The Zipless ... Ironing, Bored

He squeezed her breasts and as he did, he said, 'It's all a matter of degree.'

Which meant, he felt ... Not a thing!

He squeezed her breasts some more. Then he left them, as he must, and moved on down her shapely front. Heading for that pubis and its shape. And its roundness and its firmness, and it's downy covering of sily pubic hair. He ran his fingers over that. And then around it, then across it. 'Understand?' he asked. She nodded. 'Like trousers,' he said, his mind now off on a trip of it's own as his fingers, all eight, frollicked in the froth of the feel of the texture of teen-age pubic hair, under cotton, and neatly printed irises, on cream. He felt the shape of the girl beneath, but the surface sensation excited. The privacy afforded by the lightness of her frock, the subtle grating rubbing of the cotton, lightly ridged, the boyant frothy feel of the silky girlish hair, in such a secret place. And then the girl, of course, herself.

'They have to be pressed. Especially the crotch,' he said, reaching even further around her. Leaning over her and round her to the laundry basket sitting by the sink. Pressing her hip against the table. Pulling out some shorts from the basket. They were brief, and weren't his. They were yellow.

'Whose are these?' he asked, holding them up, one hand. (Shorts as skimpy and brief were not Mrs Corduffs.)

'They're mine,' she said, in her lilting voice.

'How do you iron them,' he asked. She had eased herself back from the ironing board and was putting his shirt, newly ironed, on a hanger. 'I'll take that,' he said, reaching around in front of her, taking the shirt on the hanger, and reaching behind him to hang it on the back of a chair. It almost fell. But didn't. Her buttocks were fitted in his groin like the bottom of an egg in an egg-cup. His hard-on was burrowing away, but her buttocks felt so tight, he didn't think she'd notice. (He did. But he didn't think she did.) 'You know how to iron shorts?' he asked. The Nordic princess nodded. Then smoothed out her shorts on the ironing table

'Yes,' he said, 'That's right.' But his hands went around her all the same. 'It's here,' he said, catching the crotch of the brief yellow shorts in one hand, turning them inside out with the other, explaining, 'This has to be smooth. It has to be ironed with the point of the iron.' And so saying, he took her hands, one on the iron, the other on the shorts, and showed her how to do it. How he wanted her to do it.

She did it as she was bid. Exactly as he'd said. He lifted off his hands, approvingly. They hovered lightly over hers, as if unsure of their next move, 'That's right,' he said, 'Otherwise it's rumpled.' He moved has hands. 'It's the crotch piece, here,' he said, one of his hands closing lightly, but quickly – bravely - on her pubis. He thought she sighed. She arched her back, a tad, he thought. Her buttocks pressing home.

He curled his fingers round the pubis, tips ducking low, feeling into folds of her frock and the soft folds of her, underneath. 'Otherwise it's creased,' he said as his other hand scurried down the outside of her leg, looking for the hem of her light linen frock, scurrying back when they found it. His fingers started juggling with the hem. The light folds of frock fingered this way and that – mainly that, moving it out of the way as his fingers found cotton and flesh underneath. And started to stroke and caress what they found. The girl's pretty back arched gently, then suddenly hard, like a bow being drawn. The sound from her lips, a gasp of breeze through the tops of trees. She rose herself up onto tip toes.

'Open you legs just a fraction,' he said to the girl, as if showing her another bit it was important to iron, as his fingertips ran into the cotton strip between her legs. Flesh either side marked the boundary. 'So I can show you how,' he said, his fingers coming back down the cotton – slightly moist? - showing the sweet girl it wasn't creased. Furrowed maybe, but not creased.

'A fraction?' she asked, the iron still moving on the table to her front, the word not a word she understood. His fingers retraced their steps. Softly up the cotton-covered folds of the girl. Secret places. Arching backs. Buttocks probing with an urgency greater than before. 'Open you legs,' he said again, keeping it simple. She parted her legs. His slippered foot slipped between hers, shuffling them further apart. She let them be shuffled. When he shuffled her more, she parted them more. The head of the house moved his hand between his pretty employee's now spread legs. And closed it around all he found there. 'If it's creased, you see, it get's caught,' he said, as his fingers snuggled closer to her secrets.

'Caught?' she repeated, sounding confused and a little distressed.

'See here,' he explained, now back to fingertip mode, stroking the length of her quim, flickering lightly in the furrow, circling the bud at the end, causing her knees to flex then suddenly straighten and tense. 'Smooth,' he said, repeating the process more slowly, more deeply, more thoroughly. 'It's all about thoroughness,' he said, being thorough, as the girl froze, then tensed. And her back arched abruptly with a sigh. Her eyes were closed, her lips apart. He watched it in the mirror in the door.

'Keep going,' he said, to keep her on her toes. As it were.

As she was.

And she did. Keep going. Opening her eyes and continuing.

'Like the shirt,' he said, bringing his whole wardrobe of ideas into play. Giving his other hand a task to do. It snaked its way up to her chin, then her neck. Then it dropped and he took her breast in its palm. He gently fondled the nipple at the tip. 'Keep going, ' he whispered, whenever she paused, as with one hand he fondled her breasts, and nipped and tugged and tweaked, (which she seemed to enjoy,) while his other hand explored her pudenda, all it's ridges and valleys and the bits in between that were moistened now, and filling with heat. 'Some are thinner, of course,' he said, not sure what he meant, but playing along. 'Take this, for example,' he said, lifting the ribon of panties out from between her legs and deftly slipping two fingers beneath. They snuggled next to her skin. 'Very thin,' he remarked, feeling the thickness of cotton while the back of his fingers nestled into skin, now moist, engorged, and hot. With his fingers and thumb be levered the strip of moist cotton aside, and slipped all his fingers inside. All against skin. Fingers slipping rudely into places of arousal.

'Keep ironing,' he prompted as she stopped. Her back now permanently arched. Both feet stretched high on tip-toes. 'And this,' he went on, a finger at the entrance of the girl's now honey-slick vagina as his thumb rolled her clitoris without a shred of mercy and his other hand slipped into the boddice of her frock. 'This too is thin,' he said, fingers now into her boddice, thumb remaining at large. Thumb and finger feeling the thickness of the linen of her frock. Two buttons undone, then a third. The fourth. He slipped his hand in against skin. Took a naked breast in his hand. Dropped his lips to the side of her throat. And started to fondle and scratch and excite her breast, as his tongue took a taste of her neck.

How smooth and warm. How sweet she tasted. He opened his lips as wide as they would go. He took the join of her shoulder and neck in his mouth and ran his tongue around it. He started to lick up the side of her neck. Making for the ear. A finger below ran warmly inside her, walls of a perky little pussy making him hot and damp, if not exactly welcome – but it was there, and she was here: how much more welcome did he need? His tongue found the lobe of her ear and lifted it softly to his teeth, that bore down hard. She yelped.

'Keep going,' he said, releasing her lobe to do so. She did as he instructed. He took her whole ear in his mouth. Lips stretched, ear small and delicate, fine. He let the tip of his tonged probe gently into the girls fragrant tasting ear. She sighed. Just as her breast in his hand didn't try to escape, didn't wriggle or squirm, just stayed where it was, in his hand, for him to enjoy, so her ear did the same, in his mouth. Only her pelvis was squirming. Just as her back was arched and one heel was high off the floor ... as his finger played music in her pussy. Music that makes pussy purr. 'You can stop now,' he whispered in her ear, watching in the mirror at the door, noticing her eyes tight closed, her brow furrowed deep, her mouth half open, as if in mild pain. But none of her deepest reactions prevented the dear sweet girl from reaching forward, putting the iron on the sink, switching it off,and dropping the briefs she'd been ironing, onto the floor.

Who cared!

(She could do them again.)

There she stood, legs spread, head down, hair fallen loose; arms straight, hands apart on the ironing board as he kissed, and stroked, and fondled her. Her shoulders rose and her face angled suddenly ceilingward as he slipped a second finger deep inside her. He ran the straps of her frock off her shoulders, her boddice to the waist. He tongued her hair at the back of her neck, then bit the skin. It made her flinch. Her eyes stayed closed. His shaking hand released the cord of his gown. It brought much of her that was naked, against all of him, naked too. His hand went between them. Scrabbled in and around those gorgeous girlish globes – eagerly bared and arched – seeking to locate his equally eager prick, and the target aperture. He had her arch her back some more. Lean forward more. Press back some more. And then, her shape and form arranged in the position he desired, he thrust his prick inside her. To the hilt.

To his delight she thrust and bucked against him as he pushed her over the board. Her golden hair now trailing in the sink, strands astray, breathing loud, awry. He began to pump her hard. The warmth and youthful firmness of the girl expanding his prick to pridigious size. The growing heat and girlish verve. The throaty groans and growling gasps. The way her passion grew as she threw herself into his thrusts. The throaty lower registers that signalled her growing arousal, growing higher through the scales as excitement grew and the violence of her bucking and squirming threatened to collapse the ironing board. Higher and higher they climbed, through scale of groan and gasp and plaintive cry. All the way up to a violently spasm of arching back and shoulders and neck, high pitched squeals that drove from her chest ever faster and louder, and more alarmingly, as his thrusts deep inside her did the same.

This was something. To see, to savour, to marvel at. This girl. This glorious, wonderful, specimin of feminine perfection. Youth and innocence, traversing the way, through this act, to woman fulfilled. And man fulfilled as well, Corduff, short of breath, was forced to concede. Sweating profusely. Gasping like an engine up an incline too steep. The girl was gasping too, now. Moaning and crying rythmic yelps for help as he drove in harder and firmer and faster than he'd done since decades gone.

And still he rutted her. As she rutted back. Her sharply punctuated cries reaching higher and higher. Cries like the sound from a bagpipe, beaten sternly. Little whimpers, high pitched, as if from a pup being bounced on the floor. Or a seal. Little seal, bumping down the stairs. High little squeaks coming out, as each stair hit soft stomach.

The monster with two backs. The monster in this case with one. The ironing table shaking and quaking with the pressure. Master of the house with his wheases and gasps. And ocassional groan. He came. Deep inside her. And she came, noisy as before, breasts squashed hard against the table, legs braced hard against the floor. Vagina grasping at him manfully. At his manhood, manfully. Getting her fill. Taking the toll.

Her hand clutched behind her, closed on his buttocks, holding him there. Don't move! Stay inside me! Stay like that! Don't ... The sound, when she came, was like the sound of a barrage baloon, leaking air. A lot of air. Through an extremely tightly strained valve. He stayed like that, atop her, hesitantly pumping the little that was left. Into the girl. The girl stayed still, but for the walls of her vagina, and her pelvis, both of which rocked and pulsed ... and rocked and pulsed ... as she groaned again ... and then again. He wondered at his skills. The sated youngster, gasping, drained. He hadn't known he had such skills. Then her hand on his buttock released its vice-like grip. Withdrew. So he withdrew.

His prick made a plop as it left her. She made a 'Whuff' in response. Her puss did that. He straightened his clothes. She straightened the table. He adjusted his robe, as she did her frock. Neither one looked at the other. They looked to themselves. Returning to their roles. 'I'll be out for lunch,' he said, finally, going out the door.

'Could you take the shirts to you room?' she asked, politely, nodding at the shirts hanging there.

'Good idea,' he said, and took them with him, smiling at the girl.

'Thank you,' she said, watching him go. Then she picked up the shorts from the floor, and began to iron them.