See, See - TV

I pushed my hand harder on her stomach, holding the girl's now writhing torso to the bed, pushing my tongue more deeply into her mouth. Her lips closed hungrily around it. Her head angled left. Her arm dragged me right. This little nymph was now heavily involved. She'd never been this ... involved ... before. My fingertips were back inside the waistband of her briefs. I have no idea how. But this time I slipped them in further, under the cheque. Feeling the smoothness of paper above, the ruffle of hair underneath: the youngster's pubic hair; rather down-like pubic hair it has to be said, which surprised me just a little. (I had imagined it would be more wiry than this.) I really should stop now, I felt.

But my fingers were feeling the shape of the pubis nestling in its silky cap of pubic hair. It nuzzled back at me. It stroked my fingertips as they in their turn stroked her, the curve of bone beneath, the lift and press as it rose to the tips of my fingers. The waist-band of elastic was over the back of my hand, rolling south as my fingers didn't stop, the cheque reaching deeper as well. Her breath was coming hard into my mouth. Her arm around my neck was pulling firmly though the other remained out the way. Was this a right brain thing? I wondered, stupidly, as my fingers in her panties curled between her legs. Her lips down there were plump as well. And hot, and slickly moist. I felt I should stop this. Stop it now. But here legs gaped wide, opening her labia, drawing my finger inside.

Honey moist! Furnace hot. Her pelvis squirmed against me.

What did girls her age dream of, I wondered, as her little tongue wrestled with mine, and her legs closed hard round my fingers. Her slender arm had slipped down my back. I was kneeling on the floor, my body over hers. Her plump breasts hard against me like warm adoring cushions and as the tip of my finger strayed over the entrance to her vagina it seemed to rear up and strike, open mouthed like a hungry bird it seemed to writhe up and circle my finger tip. I froze. I'd gone too far. I was fingering our maid in her bed! (I could be arrested for this.)

I lifted off the girl. My lips gently parted from her heaving cushion lips. The other heaving cushions of her breasts I felt depart as I lifted off. But my hand was still trapped in her panties. The lips of her vagina continued to purse, and pulse, around my fingertip, as if trying to suck me inside. "Mmmmh," I heard her pretty voice. I tore my eyes from panties, and hand, and let them climb the length of her. (Pretty sight.)

When they reached her face, eyes open and looking at me, I said, "Mona," as if surprised to see her there. (Who else did I expect to see in her bed?) And then her eyes moved off to wander down her body ... to her midriff and beyond ... my hand inside her panties. My own older eyes (by now), had wandered back there too, and with a presence of mind that amazed me, I said, "I've left you a little something." And as I said it, I withdrew my hand. All that was left at her midsection was the glimmer of skin, her panties, waistband set lower on her pretty hips than she would probably have put it herself, and the corner of the cheque, sticking out.

"What is it?" she asked, eyes staying with the corner of paper sticking from the waistband of her panties, rather than following my departing fingers, (sneaking off, a bit like a burglar from a house in darkest night, with his tail between its legs!) I told her what it was. She reached down. Took it out and looked at the amount.

"Oh, Mr Trabert!" she gasped, big bright eyes jumping to mine like a puppy dog's might. She reached up her arms and pulled me down on top of her. I fell right over the bed. Her legs tangled with mine and her arms went round my neck held me tight as her little tongue reached far down my throat in a wildly abandoned French kiss.

"Any time, my little vixen,' I found myself thinking as I went to work on her.

Her plump little thigh was causing considerable reaction from me, between my legs, so I tried to reciprocate, rubbing my own larger, rather older thigh as industriously between her legs as hers were doing between mine.

She suddenly froze.

She held me firm as a vice as her pelvis suddenly snapped at me, then pulsed, and pulsed again, then seemed to lock. I sensed a groan climb in her throat as her tongue, now still, let the groan bubble into my mouth. Had I made the sweet thing climax? Was this an orgasm, is that what it was, I wondered, holding her tight, holding her close, holding her still -- all except her pelvis, rhythmically spasming against me. Our lips slipped apart. She gasped against my cheek, then kissed my ear, and gasped again. Then stretched.

I let her lovely, lively, lithesome body alone and rose, a little guiltily, from the bed. I looked down at the sweet and lovely girl as she stretched, languidly and long, then sighed again, and then looked up at me. "Thank you," she mouthed, though for what, she didn't say.

I left, to let her shower. What if I'd stayed, I wondered. Would she have let me help her with her shower?

Next day I didn't trust myself to go and wake my Mona, so let her be. I saw her first, just after lunch, (although it didn't matter, I hadn't needed her). The following day was the same. On the third day after that hot impassioned morning, Sal left me a note for Mona -- some things to be done to her room, an engineer from work was stopping by. She asked that I give her the note then left, just after seven.

I played with the note for a while. Then a while more. Then I decided on a plan. A plan of action, if you will. I made my way to Mona's wing, not stopping at her door lest I alter my plan, or lose my nerve, or change my mind. I marched straight into the sweet girl's room. She was laying on her back, legs sprawled wildly in abandon, arms likewise, out to either side. I reached for the corner of cover that still lay lightly on her hips, and drew it off. With one hand I eased up the waistband of her panties while with the other, I slipped in the note. Then I turned and left the room.

I worked in my studio for an hour. And then, a further hour. At round about eleven my darling arrived, freshly dressed. (We dressed her in a French maid uniform: one of my wife's dumber ideas. Although it had to be said, Mona looked spectacularly sexy as a French maid.)

"I got the note, Mr Trabert," she said with a smile, dusting round my easel, switching her trim little butt as expertly as she twitched her feather duster. "Somebody's coming at four," she said, then stopped, her pretty breasts against my elbow. "I didn't feel you leave the note," she said. She said it softly, lips at my ear.

"Would you have liked to?" I asked, lifting my eyes from my easel to her face.

The little sweetie blushed. She actually blushed! Then turned away.

"Will you want lunch?" she asked, finishing up.

I told her, no need, I had to go out to the club. She didn't catch my eye.

I didn't see her again that morning.

Next day I asked Sal if she had another note she wished to leave for little Mona. She didn't, more's the pity. But then, on the way to the car, she suddenly remembered she had, took out her bag and pen and scribbled a note, folded it over, gave it to me. I waved my wife good bye, went inside, folded the note once more, (so it would fit in her panties,) made myself a strong cup of coffee. It was only seven o'clock. Mona didn't think of getting up for a good two hours yet. What would I do in the intervening time? I read a chapter of a book I didn't like.

Then it was time. Time to leave Mona her note. Entering the room, drawing off the sheet, drinking in the sight of her -- limbs and hair all over the place, smooth skin glistening softly -- all took no more than a minute or so, (but it set my senses racing). Mona looked so incredibly, lusciously, cuddly. And yet so chaste, and innocently young. So virginal, unsuspecting, pure. Yet with lips so enticingly plump. My own were soon atop them, my tongue painting moistness on both.

Within a minute she had started to respond, just as she always did. The lips gently coming to life as the rest of her lingered on, in sleep. As if they had a life of their own. As if her lips were playful pets who came out to play before work was required and their mummy awoke. Playfully innocent, innocently playful, basking in the early-morning attention they were getting -- that I was lavishing upon them. They were just like two fat puppies, thrusting and wriggling and squirming, filled with the fun of it all.

Kissing her still, I drew the hem of her t-shirt up her body, practically up to her breasts. I stared, like a drunken man at drink, at the sleek firm shape of her middle. With my mouth softly joined on hers, and my eyes angled gently down her length, I noted the flare of her hips, the flimsy pink film of her panties, the hopeless abandon of legs. Her limbs were invariably spread this way: either out to the side, or stretched up above, or bent well away from her body. As if she were offering herself. To me. But a measure too of her trust, the trust she had in me. Knowing I came in every morning, yet unconcerned. Continuing to sleep. Trusting, like a pet.

Was I betraying that trust?

Was I, by handling her thus, even in sleep, spoiling the view that she had of me, as a friend? I felt her little tongue come into my mouth, inquisitive as always, the little point wandering my gums. God! but this girl was divine. I stretched my mouth wide over hers. I gently eased the hem of her shift over a plump and warmly chubby breast. I lowered my hand onto skin and felt it fill with the heavy softness of the girl.

Her eager young tongue stretched deeper in my mouth. I found myself sucking her tongue as my fingers and palm luxuriated in the warm intimacy of this wondrous girl's unbelievable luscious breast. How could a mere lump of flesh feel so good? How could it fill my soul with such excitement? How could it inspire and arouse me to try so much more? To journey even further into all she had to offer, all she bore, all she showed, all she promised.

Was there more?

"Ohmigod," I heard myself gasp into the lovely girl's wide-open mouth, finding there was more. Good God -- so much more.

Her tongue, and spit, and fluids, intermingling with my own. Openly allowing all I wanted, while I encouraged her to do the same with me. I felt a gasp escape her throat, come glissading into our mouths conjoined, turn very briefly to the tiniest sound, as fragrance drifted from the working gap of lips.

Lips and mouths and tongues, and imaginations, working their agonising magic on the other. Forcing each to greater heights, or deeper depths. To better enjoy what it was they were striving to do, striving to do with no clear plan but arouse the bejesus out of each other. Climax and groan. Abandon, release. Sated at the end.

Today I needed my pet. To posses her sweet charms. I was intent on fucking the girl. Hotly and wildly and strongly and hard. It couldn't be postponed one more day.

Where the heck was Sal's note?

I was sure I had it when I came into the room, so where was it now? It certainly wasn't in the hand that was hungrily fondling the girl's soft breast. Nor in the other, fingers in the waistband of the pink stretch of panties that ran across her tum. It wasn't in the ruffle of pubic hair that my fingertips were already caressing and fondling and seeking to arouse. So where the hell was it?

Her slender arm came round my neck and pulled my lips closer to her own.

Had I given her the note already?

Could I bring it later?

How the hell else did I justify the lengths to which I was going with the girl unless I had a note, (or another raise in pay,) to hide behind?

"Ngaaar!" she gasped, tightening her arm round my neck, mashing her mouth to my own, shooting her tongue as far down my throat as the perky young vixen could force it! How did one feed such a hunger as this? I pushed my hand deep in her panties, curled my fingers hard and hungrily in amongst the engorged labia lips, sticky and hot, sliding and slurping in the honey she'd produced, lost in some sleep-induced orgy of hers! How could I satisfy a youth with such verve, I wondered, my mind almost coming unhinged as her pelvis rose off the bed like a fork full of hay, and thrust all it had in my hand.

Her thighs clamped tight around my hand as her hips drove high from the bed and a deep-throated groan came out of her mouth like the horn of a ship of fair tonnage announcing its presence in the midst of a fog. God, but that sound had me lapping at the youngster in a frenzy of lust. To know that I'd done that to the girl. That I'd brought her out and risen her to that. A heart-rending deep-throated admission of arousal. Confession that she liked what I was making her feel, wanted to be possessed as whoever in her dreams was possessing her now -- as I was possessing her now. Was there room for one more in her thoughts, in her dreams, in the fantasies she visited on mornings such as this. One more -- two more -- three, if that's what she wants. I'm not greedy. Even if she is!

Her shapely torso was squirming and writhing in my grasp. First one breast then the other pushed firmly into my hungrily working hand. Her chest against my own as her midsection curled and her face came into mine, shoulders curling high around her ears. Both her arms tight around my neck, as if she wanted to make us both one, all else ignored. Never mind dislocated jaws, stretched throats, over-excited mouths, over-extended tongues! (But another matter had arisen that demanded quick attention, lest I hurt myself.)

My erection, attentive to the youngster's nubile charms and willing acquiescence to being fondled and explored -- to her hungry responses to all that I was doing to her -- had to be released from shorts that had become alarmingly constricting, Y-fronts that were suddenly too tight.

Out it pinged like a spring loaded baton, hot and fat and ready to party. When I saw it's state I lowered my hips below the level of the bed with alacrity, lest a part of her noticed the monster and took fright. And there was the note! On the floor beneath a quivering phallus.

I made a mental note, when push came to shove I'd reach for the note, thrust it wherever was appropriate, say another pay rise was included, catch my breath, cover my embarrassment -- or whatever state I found myself in when the note was brought into play -- and I'd be safe!

That was the primary message, at least.

But what it meant, was this: that it was now safe to carry on, safe to indulge myself some more. Besides, it normally took four hefty shakes to wake the girl and I hadn't shaken her once yet! I curled a sticky finger in her midst. She gave another groan like a tanker in a fog, then arched her back and lifted her torso high off the bed, threatening to roll on top of me, phallus and all, on the floor. I manfully kept her where she was, pressed her pretty body to the mattress, drove my eager tongue down her throat. God but she was game, this little kitten!

So, when did she wake ... my foxy little Mona, my highly charge teen from the land of the sun, my game little kitten supercharged with sexual energy, and perhaps the sweetest smiles this side of Luzon -- hell, any side of Luzon!

Was it when I entered her and she cried out, raking her nails down my back so severely I felt it draw blood? Was it when she rose from the bed, neatly impaled in the tightest, hottest, sexiest grip of my prick my entire adult life, and came astride me? Was it when she moved her little butt up and down on my rod and covered my face with a barrage of the lightest, quickest, most sensual kisses I've ever experience anywhere. Ever. Or when she pushed down on my chest and sent me tumbling on my back onto the bed?

Or was it when she crossed her hands and lifted the t-shirt up and over her lovely head and tossed it on the floor? Or when she gripped a hand in each of hers and took them to her breasts, (a surprisingly heavy mound each). Or when, with her eyes tight closed and her face angled up towards the ceiling, she started to give little high-pitched screams in time with the movement of her pelvis, driving herself onto me, lifting off, driving me into her, lifting off, driving us both into each other. Then rolling on the down-stroke, pussy and clitoris taking the pressure, and pleasure, from the point of my pubis?

Or was it when she climaxed with a cry and a wild flaying of her head, left, then right, then left, then right -- keening as her shoulders reached high around her head, practically touching each ear? Or when she came the second time, me behind her, entry from the back, loving the action of her pert little buttocks as they punched into my lap, the writhing of her pelvis as my fingers excited her clitoris, the gasps and groans and arch of back that came from playing with her sensitive breasts, hard little nipples, bright red tiny lobes of ears. Ears as flushed as all the rest of her.

Or was it when she climaxed, a third or maybe fourth time, standing, legs straight and spread on the bed, thrusting back, arms on the wall above the bed-head, as I thrust like as dervish into her, hands round her front playing with all her private parts (as if I'd just discovered them afresh)? Or was it at the end, when she came so beautifully the last time that morning, both of us lying on our sides, legs intermingled, entry from behind but my leg over hers, and hers over mine. Like two sets of scissors.

My lips were on her lips as she turned her torso towards me. My hand on the breast arched upwards as she turned. My fingers cupped delicately round the back of her head as the sweetest, gentlest, softest kiss, and most sinuous motion of tongues, extracted the sweet final ecstasy from both of us. Which is when I remembered the note. I handed it over. The shocked look on her face when she read the note came as a surprise.

"TV," she squealed, eyes wide in alarm. "Guinea pig, guinea pig," she keened, distraught, (confusingly). "See, see, TV," she added a third part as if it were the name of a particularly nasty and virulent plague. She waved the letter in the air. Then dropped it and covered her face with her hands. I clutched at the fluttering sheet, cast my eyes over the message. Mona was a 'guinea pig', it seemed. For a new system Sal's company was using. They'd started testing it yesterday, hoped that was okay.

But it wasn't. 'See, see, TV' was not, (you see,) 'See, see TV'.

It was 'CCTV'.

(I spotted it then, above the door. The lens was aimed my way.)

Perhaps it wasn't really turned on, I thought, slipping from the bed without a word. (What could I say, after all?) Sal and I met that evening, in the dining room. It was a cold and stormy night. Rain was falling wetly in the yard and the window frames were rattling fit to burst. We were having iced gespachio, I noted, as I sat, an unconcerned smile resolutely fixed on my face as I asked, pleasantly,

"So how was your day?"