Red Lace Trilogy

"Slow down, baby," I said, my lusty eyes finding him. "Bring that over here. Let me help you."

It's a big cock, this one, hot in my mouth from his coursing blood and his stroking friction. He bounced the fat tip off my tonsils a time or two, gagging me, but then I tried what I've only occasionally been successful at: opening my throat to welcome him deeper.

"Fuck yeah, look at that shit," Joe Joe said, my half-gone mind recognizing the sound of his voice. Hearing him made me think of Jack, and the half-lost sensible side of me wondered what he was thinking as Big Cock Joe went fully balls deep down my throat.

"Jesus!" Big Cock said. "Oh, fuckin' God! "

I had to push him to back off, the length of his hard flesh slithering out like a wet, slippery eel, still strung to me with thick threads of sticky saliva. I coughed and my eyes watered. I brushed away a tear and my finger was black with Jill's cheap makeup. I must have looked a sight. "Again," I begged, and Big Cock Joe went deep down my gullet a second time.

"Oohhh ffuuckkk! he groaned.

After cumming, Babyface had gone mostly limp and lost his energy under me. I craved another mouth on my pussy. I craved being fucked. Yes, it seemed like too much, pure craziness, I knew it, but I craved it just the same.

I dismounted the bachelor boy, sat him up and gave him a passionate kiss, me sitting sideways on his lap for a minute, the thrill of my nudity giving me goosebumps again. "Your wife's gonna love that mouth, baby. Does my pussy taste good?" He looked dazed, a little embarrassed. "Any of you boys wanna taste me?" I spread my legs like a slut, saw the nods, heard the "Fuck yeah"s. I wiggled off of Justin, reclined myself back against the couch cushion, feeling much too comfortable, and let anybody who wanted to eat my pussy go right ahead and do it. There were quite a few takers, six or seven, I think. As they gave me their best skills, I held each of their heads between my legs, my body now slouching sideways, so as to take hard cocks in my mouth, there at the side arm of the couch. Occasional moments of clarity let me see just how far into this insanity I'd fallen. I'd become the ultimate slut, maybe more so than I'd ever dreamed, and then I heard the magic words: "Can I fuck you?"

It was Big Joe, Brandon, the guy who thinks he hired me, there on his knees, with the angry purple tip of his pretty big hard cock just and inch or two from my pussy. "Only if you give me a nice tip," I said, my 'character' accent suddenly back after a long, slow slip back to my normal voice.

Brandon smiled, his face showing wide-eyed ecstasy as the hard length of him found the deep heat of my insides. When he was fully deep in my pussy he held still, his dark eyes looking deep into mine.

"Oh, fuck yeah," I whimpered, my voice my own suburban middle-aged self again. "Fuck me...Fuck me."

I'd lost my power, but I didn't care. It was he who held it now, he who heard my whimpering begs for "more", for "deeper", for "harder...fuck me harder!" It was the other young men, too, the power was theirs now; stuffing my mouth with their hardness, cumming on my face and in my hair; fucking my pussy deep and not so deep, sometimes hard and sometimes slow. With moans and gruff heavy breathing, some came deep in my pussy and some on my stomach, the mix of young man jizz dripping to a pool in my bellybutton, dripping off the sides of me onto Jack's white couch.

Then, wanting even more, I gave myself doggy style, my mouth full more than not, rough hands on the soft fleshiness of my hanging tits, me on the floor, on the carpet, me a gang-bang fuck toy, a deep throat suck toy, me orgasming with spasms and trembling legs, over and over again.

Then Jack finally gave me what I'd spent nearly two weeks craving, his gorgeous naked body and his gorgeous, big, uncircumcised cock, pummeling me in a relentless way on his waterbed, our hair wet after a shower, after everyone had gone. That was the astonishing orgasm that got to me, all the way to the depths of my soul.

Penthouse Forum, and an eighteen-year old girl. Add twenty-seven years of frustration to the recipe, then stir in a beautiful young man. Whip up a dozen males until they're stiff, and fold them in. Cook thoroughly, and enjoy your cream-sauced gangbang. Some like it rare, which is pink inside. There's medium, of course, but a few might like to try it well done, turning up the heat, and keeping it there, until the meat falls off the bone.

—

Jill's hungry cats greeted me with meows and ankle rubs the next morning, Saturday. It was 9am. I made coffee even though I'd had some at Jack's, after morning sex, of course, me riding his nice cock for a half hour or more, in what I think they call cowgirl style. I wanted him that way so I could see him. He's even more handsome in the morning, if you can believe it.

After feeding the cats, I took Jill's clothes that I'd worn — bra, panties, skirt, and shirt — downstairs to the laundry room to wash them, along with some of my own things. Down there in the basement of the old building, I noticed a new looking piece of lumber on the ceiling, held up against the bottom of the first floor by a metal post, and I realized it was something either the landlord or Jack had put in place to support the weight of his waterbed. Who even has a waterbed in the twenty-first century? I thought they'd disappeared long ago, like round sunglasses and Dinty Moore Beef Stew, but I guess all three are, strangely, still with us. I must admit the waterbed was fun, but I think it had more to do with the naked hottie I was fucking than the movement of the thing.

Jill came home not long after I'd put her sexy undies away, the red bra and panties nicely laundered and dried. The cats seemed pleased to see her, but not like a dog would be. I asked after her mother, as I'd done on the phone a few times, and she told me her mom's rehab was going well, she was up on her feet already, complaining about the food.

"My plants look better than when I take care of them," Jill said to me, looking around at her apartment. "Everything go okay?"

"Oh, sure, I enjoyed it," I said. "It's so much brighter here than my place."

"Did you meet the neighbors?" she asked. "The old couple upstairs are really nice."

"Yes, I like them. Quiet, but nice. That other young woman up there is very quiet. I barely saw her."

"You must have seen the new guy, right across the hall," Jill said, gesturing with a sideways nod of her head. Her eyes smiled a little and sparkled. "I just about dropped dead when I saw him move in. God he's a hunky one, isn't he? Makes me wish I was twenty years younger. I'd be all over that."

I smiled. "He had a party last night. He was very respectful, told the rest of us in the building that there'd be some noise. It was a bachelor party, for a friend of his. There was twelve of them."

Jill's eyes widened. "Oh my God, were they all young and cute like him? I'm terrible, I would have been spying out my window. Did you see them coming and going?"

"Yeah, they were all pretty cute," I said. "I was distracted and didn't see them going, but, I saw them coming."

And cumming, and cumming, and cumming, I wanted to say, though I'm pretty sure Jill would have been horrified. But you never know. I'm certain I'm not the only woman who's had a fantasy silently waiting, put to rest in the back recesses of the mind, lying dormant. You just never know when fate might make it real.

—

Red Lace Trilogy, Part Two — Heat Sparks a Fever

—

My mother, bless her heart, recently fell and broke her hip. I went there, to my hometown, to be with her for the surgery and to get her into the rehab facility. Spending two weeks alone in my childhood home was a real head trip, me sleeping in my old room, in my old bed. I'll tell you one thing that's absolutely true: women's sex toys—the vibrating kind, like the one I brought with me—have improved markedly since I was in my late teens. I wish they'd been this quiet back in those days; the whisper-like hum of the new ones would have been greatly appreciated by me when I was a shy, under-the-covers teenaged girl.

I felt bad leaving Mom after she'd gotten settled into the rehab, but two weeks of vacation time was all I had, so I hugged her and kissed her, and I came home to the little apartment I love. My good friend Allie, who moved in here while I was gone, took wonderful care of my three cats and my many, thriving houseplants. Allie looked so bright and happy when I got back, I think the change of scenery—her little 'stay-cation' in my apartment—pleased her and did her some good.

Getting back to work was a drag. Vacations, even unusual ones like the one I'd just taken to care for my mother, always make me long for retirement. But I'm forty-seven years old, still twenty long years from retirement, so I slogged back into the work-a-day world, Monday, and Tuesday, and then on Wednesday a massive, region-wide power outage sent us all home early, in the late afternoon. Saying it was caused by the air-conditioning demands of the third day of a heatwave, the newscaster on my car radio thought the outage might last through the night. The 103 degree high temperature for the day lingered, and the night's low temperature was forecast to be somewhere around 92 degrees. Without air-conditioning, or even a fan.

My cats, with their thick coats of fur, moved slowly, didn't eat all that much, and seemed most content sprawling on the relative coolness of the kitchen floor. I made the rounds watering all my plants. Even with all my apartment windows open, not a breath of air seemed to be moving. Finishing my meager chores, I made a cold drink for myself, a faux sangria that always tastes good in the warm weather. You fill a glass halfway with red wine, splash in some orange juice, add some slices of fresh orange if you have them, and stir in some ice cubes. Armed with this bit of heavenly liquid fortification, and dressed in shorts and my coolest t-shirt, I went out front to sit in the shade on the building's entryway steps. Up and down the street quite a few people were out, sitting on their porches.

I'd only been sitting there a few minutes when out through the front door walks my neighbor, Jack, a very good looking young man who's in his late twenties I think. He just moved into our four-plex building about a month ago. There are two apartments on the first floor: me, and now Jack, and I couldn't have wished for a more attractive and friendly across-the-hall neighbor. Just the other day I said to Allie, every time I see him I wish I was twenty years younger. He appears to be single, with no steady girlfriend, but I'm not sure of his exact situation in that regard.

What I am sure of is that I got my first look at his chest and his young muscled abs, bellybutton and all. Due to the heat he was barefoot, wearing jersey cotton 'sweat' shorts. His white cotton, short-sleeved, button-up shirt was fully unbuttoned and open down the front, and if I didn't gasp with glee when I saw him looking like that I did a pretty good job of holding it in.

I'll tell you right now I'm not a fan of this late forties speeding toward fifty age that I am. I'm not saying that if I was twenty-five I'd have the guts to make a play for Jack—truth is I probably wouldn't have the guts—but I would have at least held a glimmer of hope that he'd fall for me. But...those days are history, and nobody knows it better than me. The psychology of it would be easy to pin down if anybody cared to study me: I've given up on eating right, I have no interest in exercise beyond a simple walk to the nearby park every once in a while, and I haven't had a date in God knows how long. The last date I was on was a real turn-off, and, yeah, I've pretty much given up. My family genetics keep me slim, thankfully, because I sure as hell don't stay this way due to any effort on my part.

All of that gives you an idea of why Jack sitting down with me, saying "Hi Jill", with his shirt open and a smile on his face, made my old heart go pit-a-pat. Thankfully I'm a halfway decent conversationalist in such a situation, so I got things started.

"I hear you met my friend Allie," I said. "She told me about how nice you were, coming over to warn her about your party."

"Oh, yeah, Allie's great. I like her."

"Oh, did you get a chance to talk to her much? She didn't say."

"Yeah, we...talked," Jack said.

"So, I hear it was a bachelor party, huh? What are they like these days?"

Jack's face reddened even more than the hundred degree heat had already done to it. He shrugged. "I don't know, just...the usual."

"Wow. You're gonna make a girl guess, huh?" I took a big sip of my sangria. "Okay, lets see. In the old days you would have all sat around and watched a dirty movie, on Super 8, or sixteen millimeter, but that's hopelessly outdated. I suppose the modern thing is...you didn't have...a stripper, did you?"

Jack nodded, blushing a little. "Yeah, we did. It's like you said, it's just what you do. Sorta traditional."

I think my eyes were wide with wonder. "Wow! Right here, in our building? A Stripper? That's...kinda cool."

Jack nodded, smiling. "My friend Brandon hired one, but it got changed and a better one came."

"How do you know she was better?"

"Because she was awesome. The best."

I smiled. "Oh, are you a connoisseur? An expert or something?"

"No, all the guys thought so," Jack said, blushing even redder.

"Wow, a real crowd-pleaser, huh? Yeah, I can see it. If you're gonna take on a job, you might as well give it your all. But that's one job I just...can't really imagine. Not to mention that I'm not really built for it."

"Oh, I don't know," Jack said, giving my body a lightning quick, almost unseen glance. "I think it's one of those things that's more about attitude."

"Maybe," I said. I took another gulp of ice cold orangey sweet red wine.

Jack's phone rang. He answered it, standing up from the front steps where we sat, walking very slowly up the sidewalk as he talked, toward where my car was parked. Then he turned, still talking, slowly walking back toward me. I tried not to stare, but a barefoot, open-shirted man is hard to completely ignore.

"That was my brother," Jack said to me, pocketing his phone. "He said it's a huge blackout, more than the whole city. I was gonna go out and meet him somewhere, but there's nothing open, so he's coming over here. I guess we'll just listen to some tunes."

"Music? Do you have one of those generator things?"

"No, just a battery rechargeable speaker. I can stream music to it from my iPad or my phone."

"Oh, nice. It beats silence, right?"

"Hey, you're welcome to join us," Jack said. "We're just gonna have a couple drinks, and...my brother's bringing some weed, though. I don't know if that bothers you or not."

"No, not at all," I said, making it sound like I was an old hand at getting high.

I should make it clear that I'm not an old hand at getting high. I did smoke some weed in college, liked it okay, but I'm a drinks girl these days, and not even much of a drinker. As I sat there, glancing at Jack, both of us melting into a few moments of silence in the stifling, humid heat, my heart began to thump. Drinks, and weed smoking, in Jack's apartment, with a brother I didn't know he had. My first time in the interior of Jack's lair. This was all kind of a big deal in my little world, and yet the heat and the wine held me immobile, a slumping lump of old woman flesh on the front steps. Finally my sluggishly spinning mind got a grip. "I'm gonna go in and revive myself, maybe take a cool shower."

"Oh, for sure," Jack said. "Yeah, come on over whenever you want. We'll just be chillin'."

So, the shower was interesting. For some ridiculous reason I felt giddy, and sexy, because Jack knew what I was doing. I pictured him picturing me, my body wet and goosebumpy from the cool water. Of course I'm sure he wasn't picturing me, but my stupid lonely old brain wouldn't let go of the thought. And of course my stupid lonely old hands had to get in on the ridiculousness, soaping my too-small-to-be-a-stripper tits, and even cleaning my pussy much to vigorously, until, nearly gasping for breath, I stopped the foolishness. Walking into Jack's apartment with the embarrassment of a fresh orgasm written all over my face was not something I wanted to do.

The foolishness continued in my bedroom. Instead of reaching for simple cotton undies, shorts and a t-shirt—a standard having-a-few-drinks-in-hot-weather outfit—I found myself opening the drawer that holds my fancier lingerie, a drawer that hadn't even been opened in a year or more. The weird thing is, the absolute sexiest bra and panties I own, a blazing red exquisite lace set that cost a small fortune, were neatly folded right on top of the rest of the jumble, like they were laid out for me, glowing like the wind-stoked embers of a Devil's fire.

Like an idiot, I put them on. It was just a fun try-them-on-for-a-moment kind of thing. Me and them are old friends, in a way, my only true splurge when it comes to lingerie. Did you know you can spend four hundred and fifty dollars on a bra and panty set? I never knew it, until I met an alluring, wealthy man about ten years ago. He was the gold watch type, with a thick gold bracelet around his other wrist. Sunglasses that cost more than my kitchen stove. You know the guy — the Mercedes SL with the top down, the golf tan that makes his bald spot look like a dark oil smudge on a garage floor. Oh, am I letting my bitterness show? I shouldn't. It was a short relationship. He thinks he dumped me, I think I dumped him. But we did have some fun. We fucked a lot, which was a first for me. I wasn't a virgin before we met, or anything like that, but it was the only relationship I've had in my life where sex was truly a BIG DEAL. Sex positions I'd never heard of, lots of oral of all kinds. He encouraged me to improve my oral skills, and I did, happily. In just two short months I grew to really love sucking cock, and then it was over, done, the relationship finished. I've only had a few dates since, and the last one tasted a little like death down there.

So, after my shower, in the stifling stagnant heat of my bedroom, I'm standing in front of my mirror in my French lace lingerie, thinking Oo la la, this bra makes my modest little tits look like freakin' magic, and a Frenchman could read Charles de Gaulle's biography right through the delicately see-through lace of these panties. Then I thought what the hell, I'll just throw a little shirt and some shorts right on over these pretty little things. It feels strangely awesome to have them on again, and they still fit!

Red is a funny color, though. I'm not really a red girl in my general wardrobe, and this French lace is so very red that it shows through lighter colors easily, as I quickly found out when I put on a pale yellow shirt. But hey, it's kind of a cool look, and it's certainly modern. The shirt is a simple cotton button up, with a pleasing hemline and a cute little collar. Unpretentious. It's as cool a thing as I own for this heat. Since I was already sweating again, I went with it, with a few buttons open at the neck, the way I imagine you'd do in the tropics. To casual things up a little I threw on some old jean shorts I've had for years, nicely faded ones that fit me like a glove, even if they are a touch too short for a woman my age. Taking a cue from Jack, I left my feet bare, which felt surprisingly naughty.

I silently crossed the hall, quietly knocked, and Jack opened his door and I smelled it: Weed smoke and candle smoke, intermingled to a waxy sweetness. The fog of it hung in the warm humid air like wispy streaks of cloud.