feel her breath and smell her scent…I really wanted to kiss her hard, but also wanted to make her wait for it, and let her close the rest of the short distance between us.



My lady stuttered a few syllables of nonsense then with a growing smile on her face, she closed the gap. Our lips touched softly and we began a slow, smooth very sensual kiss. When I felt a tickle on my lips I opened them for her slightly, and as our tongues began a seductive dance I slid my right hand up her torso, gently massaging the side of her perfect breasts through her blouse and bra. Her breath quickened, and she gasped as my thumb slid over her nipple, pleasing me with it’s instant hardness.



She brought her hand up and held it on top of mine, encouraging me as I squeezed and massaged her incredible firm breast while her breathing quickened even more. Her other hand was now moving up my back, through my hair, then stopped at the back of my neck as she pulled me tighter to her, locking us in a very heated embrace.



A few minutes of passionate kissing like this, and we found ourselves on the floor exploring each others bodies through and under our clothes. I had a roommate at the time who was upstairs, so April asked if I could take her back to the hotel room for a little more privacy. Of course I was ready to go, just had to stop by the bathroom and stock up on condoms – it was looking like it might be a long night!



We quickly entered her small hotel room, and she told me to take a seat on the bed while she “got comfortable.” I took off my jacket as she disappeared into the restroom and I got comfortable lying on her bed, expecting her to return after brushing her teeth, and wondered if she would be in her same sexy outfit, or maybe change into some nice lingerie? Would she have lingerie along even I wondered, after all, she was just on an overnight business trip?



When she finally opened the door my new lover really knew hot to make an entrance, striking a pose in the doorway of the bathroom that absolutely took my breath away……8 feet away was an incredibly beautiful, sexy, blonde; NAKED except for the pearls, presenting herself to me, insisting to be taken like the woman she was.



My cock leaped to attention; I couldn’t believe how sexy her confidence was, and I had never been turned on more than at that very moment. I admired her for a few seconds, then stood up off the bed, told her how beautiful she was and that I was going to make sure she got the proper loving that she deserved, picked her up in my arms and gently laid her on the bed. 1/2 second later I was on my knees at the edge of the bed kissing my way up her legs….perfectly shaped, perfectly shaven, and perfectly scented with her perfume. I started at her toes that were somewhat ticklish as I licked and nibbled on them, and by the time I slowly worked my way up her calve, around and behind her knees, and up along the inside of her thighs, she was squirming out of control and literally dripping on the sheets.



The closer I got to her pussy, the stronger the lovely scent of my woman became. I commented on her bush being shaved “runway style” and told her that was a great way to please a pilot, and that I expected a smooth landing there soon! She told me she hoped there were no expected delays, then she reached down and spread her pussy lips for me, presenting herself once again for my taking. She gave me a delicious surprise when her finger disappeared inside her pussy, then she brought it up and licked her own juices while her eyes were closed, letting out a little whimper……astonishing the sexy confidence….this was the most uninhibited woman I had ever had the pleasure of being with.



As my tongue finally plunged into her folds, she barked out with excitement and warned me, and I quote, “don’t dish it out if you can’t handle it in return!” What a woman. My god, what a woman!



She came for me twice as I pleasured here “there” before I let her pull me up on the bed, and before I knew it the room was spinning around, and my cock was being played like never before.



I marveled at her beauty as her eyes had missile lock on mine while her luscious lipstick covered lips made my cock slowly disappear. She gave me the best combination of hand job and blow job I had ever experienced, and on her command, I came. Hard. She swallowed some, then let some shoot on her breasts while she stroked my cock hard and fast. What cum landed on her breasts was not to be wasted as she scooped it up with her fingers and licked them clean with a huge grin and laughter, still never taking her eyes away from mine.



No way my dick was going soft yet. I was still hard as a hammer, and laid her on her back waiting no more to give her what she had worked for, and been wanting most. April pulled her knees up against her chest, displaying her beautiful bottom to me in every detail, and with another smooth approach to landing my cock slipped in so perfectly. We rocked gently like that for a bit, then she rolled me over, climbed on top, and bucked her way to another ear splitting orgasm.



We laid entwined together caressing, and enjoying the feeling of total satisfaction while we drifted off to sleep. An hour or two later, I woke up to my cock being softly massaged by her petite hands, and instantly it leaped to life. Another hour of lovemaking and we finally called it a night. It was nearly 3:30, and she had to be at a meeting by 8:00, so regretfully I headed home to crawl back in my own lonesome bed.



We had a few opportunities in the months ahead to see each other briefly, but the opportunity to repeat our night of orgasmic bliss never presented itself again. We hated the idea we lived hundreds of miles apart. She had two daughters from a previous marriage that prevented her from moving to Minnesota, and I was unable to move to Colorado, or I really think we may have ended up together; instead we both have our fantastic memories, and mine will never, ever, fade from the night I made love to the most beautiful woman ever.



Thanks April!

*The following story is a fantasy I had one day. A fantasy I shared with my Lover on Skype. He suggested that I share it with Literotica, so I shall. I took out our names. I shall leave our bodies up to your imaginations ;P*



*



I was in my bedroom, back turned to the door, trying to put my bra on. I’ve got a black tight pencil skirt on and I’m getting ready for our date for the evening.



You open the door to surprise me. I gasp and quickly turn around to see you charging at me. Your lips immediately meet mine as one of your hands covers my breast and the other holds the back of my head so our lips cannot break.



Our kiss lasts a few seconds before you start making your way down my neck. Kissing it as if it had never been kissed before. Your lips trace my collar bone and down my chest to be pursed around my free nipple. I moan with pleasure and hold your head to my chest.



You re-surface to my lips, kissing me once more before slowly pushing me back to my bed. You’re ontop of me, kissing me madly, kissing me, dominating me, kissing me so fiercely!



Your lips again leave mine to go down my body. You throw my bra to the floor and tease my breasts. Your hands cupping and grasping them as I softly moan. Your rough hands move down to my skirt, tugging it off.



My thong is still on me.



You leave it. It’s not important enough to take off. It adds to the fun.



Your arms wrap around my legs and your fingers slide over my thong just before your lips meet mine. You give a soft moan as you kiss me and it drives me wild. My fingers reach down to run through your hair. I’m not pulling you towards me, I’m not holding you in place. My fingers are simply in your hair. You slyly look up at me to meet my gaze. I can feel your hot breath on my skin. I feel the tip of your tongue licking my lips ever so softly, driving me even more crazy.



Your hand continues to hold my thong over as the other rests right above that one, flattening on my stomach. You pause and give a deep growl before your tongue attacks my clit. I gasp.



You flicker your tongue until you decide that I need your dick inside of me. You quickly slide up against me, hovering over me as I slightly open my eyes to meet your gaze and softly smile.



Your leaning on an elbow as your other hand reaches between us to grab your thick hard dick and tease my lips with it, while attempting to keep my thong out of the way. You glare down into my eyes and demand that I beg for you.



My throat is dry. I ache to find a voice to beg you with.



A tiny ‘please’ escapes my lips as I softly and (making up a word here) beggingly look into your eyes. ‘Please Bae-please!’ Almost a whisper.



You demand me to say it louder. I attemp to vocalize myself a bit more, but only a little.



‘Please Babe,’ I beg breathlessly, ‘Please fuck me…’



A slight grin spreads across your lips as I feel your head at my vaginal opening. ‘Please…’ I feel your legs spreading mine a bit wider as you ever so slowly enter inside me.



My eyes immediately shut.



My breathing becomes moaning.



Your hand goes to the other side of my head as you hover over me. Your lips meet mine as you grind deeply inside of me. My body shudders and presses against yours, begging for more.



Your lips leave mine.



Your hips slowly pull back and a moan escapes my lips.



You lick your lips.



I slightly open my eyes to look up at you watching me. You feel satisfaction knowing that I’m about to give you more and more moaning. More signs of pleasure. More reaction.



You start a series of thrusts, but ever so slow ones.



My eyelids flutter as my mouth parts and my head tilts back as if I can’t take it any longer. As if I’m on edge. Your lips embrace mine over and over and over. You grind deep inside of me once more before demanding again that I beg for pleasure.



I’m again trying to find my voice. It’s hard to work up to saying anything so my responses are half assed and breathless. My words only coming out as sighs. ‘Ple…ohmygo….Bae….plea….” I desperately look up at you. ‘Please baby!’



You slowly pull out. Your head rubbing my g-spot on the way out, sending my body a quick convulsion.



You kiss me again.



You slide back down as your hand pulls my thong over. You demand me to beg again. I plea. Your tongue attacks me and sends my body into a lip biting fit.



After a while you stop and come up to me again. This time you go straight into me without asking anything. Your thrusts are slow. Slow because it seems to be getting the most reaction out of me. In. Out. In. Out. My moans filling your ears. Pleasure filled music.



My head tosses from side to side. My lips attempting to form words. My body meeting your tempo, thus driving me crazy.



I slyly smile and just barely open my eyes. ‘I bet I can come before you,’ I tease.



‘We’ll see about that,’ you reply as you pull out and resume licking my clit.



My body is nearly vibrating.



You keep pausing and demandingly ask me if I’m close. My breathless responses ‘I’m so close’ ‘I’m right there’ ‘Oh Babe…’ over and over each time you ask me.



Finally you go all out. Your tongue is nearly vibrating against my clit. I can’t hold out anymore. My body lifts up a few inches and you see my face concentrating. My legs stiff and tensed as they try to milk enough oxygen out so when I come I’ll have a rush.



My breathing intensifies. You feel my muscles throughout my body quivering. Your tongue goes on. Finally, I slightly give away as my muscles lose a little tension and my breathing becomes whole.



Moans trapped inside leash out. My body is quivering and convulsing as I’m screaming my orgasm. Your tongue continues as your hands hold my hips. My moans fill the room, echoing off the walls and back at you. I quietly moan a few times before collapsing to the bed. My body lay limp with the occassional jerk from a wave of pleasure. Your tongue back inside your mouth, you stay in the same position and watch me take each wave.



Your hands reach behind my knees and push them wide. My juices running out and dripping down to waste upon the bedtop.



You climb up and rub your cock against my vagina to lubricate yourself. Your head meets my opening. You return to hover over me, watching me as you slowly slide yourself inside me. My eyes shoot open just to roll back inside my head as my eyelids fllutter. I draw in a gasp. Your hips work their magic once again grinding against me, not just poking me, rubbing ever so amazingly against my g-spot as I moan again and again. My wetness feels amazing to you, so amazing that you start perspiring and becoming breathless. Your pace quickens as I throw my head back with more moans and gaps.



Finally, you let out a moan as you explode your ecstasy inside of me. Your moans louden with each thrust. My moans nearly meeting yours before yours stop. You collapse ontop of me, kissing my chest as I hold you to me. I can feel your semen slowly emptying out of me. You let out a groan as you pull out and roll beside me and pull me into you to spoon against you. Your lips meet my neck again and again as I smile. Your arm comforts my head as your other wraps around me. ‘I love you, Babe.’ ‘I love you, too.’

They had obviously done it on the bed, in the shower, on the couch. They had both groaned for it against the front door because they couldn’t wait any longer after entering the house. They enjoyed each other on the floor, and the hammock. Where else was left?



Victoria surveyed their house with new eyes as she wondered what else he would enjoy. Nothing struck her attention as she sat down to eat, sitting across from her handsome husband Simon. They knew how to enjoy themselves, and each other. She couldn’t imagine any other man in the world making her any happier. She reached for the salt for his eggs, and noticed the table. The table!



She shook the table to see how stable it was. Her husband looked at her with confused eyes, but she didn’t explain her attentions. Victoria glanced around, noticing the table could be seen from the front window if someone was walking up to the house. That would even make it more interesting.



She’d thought about him and his amazing cock all day, and had worked herself into full frenzy thinking about him, so now that he was really here she couldn’t be patient. As soon as she heard his car pull in, she slipped out the back door where her sign was hidden. She heard him enter the house, then put her sign in place, slipped up the steps, and entered the same door he’d entered.



She wasn’t waiting today, she needed him. She grabbed him from behind with her arms glad to feel her handsome husband in her arms once again. Sometimes a day was too long to be away. He turned towards her as she loosened her grasp and they hugged which released the pressures of the day.



She had a drink and cookie ready for him. She passed it to him after his hug – and then turned and sat on the table. She called him over, pulling him into a kiss, letting him know her intentions immediately.



“I see you missed my kisses and hugs,” he said, smiling between kisses.



“Didn’t you miss me?” she pretended to pout.



“I missed you, and thought about how your leg rubbed against mine last week when you visited me at work.”



That’s what she wanted to hear; that thoughts of her had distracted him at work. She loved knowing that.



“I’ve got something new for you. It will give you something to think about long after it’s over,” she moaned before sucking on his earlobe.



Their bodies were rubbing against each other now, their hands starting to explore each other. Simon started picking her up, appearing that he was going to carry her to the bedroom, but she had other ideas.



“No, I want to show you something. That certain something is on this table.” She knocked with her knuckles on the table.



“I see something I like very much on our table.” He replied, moving closer to her again.



She kissed him lovingly even though he hadn’t a clue what she was thinking.



“Look under my skirt.”



He only needed to be asked once. She opened her legs. He placed his hands on her ankles and, moving them up, slowly slid up her skirt. With the skirt still in her lap, but now out of the way, he could see she didn’t have any panties on. Simon moaned, and moved again to pick her up and take her to the bedroom.



“No, here!” demanded Victoria.



“Here?”



“Yes, here,” she responded.



“The curtains are wide open. I’ll just go close them,” he noted, and started to move away from her, but she held him fast.



“HERE, NOW!” Her commanding voice made the scene for the upcoming tease very clear.



She reached for his pants, and he didn’t argue any more. The pants and underpants fell to the ground as he stared at her pussy. She knew she was already wet, and she hoped he could see it.



She grabbed his cock and pulled him closer to her. She kissed him deeply, tonguing him and swirling through his mouth, trying to awaken and taste him. She lay back on the table, and he didn’t have any choice but to follow. He climbed up, attracted like a magnet.



She pulled on his cock, and teased his length. She teased her pussy with the tip of his cock, rubbing it against her clit, feeling her pressure starting. Both were on the table, with the windows wide open. Both hot, bothered, needing the heat that only the other could provide.



He entered her slowly; seemingly nervous about the table’s strength against the weight and movement he wanted to place on it. She was so turned on as she watched her husband. He was getting turned on by her aggressiveness, and her creative idea. She loved that he was so instantly hard for her, and able to serve.



His cock, sinking deep into her, felt amazing. She reached down and played with her clit while he started riding her faster and harder. Her heart started beating faster at his attentions.



“Any moment Simon, someone could walk up to the house and see your hard cock,” she teased him, and it had the desired affect. He seemed all the more heated up, almost wanting to be watched.



He was under her spell, and wouldn’t have cared if someone walked past; he wasn’t going to let her go until he fucked her good.



“I’m going to fuck my naughty wife in front of the window!” he growled back. He couldn’t resist looking at the window just to check.



He slid in and out of her. The table was shaking with each of their movements but was holding strong. In and out, in and out. She squeezed down on him in mid slide and he stopped, enjoyed the pressure of her pussy surrounding and squeezing him. Both were fully clothed as their bodies entangled together, and the usual intensity of skin against skin wasn’t there, but a very distracting lust took over and was enough to make them both hot.



He lowered his head to her breasts and nipped with his teeth at her tits. He put his face between her breasts and she ran her fingers through his hair. They kissed deeply before parting to continue the rock-and-roll of their bodies. Their lips touched lightly as their sliding bodies tickled her clit and made her moan.



He growled, “Victoria, you are all mine here. Here in front of this open window.”



“Yesssss,” she moaned, starting to get lost in his touches, his length, his heat, his love for her. “Fuck me now. Flow into me. Give it all to me!” She drew the words out as long moans said only for him.



Her words took him over the edge. Now knowing the table would hold them, he drove into her harder. He rode her hard for a little longer but didn’t last long. This woman who never failed to fascinate him had done it again, taken him quickly to the edge of no return and he released into her amazing pussy.



His body quivered and his eyes closed, with a moan softer than what usually escaped his lips. He was still in her when he quickly glanced to the window. In reality he was relieved to see no one peeking in at them, but in his naughty thoughts as he had been enjoying his wife there had been a voyeur.



“I can’t believe we did it in front of the window?” she giggled.



“So, maybe there is a voyeuristic streak in you, that I should be taking more advantage of?”



“Having you watch me and want me makes me crazy.”



They cautiously disentangled from each other and Simon moved carefully over the edge of the table to the floor. Then he slid Victoria to the side of the table, helped her sit up, then slid her skirt down. It only took tucking his cock back in and they were back in the same position they had been in only ten minutes before, but feeling satisfied and with a heightened heart rate.



Simon slid away to shower first while Victoria said she would finish dinner. After he disappeared from the room she quietly opened the front door and grabbed the sign she had put up, blocking the stairs that led to the entrance of their house. The sign said:



‘Construction work on stairs in progress.



If you need to come in please call first.’



She quickly folded the sign and threw it in the trash. She had been right; Simon had enjoyed the extra thrill of their rendezvous. No reason for him to know about the sign.



As she cooked dinner, she looked over at the table. It looked no different, despite holding a lot of weight and movement. Admiring the table, she wondered what she and Simon could do next.

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