Lady in Mourning

She was in mourning, and that was obvious. It also looked like she was fairly wealthy--only rich people actually DRESS like they're in mourning. She wore a knee-length black dress with long sleeves and a high collar. She also wore one of those kind of flat hats with a black net veil. Her makeup was exquisite, and her hair coiffed professionally in a stylish bun on the back of her head.

But why in the hell was she on the subway if she was wealthy?

I didn't know, and I couldn't think about it. I was riveted on her legs. Her skirt had ridden up a little as she sat there, and I could see a good way up her upper thighs from where I sat across from her. She didn't see me, I figured. Her face was turned away, to the side, and every now and then she would dab her eye with crisp white handkerchief. They were good legs for a middle-aged woman. The skin was tight, and they were slim and fit.

I guess maybe she did see me, somehow, though. She must have, because she very slowly moved her thighs apart a bit. Not so it was noticeable to the entire car--just to me. I could now see all the way up her skirt to her panties.

I LOVE panties, and I started to get hard as I gazed at her crisp white underpants contrasting against her stark black dress. SHE might have been in mourning, but the only thing I was mourning was that I couldn't see a little more of the crotch of her panties.

When I got off the train (planning to home and get off to the image of her white panties), I was surprised when she left the train as well. I live in a cheap, dodgy part of the city. I work in an adult bookstore, so I don't make much money; I live where I need to live, and I don't complain about it.

But this lady was CLEARLY not from around here. I looked at her, puzzled. She looked me directly in the eye. "Don't look so confused," she said in a deep, silky voice. "I've been letting you stare up my skirt for the last fifteen minutes." She was confident and a bit condescending...but she didn't smile.

"Well...what of it?" I asked.

She sighed and looked to the side, dabbed her eyes. When she looked back at me, she looked tired. "I just lost my husband. I'm in mourning, and I need to...I don't know...I need to...feel better, I guess. To have someone MAKE me feel better." She looked me in the eye firmly. "Can YOU make me feel any better?"

I couldn't believe this! This was the kind of thing I read about in the porno books in my store. Happening to ME?! "I can make you feel SOMEthing," I said. "You'll have to tell me if makes up for the loss of your husband."

She snorted derisively and nodded her head toward the subway station's stairs. "Lead the way, Romeo," she said sarcastically.

This lady was turning out to be kinda bitchy, but I kind of liked it. It was like sparring, seeing who would blink first. I was pretty sure from the start, though, that I wasn't gonna be able to outsmart her high-tit rich-bitch attitude.

We got to my place pretty quick; I only live a couple blocks from the station, the dirty bookstore, and the corner where some of the skankiest (but cheapest!) hookers work every night.

"You're a regular Rockefeller, aren't you?" she snarked, looking around.

"It may not feel like home, but that's not what you really wanna feel right now anyway, is it, lady?" I countered.

She smirked at me and finally looked a little interested. "Well maybe there's something besides a meat-beating crotch-watcher here after all..."

I smirked myself, truly amused. There really WASN'T much to me beyond that, but I wasn't going to tell her!

We were at my apartment in minutes, and she went in the door first. I didn't even have the door closed before she scooped off her dress and stood there in her shiny white bra and panties.

I dropped my sweats to the floor, and my drawers with them. She didn't have to get me in the mood--I was fully hard and ready to go.

She looked at my cock and rolled her eyes. "If you're going to make me feel ANYthing with THAT, you're going to have to work for it...Stumpy."

That stung. That wasn't sparring, that was just fucking mean. I wanted tell her, "Look bitch, if you don't want it, hit the fuckin' bricks!" But that's what you say to a ten-dollar hooker who tries to act like a princess. The fact was, I wanted this fancy broad so bad, I would take ANY amount of shit from her.

"I ain't afraid of work," I said, stepping toward her.

She turned away from me and walked purposefully toward my bedroom, perfectly at ease in nothing but her underwear. She laid down on my dirty sheets (I beat off like it's going out of style) without batting an eye, propped her heels on the edge of my bed, and said, "Start on your knees, then, worker-bee."

I got on my knees and put my face in Queen-Bee's crotch. She smelled like perfume...and something else. I was inhaling her scent for the second time when she snapped, "For fuck's sake, you're not going be any use if I have to keep my god damn underwear on! Are you afraid of pussy, boy?"

In spite of myself, that pissed me off. Being called "boy" like that. I stood up suddenly and swept her heels off the bed. I reached up to her waist and pulled her rich-looking panties off roughly. She looked at me with a challenge in her eyes. She put her heels back up on the bed and spread her knees wide.

I kneeled down again and planted my face directly in her pussy. And I mean right in her crack, no fooling around with kissing licking and all that romantic shit. This lady wanted to feel something, and I was going to do my best to give her the feeling of her life!

But just as I thought these macho words, I realized something: her pussy was more than wet. It was fucking soggy! Her pubic hair (nicely trimmed, probably by the same guy that did the hair on her head) was matted and damp. Her labia were slick and sticky. When I pushed my tongue inside her, I didn't encounter the hot, tight flesh of pussy-meat; I found myself slurping male cum!

She groaned and reached down to push my head tighter against her twat. She bore down, and I felt man-cum start oozing from her cunt onto my face. I would have thought I would be disgusted...but it was hot--this rich, classy lady was a cum-dumpster!

The taste of the guy cum was sweet and sour at the same time, and it had a hint of pussy juice, too. She continued to bear down like she was trying to shit, and cum just kept spilling on my face. The guy must have been loaded for months before he blew inside her! Finally, Miss High-Tits grunted and ground her snotty pussy on my face so hard it hurt and had her own orgasm, and then I had HER cum all over my face, too.

She released my head, and growled angrily through clenched teeth, "Now fuck me, you little street rat, and you better do it right if you want to cum in a real woman for a change!"

I stood up and leaned over her to kiss her red lips first. But she pushed my face away in irritation. "I didn't say date me, loser! I said FUCK ME!"

I stood up, then, and pointed my pecker at her hole. I was truly irked now. She wanted fucked? Fine. She wanted to play dirty? Fine. I'd give it to her as mean as she was being to me. I took a step forward and jammed my cock into her with no warning or lube or anything.

But she didn't miss a beat. She groaned a little, and I slid into her with no trouble at all, she was so slick covered in slimy cum. I hammered it in, trying to be rough to counter her attitude. But I didn't bottom out. All that happened was a squish sound, and someone's cum was all over my own pubic hair now. I fucked her wet, full pussy for about five minutes, then pushed as deep as I could and shot my load.

I stepped back and looked at her to see if I had shown her who's boss. But there was no emotion on her face. She didn't even look at me. She picked up her underpants and put them back on as ordinarily as if she was getting dressed in the morning. She had never even taken her bra off, so she just slipped her dress back on, on put that weird little hat on her head.

When she was fully dressed, she looked at me disdain. "You didn't do any better Harry's brother did after the funeral. Or his father. Or that guy on the bus. Or the three or four wanna-be tough guys like you. You're all a bunch of five-minute wonders with pricks too small to do any real damage."

She shook her head as I stood there in nothing but my tee shirt, my slimy dick limp now, and drooling who knew how many guys' semen onto my foot.

"Harry died with some tranny's dick in his throat--actually choked until his heart quit. I don't know where that son of a bitch found somebody with a cock like that, but I'm gonna find one, too. I'm gonna meet back up with Harry with my cunt dripping and tell him what a fucking waste his funeral--and his life for that matter--was.

"Until then..." she said with disgusted disappointment, "I'm guess I'm getting back on the fucking train."

She walked out of my apartment and slammed the door behind her. I just stood there with my mouth open, my dick dripping, wondering what the fuck had just happened. I still can't believe any of it but the fantastic taste of several men's sperm on my face and tongue.

Maybe someone reading this can explain to me what the fuck it was all about while I clean off my foot.