Would Like To Meet. No Strings Ch. 03bynortythorts©
Thanks for the comments on the previous chapter – hope that you like this one.
As stated in chapter one, all names are fictional.
He had only been dozing for a few minutes, but came round to the luxurious feel of her hand caressing his shoulders. He gazed at the tender movement of her fingers and rested his eyes on her wedding ring. Though now divorced, she had worn it to satisfy his longstanding infatuation for her as his housewife-neighbour. He rolled onto his side. She smiled at him. It was a warm, natural smile.
"Bloody hell, David. That was good!"
"I hope it was good for you, Joan. It was... even better than I dreamed. In my wildest dreams. And I've... er, had a few of those about you..." his voice tailed off. Despite what had happened and despite their being naked next to each other, her felt oddly shy again, and unsure of what to say or do next. He glanced around the room, taking in the expensive decor, and glad to be in such a hotel room. Sex with Mrs. Martin had been unbelievably thrilling, but the quality of the surroundings had added to its uniqueness.
She felt the same way, too. She propped herself on one elbow, caressing his chest and playing with his nipples. He followed her lead and slid his hand to her hip, fondling and caressing her lightly but without moving to a more erotic part of her. His eyes wandered over her kind, smiling, slightly lined face, her smart hair, and down her body. He took in her slightly pendulous, matronly C-cup breasts, her nipples (now almost flat), the curves of her waist and hip, and her trimmed but hairy pussy. Her labia were pink, moist, and swollen. Some of his cum dribbled rudely from between them onto the duvet cover.
They chatted about each other's jobs, where they were each living and such. She asked after his parents, but he avoided asking her about her divorce. This chit-chat went on for a slightly strained ten minutes or so.
Joan pulled him closer and gave little and repeated grunts of contentment, a soft "Huh-huh-huh...". She kissed him fully on the mouth then pulled away a little, still propped on her elbow, still gazing into his eyes, still caressing his chest and his shoulders.
"How long have I got you for then, darlin'?"
"Wheww.. let me see. There's a bus back every hour... I... I guess if I rushed I could get the eight-minutes-past three. After that it's just after four..."
"Is... is that the latest one you can get?" she asked, falteringly. She was shy about asking him outright to stay longer, and didn't want to pressure him, either. On the other hand, for him to rush off almost right away would be a sudden way for their liaison to end, and she was more than happy for a second round – or even a third, if he was willing. She sensed that he had the same reluctance to impose on her.
"I er... crumbs, Joan, I... if you wanted me to I could stay and get the four o'clock one or even the five fifteen. But... only if you wanted me to."
"We're as bad as each other!" she joked. "I'd love you to stay all bloody night if you could, David, but I know you can't. Do you want to stay till four – or till five? You won't hurt my feelings either way, darlin'. You've told me how long you COULD stay. I've told you how long I'd LIKE you to stay. The one question remaining is the same one I asked – how long have I got you for?"
"If you're sure, Joan – I'd LOVE to stop till five. Till four would be nice. Till five would be... unbelievable," Dave replied tentatively.
She chuckled with pleasure and kissed him again. They spent a few minutes snogging deeply, caressing each other lightly but tenderly as their tongues met and their lips moulded together. She chewed his lower lip with hers, tugging on it gently.
"And what should we do till then, darlin'?" she asked. "Don't worry – I'm nor proposing a walk through the grounds or another visit to the bar. I was planning to keep you right here in the bedroom. I'm... I'm really asking what sort of thing you like?"
He felt a warm glow. Her manner was genuine and warm, and despite her earlier crudity he was at this moment more comfortable with her politer speech. Such after all was the Mrs. Martin that he was familiar with. On the other hand, it was difficult to say what sort of thing he wanted. When it came down to it, despite what had just happened, he felt curiously shy – and afraid of alienating her.
"I er... whatever YOU like would be fine by me, Joan," was the best he could manage.
She laughed again.
"Here we both go again, both too afraid or too polite, David. Let's have a coffee – the stuff is on the tray..."
He watched her, enthralled by the sight of her as, unashamedly she wriggled off the bed and walked naked over to the dressing table. Her ample breasts shook and swayed enticingly as she did so, and her bum cheeks quivered a little, too. He felt a tingle in his groin, even though he had just spent himself. She switched the kettle on and asked if he wanted tea or coffee. They reverted to their slightly awkward conversation, but managed to exchange and share a few anecdotes that were not too personal.
She brought the coffees over to the bed and placed his on the bedside cabinet on his side of the bed and hers on her side.
"Shall I show you some of the clothes I brought? I hope you won't find it too... tacky..." she said softly. It seemed the best way to move the conversation – and stop the situation from lapsing into awkwardness again.
"Love to, Joan, love to!" Dave's heart was beating slightly faster with anticipation.
He gazed at her naked, slightly plump body once more as she walked to the dressing table. As she stooped forward to open one of the drawers her breasts flopped forward deliciously, and her bum cheeks tautened.
She lifted something out and turned around to face him, holding it against herself. He blushed with excitement. It was a black, see-through nightdress that even with its double thickness against her nevertheless showed her breasts, her navel, her dark, trimmed pubes and her pouting pussy lips. It reached just part way down her fleshy thighs.
"Oh yes, Joan! I love that!" he blurted out enthusiastically.
"I hoped that whoever I..., sorry, David, that YOU would like it." She blushed at her slip of the tongue. She remembered that others may yet contact her in response to her ad. She felt like a prostitute with clients waiting to see her. But the naughtiness of it made her feel aroused, too. From the drawer she also pulled a pair of black fishnet stockings and a black suspender belt. Little white bows decorated the suspenders.
"Or... or there's this instead, if you prefer..." she continued. She draped the clothes over the dressing table and stepped to the wardrobe, again giving him a view of her bouncing breasts, her shapely bum, the smooth skin of her back, the curve of her waist and hips. She opened the wardrobe door, slid a black and white garment from a coat hanger, and paused a moment, unsure whether he would laugh out loud or whether he would be genuinely aroused instead.
Dave felt another twinge of intrigued arousal as his sexy former neighbour stood with her back to him. He glanced in the mirror at the reflection of her ripe breasts, slightly soft and sagging, and at her now-flat nipples.
She turned slowly round to face him with the garment held in front of her, as before. He gave a low gasp of delight, and his jaw dropped a little. She blushed with delight at his reaction.
"Oh wow! Mrs. Martin! I mean 'Joan'!"
He ran his eyes over the French Maid outfit that she was brandishing to him. The black material was slightly silky, and was drawn in at the waist to emphasise the curve, and flared out at the hem. The neckline and short sleeves were trimmed with white subtle frills, and the hem had a wider band of white frilled material around it. A little white bow adorned the bottom of the neckline, cheekily drawing attention to it. The obligatory white, frill-and-lace-trimmed apron hung down from the waist, its ribbon ties hanging loosely down. Below the waistband the dress was not just flared. It positively stuck out a little, with a number of alluring pleats adding to the effect.
Clearly this was no cheap, tacky outfit bought from a novelty shop for wearing once or twice for a fancy dress party. It looked well made. Fleetingly he wondered where she had bought it, when she had done so, and what looks she had drawn from the assistant as she paid for it. Then he realised she had probably bought it by mail order.
He looked into her eyes. They were twinkling, and she grinned widely and saucily. He could hardly believe that his former neighbour, about whom he had fantasised so many times, was standing here before him in this way. He had always considered her unattainable, and now here she was acting the slut before him with an erotic costume and egging him on.
"C'est d'accord, oui?"
His stomach fluttered. As if it were not thrilling enough to be showing him the sexy outfit, she was actually playing a part as well. He vaguely remembered that she had a sister or brother in France, and had a smattering of the language as a result. "Beyond my wildest dreams" is a badly overworked cliché, but in Dave's case it was literally true right now.
"Er, yes, Joan. Bloody hell, I love it!" He hadn't taken in her actual words, let alone understood them from his former schooldays, but the gist was obvious enough.
Joan was thrilled at the strength and genuineness of his reaction.
"Which do you want me to wear then, darlin'?"
"That one. Please. That one you're holding, Joan. Bloody hell!"
Joan laughed softly. She felt a little wave of arousal.
There was good reason for her to have brought along special costumes. She had of course been expecting – under the fictitious name 'Brenda' – to meet a total stranger. If she liked him, she would have "no strings fun" with him. But she had felt that it would be a lot easier to have sex with a stranger in an erotic costume, and a little play-acting would trouble her conscience less. Sex in the guise of another persona would put a little distance between her and whatever she got up to.
Meeting David, the son of her former neighbours, had been an enormous shock initially, and ending up having sex with him was an almost equal shock.
But although she had already had sex with him – and very good sex it had been, too – she still fancied wearing something naughty and acting a part for their second time. Partly she fancied being naughty for him – shocking him a little with her now overt sexuality, and playing the slut for this younger man.
Also, the fact of the matter was that she had often fancied some sexual role-play in her marriage. But Paul, her ex-husband, had proved quite unimaginative. Sex with him had been okay, positively good at times, but he had always been more intent on his pleasure than on hers. And, whilst he quite liked her dressing up in some way or other for sex, including the outfit she was now showing off, it was simply the clothing that gave him the kick. He seemed embarrassed or maybe disinterested in playing out a scenario.
And of course, when he had bored of sex with her – despite her own efforts to please him – he had decided to screw a younger woman instead. Joan had disturbed them as the girl was giving Paul oral sex on their own marital bed. Joan had several times previously offered her husband other sexual variety, but hated the way he had once rammed his erection against the back of her throat, nearly choking her. The floozy with whom she caught him clearly had no such qualms.
"Bastard!" she thought. "If you could see me now you'd have a shock, wouldn't you, you BASTARD!"
But basking in the glow that David's longing gaze upon her produced, Joan beamed with pleasure, walked over to the bed and kissed him on the mouth.
"I'll wear it with pleasure, darlin'. But... I want to play the part of a maid, not just dress like one."
The words sent a shudder of pleasure down his spine. He had a penchant for role-play himself, though he had had little chance to indulge it. He was now in the early stages of a relationship that was still fairly casual, and enjoyed good, basic sex with his girlfriend. His former girlfriend had agreed on occasion to wear stockings and silky lingerie for him, but she complained (despite his protests to the contrary) that it made her feel that he fancied her more for the way she was dressed than for herself. Any mention of role-play produced an expression that combined derision and disgust, as if he was some kind of pervert.
So on and off over the past few years he had nursed two fantasies. One was to have sex with an older woman. The other was to have role-play as the build up to sex. His great fantasy would be to have role-play sex with a mature woman. His ultimate dream – that would surely never be more than that – would have been to have role-play sex with Mrs. Martin. He had often masturbated to such fantasies of her, relishing the impossible scenes in his mind.
Now his ultimate fantasy stood before him. He almost pinched himself to make sure he was not dreaming.
Mrs. Martin kissed him again and whispered a few ideas in his ear and he nodded, his eyes widening, and his limp manhood beginning to stir.
He rolled away from her, feeling strangely embarrassed again by his nakedness before her. The roving of her eager eyes told its own story and embarrassed him further and excited him at one and the same time.
As she had suggested, he picked up his boxers and trousers, and stepped into the en-suite bathroom. He had a pee and flushed the toilet. He stood in front of the washbasin and ran some warm water into it, then took some soap and washed the stickiness from his penis, rubbing his thumb inside his foreskin. Two or three minutes must have passed. He heard her softly humming a pop tune in the adjacent bedroom. A couple more minutes went by.
Then, although he was expecting it, the door suddenly burst open, and there stood The Maid. Mrs. – or, rather, Madame Martin. She had a cleaning cloth and a bottle of household cleaning liquid in her hand. He guessed that she had retrieved them before he came to the room.
She looked incredibly sexy, and the outfit was clearly of reasonable quality and not some cheap novelty shop product. She was wearing a little white headpiece. Her slightly dark skin that showed above and through her black fishnets was highly arousing. Her dress was short enough to expose a strip of skin between the tops of her stockings and her white, frilly hem. The white apron and white bow at her neckline contrasted sensually with the black of the dress. A similar but smaller white bow was attached to each black suspender that held up her fishnet stockings. The whole contrast between the black and white of the uniform seemed at once austere, feminine and enticing. Her red shiny lipstick emphasised her sexy mouth. He flushed with embarrassment and lust.
She looked at his naked penis as he washed it and froze with feigned shock. She put her hand over her open mouth (her lips were coated with shiny red lipstick), then looked away and covered her eyes.
"Pardonnez moi, Monsieur! Pardonnez moi! Je ne pensais pas..!"
He was taken aback that she was playing the part so much as to even speak in French. That she did so with a tangible provincial English accent made it seem more appealing than if she had spoken it perfectly. It served as a reminder that it was all done for pure fun and not primarily for realism.
"No, it's my fault, Mrs... Madame. Pardonnez MOI si' il vous plait! I should have shut the ..." his French was extremely rusty, but it was fun, it was like a genuine struggle to communicate with a foreign maid. "I should have... er... fermed la porte!" For effect he mimed the action of closing the door.
But she had already turned around, returned to the bedroom, and closed the door behind her.
Dave's pulse had quickened and he had the start of an erection. He stepped into his boxers and trousers and tugged them up. Then he gently opened the bathroom door and went back into the bedroom.
She had her back to him but turned round as he came in. She looked at him coyly. She had a feather duster in her hand. He stared at her ripe breasts under her dress, at her face, then at her fishnet-clad legs and thighs. Her red-glossed mouth and her eyes opened a shade wider as she looked at his bare chest. Then she looked away again, feigning embarrassment, and flicked the feather duster over the windowsill. She started humming again.
He stared at the shiny fabric of her dress, following the line of the zip from her mid back to the back of the neckline. He gazed, spellbound, at the white frilled hem as it swayed sensually in time with her hips as she moved about. Her legs were plump, her thighs fleshy, (though not fat and flabby) but her black stilettos made her legs appear longer. Her fishnet stockings fascinated him, her skin showing through the criss-cross weave. He had seen fishnets in old films and in porn magazines, but never for real. His former girlfriend had declined to wear them, and had been reluctant even to wear nylon ones.
He picked up the glossy magazine that lay on one of the easy chairs, sat down, and pretended to browse through it. In truth he was gazing at Mrs. Martin. Her waist looked appealing due to the flared cut of the lower part of her dress, and the frilled hem still swayed deliciously as she moved. His gaze rested on her bum (that he had caressed not long ago), then shifted to the bare skin of her thighs between her stockingtops and her dress.
She moved along one side of the room, again briefly turning to him and running her eyes over him. Seemingly unintentionally and innocently – though of course in reality it was neither – her tongue ran over her lips for a brief moment. Then she turned her back again. She dusted the chest of drawers, moving the feather duster lightly and with feminine, unnatural flicks of her wrist.
He was really hard now, but made himself wait for the pre-arranged signal. She put down the duster and walked past him to the bed. He was very tempted to grope her thigh or her lovely backside as she passed him, but he refrained. She shot him a brief smile, then looked away, pretending coyness. Her ripe breasts jiggled under her black maid dress. It was cut just low enough to show some of her cleft and the bare skin of the tops of her breasts. She leaned forward and tugged the bed covers straight.
He stared inside her neckline. She was wearing a white lacy bra. It was fairly scanty. Her breasts surged forward. He gazed at them, at her smart hair and the little white headpiece of her costume. She ran her hands over the covers to smooth them out, then shook the pillows on the side of the bed furthest from where he was sitting.
Her own heart was thumping with excitement. This slow, teasing pre-foreplay was surely far more delightful than immediately launching into sex, or even getting straight down to kissing and caressing. She was determined to build it up slowly, and to savour each moment of the scenario without making it too stilted or corny. Having a sister living in the south of France and married to a French man was a great asset, too, she reminded herself. It meant that her French was reasonably fluent and her accent was acceptable. She had also made a point of looking up a few naughty words in her dictionary especially for this afternoon.
His eager stares made her feel incredibly good about herself and sexy. Like her ex-husband Paul, she, too, was clearly well able to attract and bed someone considerably younger if she chose to. Like him, too, she was able to indulge in what took her fancy. But unlike him she had been entirely faithful through twenty-two years of marriage. She had been tempted a couple of times to go beyond harmless flirting with a colleague. But as a married women she hadn't bared her genitals to be kissed and sucked for a few moments of illicit pleasure with another. Not like him! The bastard!