Show Me What You Saw Me Doing

Having quickly rolled on the second white thigh-high stocking, Mrs. Carson checked herself out in the mirror, fluffing her curly brown hair, and stretching down her too-short elf skirt to make sure she was somewhat modest-looking. She already felt sexy just putting on that kind of hosiery—the tight lace that bordered her upper thigh and the cool flesh, the light breeze that occasionally passed her panties and aroused in her a risqué feeling she rarely experienced these days. It made her want to pin down and mount her burly husband—but there was a party to attend to, and guests she had no interest in seducing. Besides, this story was not about her.

"The party's set for around eight—why don't you fetch that Lydia Roper and drag her over here?—you know how she's always late to our parties, Michael," Mrs. Carson said.

"But mom, she always used to throw parties, I don't understand why she's like this," he said with false sincerity. The truth was that Michael had a history with the next door forty-something "MILF" as he secretly called her, and he was eager to make his visit. On top of that, Michael hadn't been laid for months and his cock was aching for release. As far as he was concerned, his seed energy level was teeming to the brim. His balls were rising and falling, working overtime in anticipation of the visit.

"Ever since her husband got that new job traveling around the globe—what does he do? Something with Homeland Security—it seems she's become a recluse," his mother mused. "The two of them are just absolute opposites—while he roams the world, she turns inward...." Mrs. Carson rambled on and on, gossiping to herself about her lost friend Lydia. In the meantime, Michael had shut the screen door and was hard on his way like a thirsty bloodhound.

"Oh, Michael!" his mother called too late. "Well, I'll give her a call anyway to tell her he's coming over."

The Carsons and Ropers were casual around each other, often walking right into each others' houses, saying a hello loudly as they entered without knocking. Michael did the same, finding the front door unlocked. But he lingered near the entrance, stuck in memory. He had hoped he could at least flirt with Lydia some time during the Christmas party, or at least linger near her perfumed skin while he handed her a drink, but he was even more sanguine to see her once he knew her husband was out of town. Micael hadn't seen her for maybe six years—since he began college. Did she even remember him? He'd never experienced such a connection to any girl as he had with Lydia—and yet the two of them never had a relationship, just "an incident" as he told a close buddy. Michael never spoke anything more than this, though he easily could, because he knew no one would understand intergenerational love. It was the last taboo of love, he thought; even he fooled himself into thinking of her as a MILF—he only pornographized her throughout the years of fantasy because he knew he could never get closer to her. He'd taken but two steps into the house when these thoughts occurred to him—he missed his college days, and felt that the age of twenty-four was much like the end of high school—a sharp loneliness coupled with absolute uncertainty lodged in his chest on an almost daily occurrence. He shut the door behind him.

Mr. Roper was a collector of foreign art–usually sculptures–the livingroom and entrance were littered with antiques and other possibly priceless things. To the left of the front door, Michael knocked over an obsidian bust of a bejeweled woman; her elongated neck was stretched by copper rings studded with stones, as if her neck were a wrist wrapped in bracelets. The eyes were glass or opals–he certainly hadn't a clue. What amazed him most was that the expensive thump and crash did not elicit a response from Mrs. Roper. He only heard the sound of water filling a tub. Setting the bust in its proper place, he looked up from the exotic mess on the floor, realizing he hadn't been in the house since he was a teenager. As a young man at the Ropers' parties, he could never see past womens' eyelashes as they bat down at him, fawning over him, remarking about his bright green eyes. He could never see past the cups in the hands of a hundred half-drunk guests, those obnoxious heads, but he always loved the women in their skirts, their silky thighs at face level, and the mysterious cleavages that seemed to offer passages of exploration.

Now, here, the ceiling stretched maybe three stories high, decked out with paintings he couldn't recall. Finally he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by sense-memory. A mango scent crossed his nose as he flashed back to a memory when he was eighteen at the Ropers' Christmas party.

It was some time before the party had begun; his parents were downstairs getting the eggnog ready. He ran upstairs to use the bathroom when he accidentally stumbled upon Mrs. Roper, alone in her bedroom with the door cracked open, checking herself out in the full-length mirror. The room was right next to the bathroom, so he hid inside by the sink and peeked out. She was dressed in a Mrs. Claus outfit with black, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels. Her cleavage was mouth-wateringly plump, crammed into her tight, fluffy trimmed top. Michael felt his stomach warm, his throat choke, and his cock waking in his loose boxers as he witnessed what he felt was shameful for him to see. But he felt good—as she seemed to be enjoying herself. As her knees buckled ever so slightly, she caressed her body, slowly lifting her skirt higher on her thighs, revealing her pale flesh, which beautifully contrasted with the dark garter straps and her black lace, see-through panties. The sight of her thick pubic pushing from her panties sent electric warmth running to both his brains. His cock lay flat against his stomach, urging him to drop his pants and beat it off as she dipped her hand down to hover over her engorged clit. She released one of her breasts from her bra, dropping like heavy fruit from a bough. Her large brown nipples were hard from the cool breeze in the room; she pinched a nipple and her pussy surged with a heavier nectar. Ethereal energy bathed them both; Michael continued to rapidly stroke himself while one hand pivoted off the bathroom wall, as if doing a vertical push-up. There must been any easier way to do this, he thought, just as his body slipped against the door frame, startling her right before she came.

"You okay up there, Michael?" his mother shouted up to him. "We could use some help setting up down here, so wash up and come down."

"Yah, I'm fine... Okay," he said, gathering himself together, zipping up his pants frantically. He turned on the cold water, splashing himself back to his senses. He heard the brisk clicks come from the room nearby.

"What do you think you're doing, Michael?" a stern voice whispered. It sounded like a scolding teacher. Mrs. Roper seemed to tower above him, her long, tight thighs just inches from his chest. He was still hunched over the sink, his steel hard-on refusing to subside. He could smell the dank pheromones on her body; he could feel the heat and the sharp perfume drifting from her thighs.

"Um, washing my face, Lydia," he said with a sophomoric snicker.

"Mrs. Roper," she corrected. "You're not old enough to call me by my first name, sweetie. Were you watching me just now?"

"No! Well, ye-yes, sorry, I'm sorry," he stammered. He knew he'd lost.

"Don't be. I shouldn't have left that door open. What could a young handsome boy like yourself do but watch? Did you like what you saw?"

Michael was silent, utterly transfixed by her breasts–they were barely tucked beneath her red, silk top, and her bra, cupped under them instead of over them, jutted them further out. Her hard nipples pressed through the red silk top. A Santa cap drooped over her bangs. Her wanted to move her bangs and rub her.

She laughed. "You're silent, huh. Well, do you like what youseenow?"She sexily twirled for him like a youthful teenager, squirming her legs to show off her seductive legs. "No? Still silent huh? How about if I do this?"

She dragged her straps down her arms to reveal her bare shoulders. Michael swallowed a bucket of his saliva in utter disbelief at what was happening. He tried to escape to see if his parents heard anything, but Mrs. Roper was two steps ahead of him. She walked to the staircase down the hallway and told his parents that he was upstairs playing video games in her daughter Lindsey's room. Somehow she got them to go rest at their house until the party started.

"Now," she said, entering the bathroom and locking it, "I just sent your parents home." She took off her top, revealing her delicious breasts. She loved the rush of blood in her boobs when she took them out like this. She sat him down on the toilet and stood over Michael, raising her skirt just as she had done in the bedroom.

"Mrs. Roper, please, my parents will find out," Michael managed utter.

"If anyone's wrong here, it's me, dear, and no one will know. Who can suspect a forty-two-year-old and a eighteen-year-old? No worries. Touch me–it will calm you," she assured, and placed his hand on her inner thigh. "Isn't that nice?"

"Oh Mrs. Roper," Michael sighed as caressed her legs. He slurped his saliva as he felt her cool, pale flesh that pressed out from her tight garter belt. She dropped her panties, revealing that untouchable space he'd sucked to head-clenching orgasms in his fantasies. He could see it glisten with a dew he was drawn to. The sound or word "silm" came to mind. Also "ocean," and "moonlight." He felt joyfully tortured, and flattered, that he was being seduced. His hard-on persisted to point toward her and she was equally flattered.

"Please Michael, show me what you were doing while you watched me," she asked demurely. He heard a sincere tone, not the condescending voice he'd felt minutes earlier, and so he obliged quickly and jerked himself off slowly—not as he had jerked off in his late night sessions of loneliness, but as if he were modeling himself for her, showing off the best angles of his muscles. He tried to flex casually without showing effort, to let her see his abs clench as he guided his strokes. His shaft was already creamed with a boiling white lather, but he hadn't orgasmed yet. His balls were pained from the stop-and-go events, and he could smell his own scent mixing in the air with hers. It added more electricity to the air. Mrs. Roper was dazzled by his delicious cock and took hold of it quickly and caringly, crouching down as she rubbed her pungent pussy. She kneeled before him to lick the layer of cream off his shaft. Michael leaned back, amazed at the endless angles of her warm mouth, the steady circles of her tongue. He nearly fainted as she bathed him in her hungry lust.

"Oh Lord that's a magnificent cock," she sighed as she slowly trailed her tongue up and down him. She bowed and pressed two hands against his chest as she bobbed up and down on him. "Mmmmmmm..."—her moans echoed. Slurping sounds bounced off the bathroom tile, drool trailed onto his balls and perineum, which she tickled delicately between breaths and strokes. He lifted himself off the toilet seat so as to penetrate her cheeks and pump deeply into her. She seemed not to have any gag reflex, despite his being four of seven inches into her. He held her head, caressing her shoulder-length brown hair. He stood up and held it back for her as she masterfully managed his manhood. Michael was dizzy, but when she stood up to suck and pinch his nipples, he was reminded this wasn't a dream.

She came up for air and steadily stroked his cum-creamed cock. "Now, think you're ready to blow a heavy load on these titties, Michael? You wanna give Mrs. Claus your cream?"

"Oh fuck yes, please, please let me cum."

"You know, giving–your cum that is–is the spirit of Christmas!" she laughed, wistfully batting her eyes at him. Now, on the count of three, I want you to unload your sack all over these juicy tits. I want a layer of icing all over these delicious D's. Ready?"

"One–"

"Two–" she pushed her breasts together to prepare as he rapidly pumped.

Michael halted altogether and let out a guttural moan as he shot a rapid succession of hot semen in her hair, face, forehead and cheeks–they dribbled with the first rounds–and her breasts caught a pool of the burning cream several shots later. Even her belly was creamed. Lydia's mouth was agape, amazed at the sight of so much cum. She stroked some of it off her face just as more of it hit her off-guard on her neck and shoulders. Michael smacked the last pulsing contractions of his cock on her nipples.

"Three. Wowww baby," she exclaimed with a laugh, and proceeded to suck him off a second time. It didn't take long until he was rock-hard again. She stroked him up quickly and let him titty-fuck her sticky white breasts till he came one more time. That second time she caught all of it on her breasts and she trapped as much as she could as she snapped her bra cups on.

* * *

Michael woke up from his memory/fantasy and finally walked up the staircase while calling Mrs. Roper's name. The scent of mangos became stronger and stronger. Steam poured out from the bathroom at the top of the stairs, and the door was ajar, naturally. His heart beat rapidly as he realized that she had set him up, again. Again he felt shame and liberating lust at once. He peered in. She stood there only in crotchless, tan nylons and pumps, masturbating, enjoying her full body just as he'd remembered her years ago. She was still just as sexy, not as tall as he remembered, but now with a fuller, looser body which he found even sexier than the woman he'd seen at eighteen. God, those hips were so fine, and then such a slim waste—how he wanted to plant his hands there. He wanted to kneed her ass as she rode his face. He wanted her to force her pussy onto his tongue and mouth until she came on him, utterly pleased to use him before riding his cock. She continued to please herself with her back to him; he was hotly chilled by her sense of self-concern. Her juicy ass trembled as she caressed her hard clit. He was overwhelmed by a desire to spank her and take her strong from behind. With both hands she raised her loose breasts up and gave her nipples a hearty pinch, sighing as she let them fall freely.

She of course knew he was present, which gave extra charge to her pussy, and she gave her pale ass a healthy smack, as if reading his mind. She could hear him unzip his jeans, the sweet sound of a man's eager zipper.

"It's been a few years, Michael. Now it's my turn," she said without turning around. She stretched out her arms in front of her, taking a firm hold of the porcelain sink, and slowly took a step back, extending her tight calves in delectable four-inch pumps. She arched her ass and made room between her sweat-glistening thighs to reveal her untrimmed pussy. She jiggled her ass playfully, anticipating his sniffing, long nose and his explorative tongue.

"Turn off the bath faucet and come here," she quietly ordered.

Michael didn't say a word as he approached her from behind. He'd only been so hard one other time in his life, and it was the other time he was with her. He lowered himself near her ass, inhaling the scent of the fruity bubble bath, the suffocating steam, and the pungent womanly musk that made wrapped around him.

"Cat got your tongue last time. Hope you brought it today," she said with a domineering laugh. She felt his breath on her ass; she spread her labia just as he instinctively dipped his face into her pink.