Ashleigh's Carnal Friends Ch. 06

The telephone rang.

"Hello, is that John?"

"Yes, do I know you?" I asked of the familiar voice that I couldn't place.

"It's Sheila ... remember me? We met at the wedding."

"Of course I do ... you're the cousin of my cousin. I thought you'd forgotten me."

"Sorry, but I lost your card with the number," she said.

I smiled down the phone because I knew her daughter, Ashleigh, had taken it from her handbag, but had no intention of telling her.

"You've got me now'" I said, as I remembered her dancing in front of me with her arms waving in the air and showing off her considerable breasts and enveloping me in Chanel Number 5.

"I wondered if you'd like to meet up some time, John."

Ashleigh told me about her mother: "She gets enough as it is." It was easy to imagine her getting lots of attention with tits like that, especially as she was ready to flaunt them -- and at an unknown man - me.

Both Ashleigh and her mother appeared determined to get what they wanted. It must be in their genes, I thought. How could I object? My association with the daughter paid major dividends. Sheila seemed like a logical extension.

"Sounds like a good idea."

"We didn't have enough time to get to know each other at the wedding."

"That's because of Ashleigh ... I don't think she likes me." I lied. I knew exactly what she felt about me.

"Just the opposite ... I whisked her away before she got too involved with you."

"It didn't seem like that to me."

"I think it's important for youngsters to keep with people of their own age."

"Quite right," I said, compounding the lie, thinking of how Ashleigh and I and her friend Danielle had been having brilliant sex over the past weeks. The age difference had long since stopped being of any consequence -- if I could enjoy myself so much with girls half my age, why not with one older than me?

"Do you fancy a meal sometime?" she asked.

"I know an Italian restaurant in town ... we could meet there."

"I cook a good spaghetti bolognaise, if you're interested."

"What about Ashleigh?" I asked.

"It would be an evening when she's out."

"Sounds good to me," I said, hoping she wouldn't choose one of the nights Ashleigh slept with me.

"How does next Saturday sound to you? She's staying with a friend that night and won't be around."

So that's how I ended up sat in my car outside Sheila's house, just as the late summer light began to fade. The house looked new and how I expected: a small, detached property, trim and well looked after, on an estate of similar houses towards the edge of town.

I offered her the bottle of Moet, still cold from my fridge, as she welcomed me at the door and we air-kissed, close enough for me to appreciate the full effect of her perfume, which merged into the aroma of the bolognaise sauce cooking somewhere in the depths of the house. Michael Bublé crooned in the background.

Sheila stood to one side, allowing me to pass into the sitting room. She left just enough space to allow the front of my body to brush across hers. A first frisson of excitement tingled in my groin. I hoped it promised more to come.

The table was at the far end of the room, towards the source of the food smells. Two candles flickered in its centre casting a semi-light. She disappeared and returned with champagne glasses and placed them on the table and invited me to open the bottle.

The activity made sure my eyes stayed off Sheila's ample cleavage that the tightness of her black dress showed off to full effect. One look at that dress and the sight of her breasts bulging from it dispelled any doubts about the possibilities of the evening. I felt the first stirrings of an erection.

The alcohol from the first glass of Moet melted away the fact that we hardly knew each other. We resumed the banter that started so spontaneously at the wedding, as if the gap of weeks in between never happened.

"You're a very brave woman," I said, sat in an easy chair in the sitting room. She sat opposite me on the settee with her legs tucked beneath her, covered by the silkiness of her long skirt, and replied with a quizzical look.

"Aren't you taking a risk inviting a stranger into your house like this?"

"How could the cousin of my cousin be a stranger? We're family now," she said, smiling until the dimples in her cheeks shone, her face curtained with blonded hair that fell to her wide shoulders and the gold necklace around her neck.

"I suppose we are," I said, continuing the small-talk about the wedding and families and divorces, clearing the debris of our lives in preparation for the future.

She leant forward to sip at her drink and her breast meat strained at the thin fabric of the black dress. I tried to look over her shoulder at the photographs of a boy and girl on the bookcase. It proved impossible -- my eyes were drawn back to the cleavage that started not far below her chin and disappeared into her dress about six inches lower.

From the stare in Sheila's eyes, she understood the impact her bare flesh was having on me and the tension it created.

The story of her marriage was more interesting than mine. "We began to want more from our relationship," she said, "so we tried an open marriage. It was good fun at first ... like being a wild teenager again. Then he shacked up with a younger model ... and it finished us off. Not that I'm complaining ... now I'm free to do as I please."

"Except when Ashleigh's around," I said.

"She's off to university soon ... then both of them are gone ... and I'll be as free as air."

Ashleigh never told me, I thought. It made me realise that I was just a convenience in her life -- sort of a friend with benefits -- and what benefits.

The spaghetti bolognaise tasted delicious washed down with a smooth Italian red wine. There is something primeval about eating pasta -- twirling it around the fork and getting it in your mouth with lengths hanging off out and sucking in the last bit without dripping sauce down your chin.

I noticed how Sheila's lips resembled Ashleigh's: pouty and generous and red with lipstick and, as she sucked in a dangling length of spaghetti, I knew they would be as perfect for oral sex as her daughter's. This thought caused the tension to spread further around my body. My cock reacted, forcing me to shuffle around in my seat to rearrange myself.

There was much of Ashleigh in Sheila, with older skin and lines around her eyes and mouth and neck that she tried to cover with makeup. Across the table I imagined this continuing throughout her body and legs and bottom -- areas where Ashleigh's body approached perfection.

As I weighed her up and considered the potential of our evening together, I got the impression she was doing the same to me. It added to the excitement. I tried not to let it show, as she watched me, watching her.

Then it happened -- the trigger that released the tension and reduced the distance between us in an instant -- and dictated the progress for the rest of the evening.

At her next mouthful, a small dribble of sauce slid from the pout of her lower lip and landed on the top of her left breast. "Oh dear," she said, immobilised as the sauce began to journey south, "I need some help to clean this off."

Her light brown eyes questioned mine and begged me to take some action. I hesitated for a moment before going around the table and leaning over her and removing the trail of sauce with my finger -- allowing it to take a short trip into the softness of her cleavage. She turned to thank me and watch me put my finger in my mouth and suck off the sauce.

"That was the best mouthful of the meal," I said, judging her response to be positive.

She didn't answer. She took her fork and deliberately daubed sauce around the top of her breasts. "You missed a bit," she said, looking over her shoulder, the moons of her eyes fixed on mine as the sauce ran down her front.

What can a man do when a woman is so clearly in distress? Let events take over, of course. And that's what I did -- after all, no gentleman would stand by and let the sauce ruin her dress, would he?

I turned her round and got down on my knees and licked the sauce from her breasts, using my fingers to open up the gap so I could thrust my tongue between them, to chase the last drop.

"You're so resourceful, John."

"I'm always available to help a damsel in distress ... especially one with breasts like yours."

"They're my best feature, don't you think," she said, placing her hands beneath them and lifting them towards me.

"How can a man think when faced with such beauty?"

"They need a lot of attention."

"And I'm the man to give it," I said, finding her mouth with mine. We kissed for an age, the taste of bolognaise sauce adding to the mix.

With her back to the table, I worked my fingers behind her, to release the zip at the back of her dress. I ran it down below her bra, which I also unfastened. Then the top of her clothes fell away from her body as if a dam broke with the pressure built up behind it.

She cupped my balls through my trousers and my erection responded to the unexpected attack. "I knew you were my type," she said.

"Do you like my lunchbox?"

"I love food."

"I'm a greedy man ... can never seem to get my fill."

"There's plenty on offer."

"The hors d'oeuvres are delicious, Sheila."

"Wait till we get to the main course."

"There's nothing better than a meal where you savour every course," I said.

"And have room left for seconds."

Her clothing fell down at the front, leaving her black bra supported on her nipples. I wasn't going to tell her that tits of her proportion were well outside my experience, though not my fantasies. I expected them to fall further when she stood up -- my knowledge of human anatomy telling me that gravity always wins in the end.

She raised her eyebrows at me. So I pulled the top of her dress and bra down fully to release her tits to answer her unasked question.

Her nipples were dark and erect, as if someone had been sucking at them for hours. The areolas were as large as some women's breasts, with no distinct end -- they just merged into her breasts as their colour lightened.

"They are magnificent ... the sort of breasts men dream about ... and those nipples ... I've never seen anything like them ... beautiful nipples to match beautiful tits."

"So you like them?"

"They're gorgeous," I answered, getting back on my knees to find her left nipple with my mouth -- big enough to gag on -- while squeezing the other between my finger and thumb. Judging from her giggles, I assumed she liked what I did.

"A woman like me gets so much attention from men."

"It's hardly surprising."

"That's why I choose the men in my life most carefully ... I know they'll not be disappointed with my body ... I need to make sure they don't disappoint me."

"There's nothing to complain about, Sheila."

"But it's just for fun, you understand?"

It's almost what I said to Ashleigh weeks earlier. I refrained from repeating her reply: I want to fuck you not marry you -- so I nodded my agreement.

She disentangled herself from me, hitched up the top of her dress and picked up the half-full champagne bottle, indicating for me to bring the glasses. Then she blew out the candles and led me upstairs, our half-eaten meal abandoned on the table. The next course was about to be served. My tummy rumbled with hunger. Michael Bublé started another song.

The bedroom was flooded in the light of dozens of candles, the aromatic smell greeting us as she led me in.

"It looks like you were expecting a guest, Sheila."

"And now he's here," she said, wriggling out of her dress and throwing her black bra on the carpet to join it. She stepped away from the pile of rags and towards me -- wearing just a matching G-string. Within seconds, she was at my mouth and clawing at the buttons on my shirt. The time for talking and assessing each other was over. My clothes joined hers on the floor.

Sheila's hourglass figure carried some excess weight, especially around the bottom -- something I assumed was needed to counterbalance the size of her breasts. I didn't care: a bit of cellulite on her thighs and arse; a stomach slightly overhanging her G-string; a couple of extra inches on her waist -- none of these things mattered -- they were a fair exchange for magnificent tits that swung around with her every movement before settling on her chest -- and they weren't as floppy as I imagined.

I prefer my women naked. Sexy underwear does nothing for me. It's an encumbrance, a barrier, a turn-off, and the only place for it is on the floor. "What have we here?" I asked as I removed her G-string and stroked her cunt.

"I thought you'd like it."

"I love it."

"A girl called Geeta at my beauty salon has been giving me laser treatment."

"Give her my compliments ... it's the smoothest cunt I've ever seen," I said, running my hand over her mons and letting my finger find the stickiness of her labia, "I hate pubic hair in my mouth."

"Not many men shave their pubes."

"It's part of my morning routine ... then my eight and three-quarter inches feels soft and sexy all day."

"It looks longer."

She laid back on the bed -- the weight of her tits making them separate and slide down each side. I squatted beside her and placed my hand under each one, and pushed them up until they framed her chin, her nipples stuck up into the air.

"These are beautiful, Sheila ... a man could live among your tits for a lifetime ... and die happy."

"I get no complaints," she said, taking her left breast in both hands and squeezing it until the nipple stood to attention. Then she stuck out her tongue and flicked it over and around it, before taking the nipple into her mouth and sucking on it.

I repeated the action on her other nipple, and reached down to touch the extremities of her cunt. Her body tensed beneath me. We kept going, sucking her giant nipples together, her eyes closed, ignoring me, her breast meat deep inside her succulent lips. Then a little sigh and a slight gasp told me she'd arrived at some level of orgasm.

"I thought it was just men's talk ... that women can cum by sucking their breasts," I said, looking into the dreaminess of her light brown eyes.

"I've been bringing myself off by sucking my tits for years."

"You give a beautiful show," I said, burying my head deep inside her love-pillow breasts to appreciate their softness around my face.

"It took some practice ... now it works every time."

I worked a finger inside her smooth cunt. She opened her legs to give me better access, and another three fingers slid in to join it.

I was used to younger women, especially over the previous few weeks with Ashleigh and Danielle. Their cunts were tight slits which had to be opened and explored to dig out the labia hiding inside. Sheila is the oldest woman I'd ever fucked -- the only one to have children -- who'd been enjoying sex almost as long as my life.

Her cunt was different: large, generous, the labia visible outside her slit, hanging down, waiting to be licked and sucked and taken up into my mouth. And what a delicious mouthful it made -- lots of luscious tissue coated in exquisite juice that tasted of Chanel Number Five and crushed rose petals, with a hint of sweat and urine.

I opened her legs and crouched between them, lapping my tongue around and between the folds, slurping cunt tissue into my mouth. It took a while to reach her clit. When I found it, I took it between my lips and sucked gently. She moaned lightly, so I knew I'd hit the spot.

Keeping my mouth on her clit, I slid my fingers past my tongue. I pushed in deep. She shuffled around to ease my passage and my hand almost disappeared into her cavernous twat. I reached up and behind her clit to massage the wall of her vagina.

"Oh yeh, give me more of that," she said, twisting her fingers in my hair and holding my head tightly against her.

Her G-spot grew like a button while I sucked on the button of her clit. She shouted out loud as I worked on her and released the grip on my hair and threw her head back into the pillows, lifting her arse off the bed, her abdomen moving in tune with the rhythm of my fingers and mouth.

"Work my cunt you fucking bastard ... keep going ... harder ... fuck yes ... that's the spot."

I disconnected my mouth from her cunt to take in some air. Four fingers went fully inside her, my thumb landing hard against her clit. As I massaged her G-spot, I placed my other hand on the smoothness of her lasered mons to apply pressure from the outside.

Sheila's head rocked from side to side. Her tits swayed backwards and forwards across her chest. The flab on her stomach wobbled. She shrieked. I kept up the stroke. She continued to push against it. Something had to give. It sounded like it could be the bed, which creaked and croaked like it was about to expire.

A low moan grated in Sheila's throat, which developed into a warble and then into a shout and then into a scream. Her pelvic muscles contracted around my hand -- her cunt spewing liquid as she reached orgasm.

I kept my hand inside her. The pressure slackened when her muscles relaxed as she came down from the orgasm. Then I resumed the massage inside her cunt.

"Stop, you fucking bastard," she shouted, gasping for breath.

"Shut up, bitch," I ordered, working both hands against her body and each other, inside and outside.

"I can't take any more."

"This is for flaunting your fucking tits at me like a whore."

She sneered at me and retracted her lips to bare her teeth, then pushed against my hands again, shouting abuse at me and telling me she'd get her own back on me and how I'd regret it later. I told her I couldn't wait to get attacked by a pervert who sucked her own nipples to orgasm.

"I am a pervert," she said, "and you'll find out how much ... you fucking bastard."

Her pelvic muscles contracted again around my hand and she grunted loudly as another climax flowed through her body. She begged me to stop. I carried on, my fingers starting to cramp against the force of her muscles. I ground my thumb into her clit rubbing it against her pelvic bone.

I watched Sheila's wonderful breasts rising and falling as we collapsed on the bed next to each other, both breathing like we'd just returned from a run around the block. She'd had her turn -- now it was mine.

I knelt over her and pulled her tits together and placed my cock in the channel between them before clamping them shut over it.

"Everybody wants to fuck my tits," she said proudly, "I love it ... few women can offer such a service."

"I bet you've had some cum spread across them in your time."

"Enough to drown in."

I took that as encouragement to start fucking hard into the soft tissue of her breasts. She helped. She pushed her tits together and worked them up and down my shaft as I pushed into her. I intended to cum quickly but was disappointed -- she had other ideas.

She moved and hung her head over the edge of the bed and swallowed the whole length of my cock in a single motion -- until I could feel the softness of her lips caressing its base.

I stood on the floor to watch her at work and look at her tits, hanging loose, her nipples in line with her ears, while I fucked at her mouth. She didn't flinch or gag or gasp as other women would with my cock down their throat -- the sign of an experienced professional.

When she withdrew my length from her mouth it was covered in slimy saliva which hung down in strings and ran down my legs like cum. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled back hard on my foreskin, squeezing my cock at the same time. Her spit acted as a lubricant as she started to give me a wank the like of which I never knew existed.