Posted on

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


I had never seen Susan’s Mom at a loss. Her name is Sandra (you get the “S” pattern), she has short, very full “sandy” hair, is as tall as Susan but even heftier, and I see in her what Susan’s breasts might be like in 20 years. Not complaining!

Forgive me for starting with her boobs, but bodies are on my mind. Sandra lost her husband, and the girls’ their dad, almost 10 years ago, to an early heart attack, and Sandra definitely has headed the family. To my knowledge, she never dated, but I couldn’t figure out why. She was frankly hot, and exercised like a Marine, with great shoulders, arms, long legs, and plenty of pectoral muscle to hold up her front load. But why work-out that hard if you didn’t want a man?

I know, health; but that doesn’t mean sweating like a $1,500-an-hour fashion model. Even her face shows it: strong. Tight, lots of sculpting, firm lips, clear green eyes. An assertive chin with a cute cleft. When necessary, she commanded like a CEO, and sometimes dressed like one. Not now, though: just a T-shirt (we were still in the long summer days, lots of light late in the evening), a black bra beneath, and butter-yellow shorts, mid-thigh. Bare legs. Sandals with low heels.

Funny, seeing Susan’s mother stand there, for just a second, made me very conscious of the size of my manhood. Probably because she was staring at it—where else? And her lips were parted—not, I think, in lust. She actually had crossed her arms over her chest, not in modesty—more like a heart attack. (Just kidding. I hope.)

And then, she turned right around and banged out through the screen door back to the porch.

Stephanie had risen, interrupting the job—again!—and wiped her hand across her slick lips. She made no move to dress. Quite a family, this one.

Sandra’s voice came from the porch, accusing. “Look, what you girls do is your own business, Stephanie. BUT, Susan SAID I could come over, right about this time, to have a glass of wine and wish Tommy happy birthday. That’s the ONLY reason I’m HERE.”

“So come in and we’ll open the wine,” said nude Stephanie with sweet reasonableness. “I’d love a glass of chardonnay, too.”

“Stop joking, girl!” growled the CEO. Or maybe the Marine. “I’m not going to be the one to screw up this family!”

“Susan invited me, too,” replied Stephanie, hands at her sides, calm. “And when I got here, Tommy was strung up. Susan said they’d be away for the weekend.”

“No! She told ME they would be here. That’s the ONLY reason I came.”

“Not what she told me,” Stephanie answered firmly. “Want to come in and wish Tommy happy birthday or not? I think that’s what Susan intended—don’t you think?”

No reply. Beneath acknowledgment, apparently.

“Okay,” said Stephanie breezily, “but obviously when Susan comes back, she’s going to feel really badly that you disapprove. I mean, I know that you do disapprove…” She added, “And Tommy knows, too.”

The disembodied voice from the porch. “Susan is a grown woman. She and her husband can be as …,” a pause, “unconventional as they wish. I do not disapprove or approve.”

“You just won’t take part in the proceedings? Should I tell Susan you refused to come in?” Stephanie had settled on a line kocaeli escort of attack, but did she really want Sandra to come in?

Mom made a fatal concession. “I don’t mind coming in. I’m no prude, you know. I’m not…” The door swung open, she stepped in, shoulders very straight—handsome woman—and eyes well under control. Not staring at “it.”

“Should I say, ‘Happy Birthday,’ Tommy?” she asked, very sweetly, a little arch, a mite playful. She looked at me. And so did Stephanie, giving me one threatening glance, lifting her chastising hand slightly.

I blurted out: “This is what happens when you challenge your wife to a game of penalty (I was taking responsibility like a gentleman) and you lose.” I added, with subdued ruefulness in my voice: “I told her ahead of time what I’d do to her, if she lost!”

“I see.” Sandra stepped closer and gave two meanings to the word, “see.” She added, in her best chatty tone, “I had no idea Susan was so liberated. I kind of knew that Stephanie…”

Stephanie nodded. “Yeah, the fast daughter.” But she accompanied it with a nice smile. I must say, I admired her poise, standing stark naked beside her naked brother-in-law, facing her mother three feet away. With unmistakably stiff nipples.

“I’ll get the chardonnay,” Stephanie chirped, and turned toward the kitchen, leaving me with Mom. What to say?

“You’ve kept in nice shape, Tom,” said Sandra pleasantly. She really was statuesque. I’ve seen her on a tread mill, tanned arms and back almost bare, the sports bra straining to do its job, punching air for an hour with her arms, keeping up a fast jog, her lips moving to some song on her headphones. A nice image. Unfortunately, it was giving me an erection. Couldn’t help it. A quite obvious one. She saw it, for sure, smiled graciously. I suddenly wondered just what she had done in her day. Did we actually know what she was doing, now? Was she just discreet, a lady?

“It’s not every wife who’ll do this for her husband’s big 30,” said Sandra. “Get all the family’s women involved.”

“Why not make use of all the gorgeous talent?” I said gallantly. I boldly eyed her bust, then moved along down to pause with a rude stare at where her shorts tucked in a bit at the ‘V.’ Very plump there.

She rolled her eyes in a pantomime of disbelief, but her smile was right—as always. She could charm a cocktail party of Martians.

Now, Stephanie was back with two glasses of straw-colored chardonnay, gold-streaked with slanting sun from the windows. Got to love those long summer days. My body even scored a couple streaks of streaming gold, one right across my chest, taking in one nipple but missing the other, another streak across my thighs, just below the afternoon’s center of attraction.

Sandra took a glass and, naturally, asked immediately, “What about Tommy?” Dear mothers.

“You’ll have to share yours, Mom,” said Stephanie. “You’re taller.”

Sandra would not have dreamed of taking the first sip; she approached me warily, a little to one side, to avoid brushing into my protruding dick. She did have to lean in with one bare forearm across my chest, however, her hand resting ladylike on my shoulder. I think she deliberately pressed one breast kocaeli escort bayan into my arm, right at the bicep, to show she was a good sport. At least, that’s what her grin said to me, as she gingerly lifted the glass to my lips. If enlarged pupils are a sign of arousal (so I’m told), then maybe she was getting into the spirit.

I released a genuine sigh, and murmured “Thank you!” So she gave me another sip, and, as she did, I sneakily turned my body to drink more easily. It also made the head of my dick brush her bare leg just below her shorts. She must have felt it, but she didn’t pull away. As she fed me, her little movements kept brushing me, so that, by the time she backed away, my dick was arched back toward my belly. Unmistakably rampant. Talk about standing to attention!

Both Sandra and Stephanie looked down, now, not pretending, then looked at each other, and burst out laughing. Sandra spoke first: “Is Tommy enjoying his party?” And more merry laughter.

Sandra took a quick sip, and said, with a touch of hauteur in her voice, “Maybe I’ll ask for this for my birthday…”

“I’m not that old, you know,” she added. She approached again to give me a sip, and this time—I almost ejaculated—she reached down and gave my baseball bat a playful slap to the side, then another. She said, “Can we keep this thing out of the way?”

“Let me,” said helpful Stephanie, her fingers cool on the pulsing heat of my hard-on, and she pulled it aside—as far as a rigid bar of flesh moves sideways. As she did, her thumb and forefinger, on either side of the fattened head, slowly moved up and down in the wetness there. I closed my eyes and prayed for my deliverance.

Sandra was saying, with a glance toward the door, “I hope Susan gets back soon, so we know where this is going. We have poor Tommy in suspense, here.”

“I wouldn’t count on Susan,” said Stephanie, with an air of inside knowledge. She added, “I think the other Lorraine women have to come through, here.”

Sandra turned to confront her. “You know that, Miss Stephanie?”

“I don’t know it,” said Stephanie airily, “but she said the house was mine for the weekend.”

“And me?” Hands now on hips, in mother mode.

“She invited you, didn’t she? It’s a surprise party, you know.”

“Well, I was surprised!”

I decided to be helpful. I wanted to move things along, you know, get something accomplished, here. “It’s Susan’s game,” I said, with a laugh. “I know I’m playing.”

“I’m in,” Stephanie interjected brightly, looking at her Mom.

Poor Sandra! I studied her expression, wondering what calculations were clicking through her brain. I wondered if, in the end, what she did had something to do with 10 years of chastity self-imposed upon an active, youthful body. Because she said, rather abruptly, “Okay, tell me what to do. I don’t know anything. Stephanie seems to know, though,” she added accusingly.

“Okay,” said Stephanie confidently. “First, you’re not dressed for the party, Mom.” A direct hit—not appropriately attired!

Sandra eyed her for a moment, then me. I smiled and nodded. She sighed, said nothing. She just took the bottom of her T-shirt and whipped it up over her head, then tossed it on izmit escort the couch. Without hesitating, her arms twisted behind her back, and, in a moment, she shook forward the black brassiere and flipped it aside. She stopped there, shoulders extra straight, arms by her sides, stomach (I think) sucked in a little.

And they were incredible. That isn’t very descriptive. Even bigger than Susan’s—and Susan is a “D.” By now, of course, a bit pendulous, the heavy flesh stretching downward, but sagging? Never! They were glorious gourds, full in the stem and rounding to bulging ripeness at the bottom, with sweet sedate curves. Lucky there was plenty of room because the pinkish-orange aureoles had to be three inches across, spread and flattened a bit, but with centered nipples as thick as little fingers, thumbs-up now in assertion from a bed of crinkles.

Stephanie and I both had smiles on our faces. I whistled with heartfelt appreciation. Sandra’s face reddened a little; her hands came up and cupped the breasts, containing them, and for a moment she glanced down, thoughtful. “Well,” she ventured, “you’d see my tits if I went topless around the pool, so no big deal—right? Or on a Riviera beach…?”

“Absolutely!” I said. “Everybody is dropping that old Puritan stuff.” One lies and the other swears to it, as my own mother used to say.

She hesitated as though thinking, then her fingers were opening her shorts, pushing them down over her hips, so they quickly slid to her ankles. She kicked them away. Around the edges of her black thong, a fluffy rim of sandy hair escaped, curling over the black material. She ran a tentative finger down one side, brushing herself, and said, “I guess I’ve let it get a little out of hand… Is this what the guys mean by ‘hairy pussy’?”

We waited, but she looked up and said, decisively, “I’m going to stop here, for now. I’m not saying I won’t…”

I was admiring her almost shockingly long, slender, but very sleekly muscled legs below the postage-stamp thong; they won the family blue ribbon. She saw my gaze and mistook it.

“Oh, all right, here’s a preview,” she announced smartly, and her fingers pulled down the top of the thong to reveal the whole pussy down to the beginnings of its slit. Then she pulled up the thong, and said, “What next?”

I was beginning to think she was having trouble waiting. By now, those silver-dollar-sized pancakes on her boobs were painfully crinkled up and darker pink.

All this time, you can imagine, my hard-on yielded not a millimeter; it was so stiff it quivered, the underside on display, where the contours of the blood-red glans were an oozing delta of clear fluid that trickled down my shaft. I must have looked half-crazed with that heavy-lidded, slack-jawed stare of pure lust.

Sandra was a woman of the world, who had satisfied men, who gave to men. Who dealt with their needs. She had been stealing glances at my predicament, until I caught her and she looked away. She said to Stephanie, briskly, “Why don’t you go right ahead, Steph? I think I interrupted something when I arrived, didn’t I?” She added, with excessive bonhomie, “Let the show go on!” But I adored her for it.

Stephanie wore only one thing, and now glanced at it. “Nope,” she said. “We’d just be interrupted. Don’t forget, I came with friends for the weekend. They would have been here sooner, but I phoned them to pick up a birthday cake.

“In fact, that’s them, now.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir