He Looked Familiar
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“He Looked Familiar” (circa-1982)
When Brenda Morton entered a room her tits came first and the rest followed.
“Come inside,” she invited, her words breathed in a soft seductive whisper, her eyes taking a quick tour over the smart young man old enough to be her son.
“I was expecting someone older,” she said. “Please take that age thing as a compliment,” she smiled, flashing dark brown eyes, her fingers playing with a waterfall of auburn hair, a swoop of waves falling over her shoulders in that 1940’s Lauren Bacall style.
“Everyone looks so young these days,” she said, as she guided him into the living room, swaying her hips in a graceful walk, a waist squeezing belt showing shapely curves, black seamed stockings growing from black heels, her arse a little on the plump side, mountainous breasts and a dangerous cleavage spilling out of a white silk blouse.
“My mother-in-law, Grace,” she offered, casually pointing a finger at the frail old woman sitting in a wheelchair in a spacious conservatory at the rear of the house, the back of her head just visible above the top of the chair.
“She’s eighty-six next month,” she sighed, a hint of insincerity in her voice as she opened a door into the conservatory, her heels clicking on the ceramic floor tiles, fussing over her mother-in-law, adjusting her pillow, pulling a woollen blanket over her blue-veined hands and wiping traces of saliva from the corners of her mouth.
No movement. No reaction. No signs that she even knew they were there.
It was difficult to tell whether Grace was sleeping or if her life had already ended.
“The dining-room will give us some privacy to discuss the building proposals,” she said, opening a door from the living-room, settling into comfortable chairs at a polished table, the bottle of wine and two glasses a little unexpected.
“I want to give my mother-in-law the privacy and dignity she deserves,” she said, forcing a smile and pouring wine into two glasses, ignoring his protest for half a glass, brushing a tear from her eye and sweeping a whispery mass of hair from her face.
“We require a ground-floor extension at the rear of the house with provision for a bedroom and an accessible bathroom for a wheelchair user,” she said, shifting her weight in the chair and pulling a piece of paper from a drawer.
“This is what we would like,” she said, showing him a rough sketch of the proposed extension. “My husband thought it might help,” she smiled, lifting her glass to her mouth, her breasts rising and falling with each sip of wine, nodding her head and flashing her eyes as she listened to his briefing on the design and building proposals and the procedures with the local authority for obtaining Planning Permission and Building Approval.
“It’s going to take me about an hour to survey the house,” he said, quickly refocusing his eyes when he realised he was talking to her tits, glancing at his watch and picking up his tape measure and file notes from the table.
“If you have no objection…Mrs Morton…I’ll get started on the survey.”
Draining the wine from her glass and giving his hand a gentle squeeze she spoke with the confidence and refinement of a TV newsreader. “I can see I’m in good hands,” she said, in a soft melodious voice, playing absently with a silver pendant nestling in her cleavage.
“Please call me Brenda. And you must let me know if I can hold something for you.”
A door from the kitchen led into a delightful landscaped garden at the rear of the house.
“Cigarette,” she offered, interrupting his inspection of the drainage system, the brief interlude for a smoke giving him time to admire the beautiful arrangement of shrubs bordering a manicured lawn and a cluster of mature trees at the bottom of the garden.
“I’m afraid some of the shrubs will have to go,” he sighed, stretching a tape measure across the ground and pointing a finger at the proposed building line.
“That’s ok,” she said, casually lifting her shoulders, pulling on her cigarette and fiddling with the buttons on her blouse, an impossible cleavage bubbling between two mountainous breasts, her smile mischievous and her voice laden with flirtatious innuendo.
“There’s a particular bush that needs some special care and attention,” she smiled, dropping her cigarette into a drain and walking back into the house.
A clipboard and a pen in one hand and his tape measure in the other, Brenda following quickly on his heels like a bothersome fly, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her life story unfolding in his wake.
Stepping from the living-room and into a brightly lit entrance hall, a framed photograph of a man and woman on a small table next to an imposing grandfather clock caught his eye. There was no mistaking Brenda in the photograph. He presumed the man must have been her husband.
‘He looked familiar,’ he thought, pausing to study the photograph, scanning his memory şişli escort files for familiar faces, trying to remember where he had seen him.
“I’ve got all the information I need,” he confirmed, glancing at his watch and picking up his jacket and survey notes from the table. “If there’s nothing more I’ll…”
“There is,” she interrupted, a persuasive hand guiding him back into the living-room.
“I can’t let you go without giving you something to eat,” she smiled, pointing a finger at a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of Pinot Grigio waiting on a coffee table.
“Come and sit down,” she invited, patting a hand on the sofa, smiling into his eyes and pouring wine into glasses.
“Cheers,” she toasted, raising her glass and handing him a cigarette. “Let’s not talk business,” she smiled, lighting her cigarette and picking a photograph album from the floor, shuffling up close on the sofa and resting her hand on his thigh.
“Okay,” he answered, biting into a sandwich, mindful that she had no intention of removing her hand from his thigh, the intimacy and familiarity a little unexpected, the persuasion of movement meaningful and deliberate, letting him feel the heat of her breasts pushing against his arm, her body language seductive, her behaviour laden with persuasive suggestion.
“I’ll not bore you with the wedding photographs,” she said, skipping randomly over a dozen pages, cursing at some old photographs and laughing at others, pausing and smiling at a holiday photograph of her posing by a swimming pool, the promiscuous outfit of tight fitting white shorts and knee-length leather boots getting his attention.
“You look fantastic in those white shorts,” he offered, the compliment boosting her ego, an overexcited hand pouring wine into glasses, her smile widening, her confidence growing.
“That was taken on my thirtieth-birthday,” she said, counting back the years in her head, “Almost twenty-two years ago,” she lied into her glass, turning quickly on the sofa, catching a glimpse of the promising bulge inside his pants, hiding the glint in her eyes behind a flirtatious smile, a sudden flash of memory breaking the nostalgic interlude.
“Wait a second,” she blurted, flashing her eyes and pointing a finger in the air in that universal sign for, ‘I’ve-just-had-a-thought.’ “I think I’ve still got those white shorts in my bedroom wardrobe,” she said proudly, jumping up from the sofa, taking his wine glass from his hand and pulling him to his feet, a skip in her step as she led him up the stairs.
“Turn around and close your eyes,” she smiled, opening the wardrobe door, searching impatiently inside a drawer, breathing a deep sigh of relief when she found the white shorts. Kicking her heels across the floor and shuffling her feet, clothes riding up, buttons and zips coming undone, wriggling her hips and sliding her skirt to her feet, deep intakes of breaths and frustrated sighs joining a breathless commentary of undignified curses, a motioning hand on his shoulder and a whispered voice announcing that he could turn around.
“What do you think?” she asked, humming a tune inside her head, performing a theatrical pirouette in the full length mirror, twisting and turning with both hands on her hips, sucking in air and craning her neck, admiring her bottom in the reflection.
“After all these years they still fit,” she said, a hint of uncertainty in her voice, running her hands over her hips and staring into the mirror, her smile growing in confidence, the white fabric clinging to her arse like a second skin, stretching over plump cheeks and disappearing into the long crack of her bottom, a bulging vulva and a discerning camel-toe imprinted in the tight fabric, gaping like a sabre wound from a forest of black pubic hair spilling from both side of her shorts, the familiar movement in his pants a reminder that even in her mid-fifties, Brenda Morton was still sexy enough to get him hard.
“I told you so,” she smiled, sweeping her tongue over her top lip with flirtatious suggestion, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his mouth, feeling the bulging flesh pressing against her body, a thin smile and a questioning eye searching for reassurance.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked, the question somewhat unexpected, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for words, a simple ‘Yes’ lost in an urgent gesture of movement and a motioning hand sitting him on the edge of the bed.
“Yes. Is that all I get,” she smiled, standing in front of him, the inviting camel-toe almost touching his face, the smouldering heat of passion burning between her thighs, the intimacy of closeness increasing expectation, stimulus reacting to urgent gestures and responsive movements, slipping his finger into the deep groove, teasing the fleshy lips and clitoris, feeling the warmth and the wetness seeping through the fabric, breathing in the aromatic smell of mature sex, the flirtatious interaction awakening senses, her body coming to life. çapa escort
“I need to pee,” she announced, taking his hand, the shameless invitation to follow her into the bathroom somewhat unexpected but nevertheless an offer he couldn’t refuse.
A hesitant pause, the urgency to pee brushing away modesty, a deep intake of breath, a shuffle and a wriggle, a breathless pant and a wheezing sigh before pulling the white shorts to her ankles and sitting on the white ceramic bowl, the liquid golden stream falling in a waterfall of raindrops into the temple of bodily functions.
A smile lifting the corners of her mouth, an inquisitive eye catching sight of the growing lump inside his pants, an eager hand fumbling impatiently with the zip before dropping his pants to the floor, reaching inside his black briefs and unfolding the heavy object, gazing in admiration at the semi-erect piece of flesh hanging like a fire hose in front of her face.
“Wow, that’s a beauty,” she smiled, pissing like a horse, the gruesome muscle growing rapidly in her hand, digging her manicured nails into his buttocks and pulling him forward, taking him into her hungry mouth, sucking the length from the tip to the root, the silver pendant around her neck swinging in oral rhythm with her bobbing head, sucking him in and easing him out, sweeping her tongue in playful circles around the bulbous helmet, dipping into the oozing eye, feasting on his sticky essence of youth, casually removing a thin stream of saliva drooping from her lips to the bell-end.
“It’s been too long. I need to feel a man inside me,” she blurted, letting him slip from her mouth, lifting from the ceramic pan and sucking in gasps of air through her nose, frustrated sighs and filthy curses joining a pantomime of undignified twists and turns, two hands working with the skill of a contortionist, eventually squeezing her middle-aged flesh back into her shorts.
He was heading for the bedroom when he felt his shirt being pulled.
“Not that way,” she smiled, brushing hair from her face and wiping a smear of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. “The living-room,” she insisted, taking his hand and skipping down the stairs with the eagerness of a teenager, glancing into the conservatory, no surprise to find her mother-in-law still sleeping, probably unaware that they had even been out of the room.
An adventurous heart beating in coital expectation, a conventional exterior concealing a furtive passion hidden too long by a reserved upbringing, a refined lady changing into a sluttish wanton nymph, the cavalier insistence of a desperate woman with an overwhelming desire to fuck, the smile of a temptress widening, words already forming on her lips, her dignity left in the bathroom.
“I want you to fuck me here…In the living room…In front of my mother-in-law.”
The risk, the excitement and intrigue of performing a sexual act in front of her mother-in-law bringing a renewed surge of energy and a visceral rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins, her breathing accelerating at an alarming rate, her heart beating franticly inside her chest, the heat of passion pooling inside her shorts, the pulse between her legs an urgent reminder to feel his massive cock filling her body.
Lips met and mouths crashed together in a smouldering kiss, the acquaintance of tongues embarking on a trail of sexual promise, snaking between lips and flirting over teeth, peppering soft kisses over his face and neck, impatient hands responding to the movement of touch, sweeping over curves, gripping the cheeks of her bottom and pulling her close, letting her feel the firmness of his growing flesh pressing urgently against her waiting heat.
The influence of suggestion, the heat of passion, the urgency of coital union inflaming need, risk flirting with expectation, an insistent pulse fluttering between her legs, an impulsive desire for oral stimulation dancing impatiently behind lustful eyes, the corners of her mouth curling in a mischievous smile.
“Don’t move,” she whispered, lowering to the floor on her knees, pulling his pants and briefs to the floor, curling her painted fingers around the thick girth, working the length with feline calculation, tugging and pulling, fisting and thrusting, glancing up from the floor, smiling into his eyes before taking him into her mouth, sucking him in and blowing him out, easing him in and easing him out, feeling the perilous limb breaching the back of her throat, a choking gasp for air forcing the blockage from her mouth.
Lifting from the floor and glancing in the conservatory, her mother-in-law snoring quietly, oblivious to the unfolding exhibition, an impish smile of seduction curling the corners of her mouth, flashing her eyes with mischievous intent, removing her blouse and bra, grapefruit-sized tits tumbling out into his hands, an abundance of soft flesh spilling between his fingers, feeling their pendulous weight, nipping and twisting both nipples between his finger and thumb, fındıkzade escort the promise of coital expectation manifesting between her thighs, the burning torture forcing a collection of uncompromising demands.
“I need to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me over the sofa.” she said, shuffling and wriggling her hips, the white shorts abandoned on the floor, leaning over the back of the leather sofa, her plump bottom perched in submissive invitation, spreading her legs and opening her body, craning her neck and looking back over her shoulder, brushing a curtain of hair hanging over her face before lowering her hand between her legs and navigating the swaying column towards her wet opening.
Inch-by-inch she eased him inside her wet entrance, nine-and-a-half inches of potent flesh pushing through the pubic jungle, sliding between the sticky flaps and folds, easing in and easing out, wriggling her hips and swaying her bottom in a provocative dance of seduction, two people moving to the persuasion of carnal connection, hard masculine flesh smacking against soft feminine flesh, a union of genitalia slapping and squelching in a fluid interaction of urgent give and take.
Plunging in and pulling out with deep determined thrusts, strokes long, deep, powerful and urgent, buttocks clenching and relaxing, thrusting and grinding in a coitus demonstration of reckless passion and unrefined need, fucking like a wild man on a mission to abuse and torture her body, claiming her openings in a ferocious assault, moving from one orifice to the other, every cavity fully explored and exploited, moans and groans and painful cries giving way to pleasure, the summit of impending release hanging on her lips.
“Oh yes…Oh fucking yes… Ohh,” she snorted, through gritted teeth, her urgent craving for release brushing away any last hope of respectability. “MY FUCKING GOD!!” she screamed, a final blast of undignified filth spilling from her mouth. “Oh, Fuck. Oh, Fuck. I’m… CUMMING!!… Ahhhh… Ohhhh,” she cried, her crude appreciation smothered in the sofa, an overwhelming release sweeping in a tidal wave through a bruised and battered body, a sexually undernourished woman melting into orgasmic bliss, the euphoric smile of a neglected and frustrated woman rejoicing in her moment of orgasmic pleasure.
Fucking like a randy bull, his balls erupting in a raging inferno, his hot syrup of life spilling from the single eye, washing the vaginal walls in an endless rain of emotional fluids.
After retrieving her shoes and skirt from the bedroom and collecting her dignity from the toilet, a refined and elegant woman walked back into the living-room, glanced into the conservatory, casually lit two cigarettes and poured wine into two glasses.
“I haven’t had sex for the last five-years,” she boldly confessed, her voice almost apologetic, as if seeking his forgiveness for her shameless actions. “My husband lost interest in sex on his sixtieth-birthday. That’s the last time he fucked me” she said, forcing a smile that quickly faded, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke above her head. “Even before he lost interest, sex was confrontational, hurried and very disappointing,” she sighed, draining her glass.
“I look forward to our next appointment.” she smiled, showing him into the entrance hall, the reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall a haunting reminder of the age divide.
They could have easily been taken for mother and son.
“You have my telephone number,” she confirmed, opening the front door.
“I’ll call you in about four weeks to arrange another meeting,” he said, glancing at the photograph on the table, the melodic chimes from the grandfather clock interrupting the question waiting at the back of his throat.
A month later. A nagging toothache. He rang Brenda.
He put as much cheer into his voice when he tried to arrange another meeting to discuss the design proposals and the estimated building costs for the project, the giggles and flirtatious suggestion at the other end of the phone hinting that Brenda was nursing a glass of wine.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you again,” she slurred into the mouthpiece, her business mind running through the conditions of contract.
“If I promise to give you a little extra fee for your professional services will you promise to give me a good workout between the sheets? “
After two hours of serious mattress action and succumbing to two teeth grinding orgasms, Brenda was still trembling from the aftershocks when she led him to the door.
He paused in the entrance hall and asked about the man in the photograph.
“He’s my husband, Philip Morton. He’s a Dentist. Do you know him?”
The gruesome picture of a mouth full of decaying teeth and bleeding gums did nothing to ease the anxiety and pain when he took a seat in the Dentist waiting room.
Thumbing nervously through an old copy of ‘Horse and Hounds’ magazine, crossing and uncrossing his legs for the umpteenth time, brushing a light covering of perspiration from his brow, the very thought of a needle piercing the inside of his mouth and the removal of a tooth and the inevitable pain thereafter would make most people feel nervous.
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