Pat Wynn - Perfect Woman

On her arms were black, PVC elbow-length gloves. They didn't look half bad, either. My thought there? Her rubbing my cock with her gloved hands, of course.

"Well, Rick, will I pass your strict test?" she laughed, putting on another high-heeled twirl.

"Pass? You're top of the fuckin' class," I almost shouted, then looked at Wanda and mouthed "Sorry".

The 18-year-old laughed. "Heard it before, don't worry," she grinned.

Then I turned my attentions to the playsuit-clad beauty. "Like it?"

The 39-year-old nodded.

"Want me to photograph you in it?" I asked.

"And something else, sweetie!" she roared with laughter.

Wanda joined in.

"It's a deal," I said, turning to Wanda. "Tot up the bill while Pat gets changed. And put this on the tab as well." I tossed the black male briefs onto the counter.

"Oh, I can see these outfits are going to get a really strenuous work out today," said the cheeky little trollop, then Pat was gone and I peered closely at Wanda's tits.

"Like 'em?" she said, realising immediately where my attentions had been drawn, now that Pat was back in the dressing rooms.

"Lovely. May I ask?" I said.

"Sure," said Wanda. "38s – and the rest of me is 24 and 36. That OK for you, Mr Photographer?"

I nodded. "Sure, but don't tell my friend," I said, a throw-away line, really, I didn't give a fuck what Pat knew – hell, photography was my business, right?

When Pat emerged from the dressing room, clothes in hand, she walked to the counter, dropped the playsuit and bed boots on top of it, then looked at me.

"I want to talk to Wanda, Rick," she said. "Fuck off into a changing room and try on those briefs. If they fit, keep 'em on, I like the thought of you wearing them for me."

And you know what? I meekly obeyed, walking down to the side of the shop, pulling the PVC thing on – it fitted perfectly – and slipping my women's panties into an inside jacket pocket.

Back in the shop I found the pair laughing and giggling, but ignored it.

"Ready for lunch?" asked Pat, slipping her arm comfortably into mine. "Or shall we go straight back to your place, big guy?" And I didn't miss her theatrical wink towards Wanda, as she said it.

"No, lunch is fine," I said, ignoring her sexual overtone.

"Exactly," said Pat, moving towards the door, with me still in her grasp. "You know what they say, Rick, never make love on an empty stomach, feed the girl first!"

* * *

I took the busty creature, carrying her She An Me plastic bag, to an Italian restaurant in Ealing Brodway – I lived in apartments in Hanger Lane in those days, just up from the Central Line tube station.

While we were tucking into a ravioli dish washed down with an earthy Italian red, I asked Pat: "When did you decide you were going to fuck me?"

She grinned, flicked a trace of sauce from her upper lip, and looked innocent. "Oh, I always thought it was the man who made those decisions?"

I sipped on the red, made a mental note never to buy a bottle of the stuff again, and disagreed with her. "Bollocks, Pat, as you well know," I told her. "It's always the woman's decision. If a woman wants a man, she damn well gets him.

"A man can lust after a lady for all he's worth, but if she's not interested, then forget it. In the matter of sex and bedding people, it's the women who call the shots. And you fuckin' well know it!"

Pat laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh, and put down her fork. "All right, I made up my mind as soon as Camilla showed me your picture in the Mayfair office. You looked lovely, dark haired – I love dark hair – and you're not fat. I love slim. And you? You love lush-bodied and old?"

I nearly choked on my wedge of pasta folded ham. "Old? Fuck off, Pat, you're what? 39, the magazine said, married to a stockbroker in Surrey. Lush-bodied, sure, but don't bullshit me about 39 – 39 is perfect."

Pat finished her bowl of ravioli, and drained her glass of red, but wisely refused a top up. "All right, I give you the fuller figure, and the 39 – though I'm damn near 40.

"But there's no Mr Wynn, well not now. The fat slob was a stockbroker but the only figures he was interested in were in companies' annual balance sheets. And now I'm told all his colleagues in the City who have seen the magazine spread of me are saying 'You walked out on THAT?'

"Fucking creep."

I finished my food, we drank coffee, then I settled the bill and we got a cab from the Broadway up to my second floor apartment in Hanger Lane. Nice, polished wooden floors, looked out on a park behind, not on the traffic-streaming lane, and had a nicely furnished bedroom.

Once inside the corridor, Pat marched through into the lounge, nodded her approval, then walked to the door leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

"I'm gonna get dressed to thrill," she announced. "When I get back I want to see you dressed in nothing but that skimpy little g-string you bought at She An Me."

How could I refuse?

I stripped, putting my clothes in the spare bedroom, which led from the lounge via some sliding doors, then sat in a large leather easy chair by the window, the afternoon sun had made it warm to my naked flesh. Oh, naked that is, apart from the little briefs, which pouched my aroused cock nicely.

Then she was back, her high heels clip-clopping on the wooden boards in the hallway announcing her imminent arrival.

Fuck, she looked great!

There she was, clad again in the playsuit, breasts bulging out to greet me, zip undone, showing off her hirsute minge. The black rubber bed boots glistened on her like wet skin. The elbow-length PVC gloves shone succulently, as well.

She walked slowly across to where I sat, almost transfixed, then settled into my lap, my mound of cock and balls pressing against the crotchless piece of her playsuit.

Then she pressed her left breast against my face, rubbing it across my cheek, and presenting the turgid nipple, dark and blood-engorged to my mouth. I sucked at it, eagerly.

"This what you're after, eh, big boy?" she murmured, but I couldn't speak, I was too busy licking, kissing and nibbling at her heavy but delightfully firm mound of breast.

"Don't ignore its mate," she said, cupping my chin with her gloved right hand and brushing her right breast against my almost-drooling mouth.

I lay back in the warmth of the chair for what seemed ages, but I guess could only have been a few minutes, blissfully sucking and kissing at her great, glorious globes, but then Pat decided it was time to move on, as it were.

"Time for a different taste treat, big boy," she said, an expression that I didn't mind, although I knew when she got down to my seven-and-a-quarter inches she may well be disappointed.

From her place in my lap, the lovely 39-year-old swivelled around until she was kneeling on the arms of the easy chair and her magnificent minge was moving towards my expectant mouth.

Then I felt the moist hairiness close against my face, and I buried my tongue in her slippery snatch. The aroma was glorious, heavy and ripe with female juice, the perfume to beat all perfumes, and she wasn't just sitting there, she was writhing against my hard-at-work tongue.

As I licked up and down her thick-lipped quim, she was sighing and groaning, occasionally egging me on with "That's it big boy, there, THERE!" and then she was pushing her quim down, removing her cunt and labia until her clitoris was pressing onto my mouthy.

"Clit me, baby, clit me," she breathed, in that undefinable Home Counties accent, and I took the beautiful bud on my tongue and rolled it around, licking and nipping at the aroused bubble of flesh in my mouth.

Soon the inevitable started to happen – I never considered myself an expert at the old "Dining at the Y" routine, but I also thought I wasn't exactly a duffer in snatch slurping. I could get by, if you follow me.

But Pat was a great help. She writhed and graunched on my face and lips and tongue. She didn't just lie back and think of England, you know?

And the inevitable came with a crashing, thundering crunching on my mouth, as the orgasm pounded to the surface. Pat Wynn wasn't one to let such an occasion go by with a little laugh, or a small sigh. Fuck no! She celebrated it!

"Aaaaaah," was the first cry she let go with, as her climax soared to its pinnacle. Then a sort of "Yeeeeah" grunt, then another "Aaaaah", which sort of descended into a throaty, grunting "Aaaaargh" and then she was coming and coming and coming on my panting face.

Nice? It was fuckin' heaven!

To complete her oral arousal, I flat-tongued the thrusting, pulsating pussy, until my tongue was pressed against her quivering clit, and then, with a sort of sobbed pant, she pulled from my face and lowered her quim to my left thigh and sort of rubbed it up and down on my muscle there.

At last, she was satiated, and with a laugh she kissed me full on the mouth, the fact that my lips and the flesh around them was obviously heavily perfumed with her glorious sex juice not bothering her one moment.

"And now you, big boy," she grinned, placing a gloved hand on the zipper at my belly. "You ready to rock 'n' roll?"

Carefully, I eased her onto an arm of the chair and stood, unzipping – very, very carefully – the g-string. The last thing I wanted at this stage was to cut my cock off with a zipper, before I could push it into her wet cunt!

Then my 7 and a quarter inches of thick cock – thick, sure, long, no – was pointing at the lovely mature model. Pat looked at my cock, then looked up at me and the smile on her lips made me think she was going to make some crack about my cock.

But she then leaned forward, took the heavy ball bag in her left hand, and with the thumb and forefinger of her right, she took my shaft where it joined my scrotum, and bent to suck on my pre-cum dripping tool.

The sensation was delightful. She only went down on me to my ring, but her suck was strong, sensual and I thought for a moment I was going to go all dizzy and faint.

Then she pulled from my dripping appendage and looked up at me. "Very tasty, now let's see if you know what to do with it, big boy," she smiled, and standing, took me by the hand and led me slowly towards the bedroom.

Once again, I didn't protest.

* * *

The bedroom was also bathed in sunshine – the rear of these apartments away from the Hanger Lane side got all the afternoon sunshine, thank goodness – but I didn't need any help. I was on heat myself!

The lovely lady lay back on the bed – she must have pulled the sheet back when she'd got changed into her erotic gear – and I lay on top of her. No foreplay – none needed, really, eh? – and I was driving up her cunt in a swift, smooth movement.

Fuck, she was tight!

Her vaginal walls grabbed my cock and I was no more than an inch into her than my foreskin was being pulled back to the ring by the confines of her cunt. And then I was banging away at her, our pubic bones grinding together, our crotches making squishing noises as we made love.

"Lick them, tell me you love them," ordered my lush new mistress, cupping her puppies in both hands and pressing them against each other in the confines of the playsuit.

I lowered my mouth from her mouth to her breasts, sucking at first one nipple, then the other, rubbing my tongue across her lovely firm mounds, still revelling in the excitement of a new fuck.

Shoot, she was great! Her body wriggled and romped beneath me, and I had my hands beneath her buttocks, I was rubbing my palms over her cheeks there, and they were lovely too!

Soon, despite all my good intentions, I felt that wonderful, familiar surge as my balls announced "Coming, buddy, and sooner rather than later!"

"Fuck, Pat, I'm sorry, I guess you've got me all excited," I panted, "but I'm nearly ready to come."

Pat kissed me on the mouth, then snapped – and it was a tone that brooked my argument: "Pull out, come on my tits, quick, don't come in me, you cunt, on my tits!"

I obeyed, and flopped my old fella out onto her still-pressed together titties. I was now sort of circumsized, thanks to the tightness of her cunt, and my cock head was pink and moist.

I adjusted the foreskin, so my cock now had a full head of flesh, and then I was driving it between her globes, pressing and thrusting, relishing the lovely, lubricious mounds of fuck flesh.

The tightness of the valley between her breasts served to act like a circumsizer, the way her cunt had. As I thrust up towards her throat, the tension on my shaft pulled my foreskin lips back from the head, then as I pulled down to the middle of her luscious puppies, the foreskin plopped back in place.

Pat smiled as she saw this. "Look, he's enjoying himself," she laughed, "coming out on the upthrust to say 'Hello'. So sweet!"

And then, with a strangled groan, I couldn't stop my surging ejaculation any more, and my cock was spurting big globs of creamy semen onto her wonderful big boobies.

When I'd finished – and I hadn't come for about four days, from memory – she whispered: "Let me suck him!" I raised myself on one elbow and Pat Wynn's mouth made a sensational slurping sound as she sucked me dry.

Then, when I'd rolled off her lush, lovely figure, she peeled down her PVC gloves and rubbed her palms all over her puppies, spreading my spunk all over the globes till they gleamed with my semen.

"Do you really believe that that'll make your boobs bigger?" I asked, lying back and watching her work,

"If I believe it will, then it will," she smiled, working my cum deeper and deeper into her breasts, massaging away. "Doesn't matter what you think, big boy."

I leaned over to the bedside table and lit a Lucky.

"Smoke?" I asked, as an afterthought, but she shook her head.

"Filthy habit," she said.

"As filthy as liking a man to cum over your titties?" I asked.

"Much filthier," she said, getting out of her playsuit and peeling off her gloves and bed boots. "There," she said, with a gasp, "that's better. Fuck, that outfit it hot!"

"You can say that again," I joked, and she had the decency to smile.

"Now," she said, snuggling against me, "when do we do this photo shoot?"

"Whenever you like," I said, "I'm easy."

"I noticed," she laughed, looking at me archly.

"No, I mean business is slow at the moment. When you're free, I'm ready."

Pat Wynn propped herself up on one elbow and started to stroke my now limp cock. And – and I kid you not – the fuckin' thing started to get worked up again! Whether it was a new hand at work, or whether I'd been too celibate too long, I don't know, but it was getting interested.

Pushing the lovely lady onto her back, I re-mounted her now naked body, loving the way her big breasts pressed against my upper chest as we merged.

"I must be getting my second childhood," I laughed, as I started to thrust deep in her cunt once more.

"Just make sure your second childhood doesn't get so fucking excited this time," she warned me.

And as I pumped away again, she kissed me, then ordered: "Roll over, I want to be on top!"

I did as she asked, and the lovely lady placed her fists on each side of my upper chest and straightened her arms, thus thrusting her big bazookas against my face.

"Suck my nipples, go from nipple to nipple," she ordered. "Only do it slowly, suck for 20-30 seconds before going over to the other. Suck 'em hard, firmly, it makes me come!"

And it did! In about one minute, possibly two, but not probably, she was sighing and sobbing and then yelling "Suck my tits, cunt, suck my tits!" and she was graunching on my pubic bone and banging away to her second noisy orgasm.

Quickly, after her climax had subsided, she pulled from me, pressed her quim harshly against my upper thigh, then she lay back and commanded: "Now the tit fuck, big boy!"

And once more, after I'd adjusted my foreskin, I placed my cock between her big breasts and started to hump my way to heaven. Only this time, she had a twist.

"Now put it in my mouth, big boy," she snapped, "quick, before you spill it everywhere."

I was on the verge of asking about "Whatever happened to the cum on your tits?" but bit my tongue and placed my quivering cock to her lips, and then she was sucking me, sucking me, sucking me until, as was only to be expected, I shot my second load deep into her throat.

Smoking another Lucky, I lay back and we chatted, then decided on a bath, before getting back into the lounge and attacking my reserves of Bacardi Gold.

"One thing about the photo shoot," I said. "This may seem a fucking silly question in the light of what we've just been doing together, but do you want a chaperone?"

Pat, to my astonishment, nodded her head. "Yes, I do," she said. "And I only want you, her and me at the shoot."

I inclined my head in an accepting response. "Fine by me."

Pat grinned. "I bet it will be," she laughed.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well," she said, drawing out the word, "because I think you'll like her."

"Her?" I asked. "And why should I like her?"

Pat grinned again. "Because it's going to be Wanda from She An Me!"

Once again, I didn't protest.

* * *

Well, that was how it started. We soaked in a long bath, and yes, it came up again and we fucked in the bath. And then we towelled down and went naked into the lounge, drank some mellow Bacardi, then fucked again and that was pretty much the way the week-end went.

Pat Wynn was amazing. It wasn't so much her sexual gymnastics – she wouldn't fuck hanging from a chandelier, for example. She was pretty much into doggy style, soixante-neuf – a lot of that – the good old missionary position, fellatio and cunnilingus. Oh, and, of course, tit fucking.

So it wasn't the variety of positions, but it was the fact that she was so fucking enthusiastic. She'd fuck at the drop of a hat – well, the drop of a pair of panties!

And when the time rolled around for the playsuit photo shoot, I was pretty much exhausted. She? She could have gone on forever, for all I knew.

The day for the shoot arrived, and I had to "shoo" Jackie out of the loft, Pat didn't want him around. He was pissed at that, but I gave him a tenner and told him to prop up the bar at the Nell Gwynne and talent scout the strippers for me.

Pat had arrived with the lovely Wanda, and I found that the 18-year-old was going to "chaperone" the more mature model by wearing a red satin quarter-cup bra and red satin crotchless panties.

We did the shoot and the results appeared first up in Escort – "So erect, amazing" remember? – with a picture of Pat on the front cover, looking haughty and oh-so-fuckable.

The pictures were a big hit, especially the ones where she's holding this whip, with its thongs dangling against her magnificent thigh.

The same pictures appeared in magazines around the world. There was one, I've still got it, called High Heels, and despite the title it was a German publication.

All the women were wearing PVC, latex or rubber outfits, and most of them were holding whips. But the centrespread in the mag – and the number one stand-out, if you ask me – was Pat. Only the Krauts called her "Joan". Fuckin' stupid, as if you could disguise Pat Wynn as anyone but Pat Wynn.

I did several shoots with Pat after that. In some, Wanda took over operation of the Hasselblad and took pictures of Pat sucking my cock. Fuck, is my pubic hair black! More like sodding grey, now.

Other shots were of Pat licking Wanda's minge, a task she thoroughly enjoyed. They were always obviously Pat doing the licking, too, lovely profiles of her working away at the teenager's trimmed pussy.

And all the while, of course, Pat and I were fucking each others brains out. She was insatiable – well, she seemed that way to me. Since then, I've fucked a few women in her age range, and they go off like women for whom it's gonna be the last fuck they'll ever have in their lives. I guess it's that what makes mature women such good shaggers.