Loading...I’ve been at this gig for about three years now in a Northeast city. It isn’t what I expected to be doing, career-wise, at my age, but I can’t gripe about the pay. This is for a private apartment complex (not a hotel, mind you), so it’s rightly what Europeans define as being a Concierge (attending to high-end residents’ needs).
I’m in my mid-twenties, tall and reasonably fit, outfitted in a blazer, gray slacks and dress shoes, and I sport a genuine-enough smile that’s kept fresh every day.
This is no mean feat, as the job is the essence of repetition; if you think it’s easy coming up with clever ways to say the weather stinks, think again.
When you’re handing that Mercedes owner her Wall Street Journal at 7 AM, you need to have your happy face on your mug, a talent that most guys my age can’t list on their resumes. Attitude is everything in the Service and Hospitality Industry, allow me to inform you.
The reason I’m writing this bit of introductory hooey is because I want you, dear reader, to know this isn’t some sort of bragadoccio you’ll be slogging through. It’s just a few episodes in my life as a Concierge, ones where I’ve gone beyond the usual services a guy like me will do to earn those holiday tips. I may do a series of stories, depending upon interest. Time will tell.
To start off with I want to talk about sussing people out. That is, trying to anticipate what a person like one of these residents is going to need before they even know it themselves. That’s how I do over 7K a year in tips: knowing when to step in and when to back off.
People at certain salary levels and/or privileged backgrounds don’t like the direct approach, you see — you must give them their own space. But it doesn’t hurt to gently nudge. In fact, thoughtful gestures always pay off in dollars.
Getting to the sexual stuff in the building: it’s always there, right under the surface. If I had a dime for every instance when a female resident told me something confidential about her husband’s behavior, well, you know, I’d be retiring early. Like, next week. And I don’t mean it’s always overt stuff; mostly it’s just little kinds of hints that they wouldn’t mind something extra in their lives.
Hell, some of the married men here have given me signals that they’d love an informal intro to a sexy lady who just moved in on the fifth floor, for that matter. They’re more direct in their comments, naturally, than the women.
But, I’m avoiding the main subject. Let me tell you about Mrs. Harris, for starters. Not her real name, of course, but it might as well be. She’s a long-standing resident of this building, which is set back on a short, relatively-unknown street off a major thoroughfare in the city, but manages to seem nestled in just the right spot to allow easy walking distance to every cultural (museums, opera, clubs) and practical convenience (grocery, shopping, shopping, and shopping) that one might need.
It’s a brick edifice, constructed in the latter 20th Century but mimicking the staid looks of some preserved buildings in Britain. Tourists and passers-by stop in at my desk all the time, remarking on its authenticity. They all think they’re freaking Frank Lloyd Wright, let me tell you.
Mrs. Harris is perfectly coiffed and made up at any hour of the day. Don’t expect to catch her with pale, reddened morning eyes, not her. She’s petite and well formed, appears to be about 40, and has a soft, slightly British accent. If you’ve seen 1940’s Bette Davis movies, that’s the voice.
If anything Mrs. Harris wears for clothing costs less that a thou or maybe two, I’ve never seen her in it. Don’t ask about the various tasteful jewelry and what that might cost, please. I’ve met her husband twice so far in three years, so the vague ‘he travels a lot on business’ will have to do.
Mrs. Harris and I have carried on a discreet and unusual sexual life for about a year now. We’ve never actually spoken about it, oddly enough. Even as I write this today I wonder if she might read it sometime and recognize us. I believe she’d get a charge out of it, in her own refined way, but I will never know. Such is our arrangement.
As I said I believe she is about forty in years. But never forget this about the well-off: you can’t guess their ages without a look at the driver’s license, and even then you don’t know if it’s forged. Her wide, deep-set eyes are light brown and she has a patrician nose that leans toward a possible Italian half-heritage. That may explain how warm and moist her skin can look. Her hair is so professionally colored that it looks like real chestnut brown. She wears it down around her graceful neck, almost to her shoulders.
Her breasts are firm and high and not artificial, as best I can tell, with responsive nipples. Not thin-waisted but not thick, her daily trips to the gym keep her shapely, which is doubly-important for petite women.
Invariably, Mrs. Harris totters expertly on expensive, imported heels that one day may be her downfall (literally), but I guess one never loses the stigma of being short. Her Gorsuch wardrobe style complements her figure, with her favorite looks epitomizing the ‘just back from Aspen by way of the Alps’ attitude, namely ski pants that hug her hips and ass quite well. Well, I’m pretty sure she’d never refer to them as pants, but that’s how I grew up speaking.
Most of all, Mrs. Harris has that thing called charisma. Charisma has the power to hold you, to make your eyes draw down from hers to seek the source of that strong but soft voice, to study those moistened lips and the perfect teeth within as they expel the time-tested, upper-echelon diction (“Raymond, your tie was an excellent choice. I complement your wife. Has the mail arrived?”).
Not that I’m intimidated by such personal magnetism. Note the fact that I’ve just given you, the reader, my actual first name and divulged the fact that I’m a married man. No, not intimidated by such a person as Mrs. Harris, but certainly drawn to her. I could listen to her read the phone book with that voice.
It all started with Trust. Trust is something I’ve learned is required to get the rich to open up. Discretion is a major part of Trust. I’d be fired tomorrow if any of my residents felt I was telling tales out of school. Trust is the tree from which all things green grow in my world, if you get my drift.
Over the course of time Mrs. Harris changed from stiff to soft in my presence. This was before the first sexual incident I’m about to relate. As she grew to realize she could trust me, even in things that might put me in an awkward position with the management company that pays my salary, she gradually dropped her master-and-servant bit and loosened up. This, I figured, would give me opportunities to worm my way into performing more services for her, with escalating tips as a result. Little did I know.
That was all that drove me that day when she asked me to her apartment to rearrange some heavy planters on her balcony. I’d been frequently in her unit to take care of the many florals and hanging plants during Mrs. Harris’ vacations, so this was not anything unusual, except for the fact of her presence in the place. I’d been summoned by a phone call. It was about 11 AM.
She asked me if I’d join her in a glass of wine and some crackers and brie, since she was feeling peckish. It’s not often that I’m asked to do anything like this but it had happened before (and has, since), so I knew not to be flustered. I discreetly shut off my cell phone as she opened the Pouilly-Fuisse and set out a plate. So what if it wasn’t even lunchtime yet — I could use a bite myself, and there was always a packet of mints in my jacket.
We discussed upcoming renovations to hallways in the building, as I recall. She wore an Hermes orange robe with discreet piping running down the front, and as we spoke and politely shared the wine I noticed that the arcs of that piping seemed to mimic her own curves. The brie was just tart enough and creamy as can be, for my taste, and did I mention the generous batch of room temperature grapes that were on their own pretty little plate?
As we spoke about the various papers the management company was considering for the halls I kept wondering about those balcony planters. It came to me that perhaps I wouldn’t be moving those planters, at least not that day. Maybe it was the French wine or maybe her loose attitude of camaraderie, but I found myself wondering about what she wanted. I didn’t have to wait too long.
Mrs. Harris did an odd thing. One moment she was poised so elegantly on an antique chair with light yellow upholstery, speaking to me of her time in Greece and the ancient kitchen she had toured in some ruin or other, and in the next few seconds she was gliding across the room to her Bose Wave compact stereo and upping the volume a little, like she was in a hurry.
As she did so I recognized that the music was from an old classic jazz album by the Three Sounds, with Stanley Turrentine sitting in on sax. The track was ‘Willow Weep For Me’.
I was about to remark on that very fact when the lady of the house crossed back through the room and stood beside my seated form in the chair, with her right leg pressed into my left arm.
I know it doesn’t make sense but that bathrobe felt like it wasn’t there, like I could feel the heat from her leg right through that imported material and my own assembled-in-Malaysia jacket. It was a heat that could mean only one thing.
I looked up at her and she looked back. In her right hand was a wine glass. I remember it shimmered in the late morning light, betraying slight nervousness at what she was doing. Her neck seemed flushed. Her eyes studied mine with a vulnerability I’d never witnessed in her, but at the same time she was in charge.
Mrs. Harris gasped slightly when she felt my hand running up under her robe. I wasn’t even aware I was doing it, to tell the truth. While Stanley played so soulfully behind us, sparked by the finest piano-bass-drum combo this side of a smoke-filled room, I marvelled at how I didn’t mind at all that she was older, and that her skin wasn’t butter-soft like new imported leather in a Jaguar, or whatever simile might apply. This was a woman in serious lust and heat, a woman who needed my services at that moment and was not ready at all to be turned down. A woman whose thighs were parting slightly as I slid further up. My response to this was pure instinct.
We spoke not a word as Mrs. Harris leaned down and used her left hand to pull her robe out of the way, offering a naked, needy body to my view. Her sumptuous flesh was actually trembling. Her breasts hung temptingly in the space between my face and hers.
She bent and brought a stiffened nipple to my mouth. I felt like I could hear her inner machinery hum. My hand had reached her inner thigh, where I encountered actual moisture sliding down her skin from above. I had to make myself step outside the overwhelming, almost oppressive fact of her need, to notice that my own urges and responses had produced a fierce erection, one that was painfully trapped within my confined position.
I don’t believe I’ve ever had a stronger reaction than that, even during puberty. It was like I could come any second just from the novelty of this situation.
The nipple between my lips seemed to expand from the licking and sucking I was giving. I heard a sort of sobbing breathlessness from Mrs. Harris. Looking up, I saw the wideness of her eyes and knew right away that she was about to come. It made no sense for her to react so quickly, I remember thinking, but she was about to give out, I could tell.
I brought my fingers to the mouth of her sex and felt the warm wetness, the shape of her vulva, the reality of her. I was like the blind man allowed to see, or I should say I didn’t need to actually view her naked cunt to feel the bareness of its need. My mouth was now full of her substantial right breast as Mrs. Harris tried in her lust to push more of it into me. Her breath was ragged, just above my ear. I barely found the time to locate the nub of her clit before she exploded all over me.
At least it felt that way. Unlike most women I’ve known at this height of passion, Mrs. Harris’ orgasm was one large blurt full of emotion and biological culmination. She seemed to squat and leak all over my fingers as the wine glass flew across the carpet. Her breast pulled violently out of my mouth even as her hand softly stroked my neck like it was a lover’s cock. This gentle gesture seemed almost autonomous, given that the rest of her was so involved with her strong release. I thumbed her sex and used my middle finger to thrust briefly up into her.
Within about twenty seconds she was on her knees on the carpet, exhausted, with her arms about my neck, her head buried in the hollow of my shoulder. I petted her sopping cunt lips with my fingers softly before withdrawing. Her sexual smell was positively overpowering in the room, but it only made me more erect and more in awe of her suddenly-revealed inner person.
I remember that day she recovered gradually and gave me a short hug before dropping a hand curiously to my lap to explore my reaction. I guess she needed to know that her display was not merely one of selfish impertinence, but that I’d gotten something out of it as well. Her touch was more like a physician’s exam than a lover’s caress. Her wine breath was sweet as her cheek briefly touched mine, and then our session was over.
“Thank you, Raymond.”
“My pleasure,” I replied, hoarsely. “Perhaps another day for the planters.”
“Yes, thank you.” And then she was in the bathroom with the shower starting to run and the door closed. And I was doing what cleaning up I could, but screw the wine glass and the stains on the carpet, that was her bother.
My erection didn’t recede for quite some time, owing to the thoughts in my mind and the smell of her pussy on my fingers. I found myself wondering if I’d be called back soon to complete our session that day, but that didn’t happen for another month or more.
In the interim I wondered how I might react to her the next time we’d meet, outside her apartment, I mean. I even practiced keeping a straight face in our imaginary hallway encounters. I wondered most of all if she would act differently toward me, and hoped it wouldn’t be a negative, guilty attitude.
I needn’t have bothered worrying. Things were back to normal the next day, as if nothing had happened. Small talk and a bit of politics were exchanged between us for weeks, and pretty soon I chalked the whole thing up to aberrant behavior. It was either that or make myself crazy dreaming up a rational explanation. Still, I couldn’t help wondering how I’d behave if ever Mrs. Harris summoned me to move those blasted planters again.
And so it was, immediately after taking a cell phone call from her the following month about coming up to do exactly that job, that I found my trousers tented unbearably. It was with much trepidation that I took the elevator to her floor and attempted to conduct myself professionally while knocking.
Mrs. Harris only nodded to me as I entered her hallway. She was dressed this time in a loose tropical blouse and casual off-blue jeans, her feet bare, but the ensemble was not something you’ll find at Target. I followed her until she entered her bedroom and sat on the edge of her throwback Scandinavian design platform bed, facing me as I stood at the door. That’s where my feet stopped, along with my breath.
Her being petite and the bed being close to the floor, I twigged to what she wanted to do immediately, and I regret to say I didn’t find it surprising. By that I mean that I really wish I could have seemed puzzled. Maybe it was the look in her eyes as she beckoned me to her, or perhaps I was beginning to understand that to Mrs. Harris I was more of a useful object than a lover.
Anyway, it was apparent she had pre-estimated the best place to do this in her apartment, and her deductions were correct. Neither of us spoke when I walked to her and she pulled me close by grasping my hips with her hands. I unbuttoned my blazer as the bulge in my slacks pressed against her face and she ran her mouth and lips and cheeks over it without a sound. Her face was at just the right height to marry with my crotch. I could feel her insistent desire through the touch of her hands on my hips.
I don’t know how she got my penis out of my pants so deftly (hell, just unzipping to take a piss requires me to spend some time at it), but in no time my naked flesh was feeling the cool air of the room and the warm lips of Mrs. Harris. She’d even managed to fish my balls out so she could nuzzle and kiss them. She got her whole face into it, smushing herself against my erection, her eyes closed peacefully like she was waking from a nice dream and didn’t want the light to get in, just yet.
It felt wonderful, I must say. Her features being small and delicate didn’t hurt anything in my ego – my dick looked quite large against her face, especially looking down at her like that. I could see a little smear of my precum adorning her slightly flushed cheek, which only made me stiffer. And then she had me slipped into her mouth with her tongue running along the underside, and I let loose involuntarily with a small groan.
I didn’t know what to do with my hands. They naturally wanted to reach out and caress her face and hair and neck and ears, but something told me to just hook them behind my back and keep such impulses in check. I knew I was right when I saw Mrs. Harris open her eyes and look up at me with a disconnected gaze, as though the fact that there was an actual person attached to these male genitals was inconvenient. I should have been put off, but it came more as a relief.
Of course she knew how to blow a guy, so my cock and balls stayed very interested even as I went a little cold inside. One of her hands left my hip to drift over and cup my ball sac as she tilted her head back a little to accept more of me into the back of her throat. All the while that tongue was roving the underside of my shaft like a little pleasure machine that knew all the right destinations, especially just under the ridge of my glans.
I wasn’t too surprised when her other hand moved down her own body, first giving a light trail across her blouse-covered breasts and then delving into the spot between her legs. Looking past the erotic sight of my cock buried half inside this woman’s mouth, her lips stretching as she began to bob her head on it, I could just make out her using the heel of her hand to grind against herself down there. It was a languid rather than urgent movement, and I remember thinking that she was clearly in no hurry to reach her own pleasure peak.
I don’t believe I was thinking coherently right then. My senses were all about her warm wet mouth and the fact that she was taking more of me into her throat than when she’d started. My hips were starting to push out at her face. My balls were in her hand, being rolled gently between her fingers. My eyes were on her lips.
In my mind I pictured what the shaft of my cock looked like moving into her mouth, with the head pressing past the back of her tongue to enter her throat. I imagined the flanged tip of my meat blossoming out and the hole in my urethra spreading wide, ready to ejaculate directly down that aristocratic throat and fill her with my semen. It was something I’d never pictured like that before, and I think there was a bit of involuntary sexual menace in those visualizations.
I knew instinctively Mrs. Harris wasn’t the sort of woman you had to explain things to; she would naturally know when I was to reach my peak of pleasure, since she was in total control of it at the time. And she’d of course know what happens when a man makes it to that point. I didn’t need to warn her. The way she now aggressively sawed my prick into and out of her mouth as I thrust it at her, her cheeks alternately swelling and hollowing, her head moving back and forth as more and more of me seemed to be swallowed down and her lips nearly met my crotch…..well, that could only mean that she wanted to get me to that destination in a hurry.
Although the hand between her legs moved a bit more energetically now, she still sat on that bed with no other sign that she was nearing full arousal herself – no squirming of her ass against the fabric of her coverlet, no rising of her chest, no flushing at her neck, no other signal. Just those eyes occasionally meeting mine, and our labored breathing in that silent bedroom.
Mrs. Harris didn’t resist me when I bent a little and felt up her tits through her blouse. They were a good handful and belied her age in their firmness. Those expensive bras don’t get in the way of one’s ministrations like your garden variety Playtex models, let me inform you; it was like she was encased in a delicate, suppotive spider’s web. I could feel her nipples harden in my palms.
Deep in my belly and just below my scrotum I felt the start of my orgasm. My balls pulled up against myself and then I could see in my mind the course that the mixture of sperm and semen was taking as it rose urgently up my shaft and burst out of the tip, into her mouth in several very sharp, speedy ejaculations, followed by two more that were much slower in pace and brought me excruciating pleasure. It was all I could do to keep my hands from tearing her blouse open as my sticky fluids filled her mouth and her tongue kept on with its insistent roving. I fear I was making some sort of noise.
I hadn’t realized Mrs. Harris had ceased her back and forth bobbing as she sensed my climax was upon me. Only as I felt a return to full attention and could focus my eyes properly did I notice that she had instead pulled back so that only the head of my shaft was resting just inside her firmly closed lips. That tongue action I’d been feeling was just at the tip, teasing and milking out the rest of my cum. Jesus, that woman knows how to suck a dick.
Her eyes on mine, with my prick starting to soften a bit in her mouth, Mrs. Harris then returned quickly to her masturbation, using both hands between her legs to rub her mound through her clothes. I swear it wasn’t ten seconds before she gurgled around my cock, as it protruded from her lips, and twitched on the bed. It was almost unnatural, the way it happened so suddenly. In another few seconds a second wave hit her, and my cock was dislodged from her mouth as she sucked in air through her nose.
The head of my dick hung there for a moment just outside her mouth, a string of saliva and sperm connecting it to her lower lip, and then she reflexively slipped it back into her warmth as the last of her orgasm swept through her body.
I must admit it felt good and it looked even better. It was just so dirty. Her lips suckled at me for a few more seconds before Mrs. Harris fully opened her lidded eyes and let me slip back out to hang there before her face.
She studied my softening penis as it hung there shrinking, all reddened and wet. Her neck now was almost the same color as my cock from the flush of her own induced climax, and her lips were likewise wet. I looked at her, unable to think of anything to say, or able even to decide if something should be said.
She solved this awkward moment for both of us by matter-of-factly opening her mouth wide to show me the considerable strings and pools of jism residing on her tongue and clinging to her teeth. Following this absolutely filthy display with an exaggerated swallowing of my entire offering to her fellationary skills, making sure I could see her throat working, this refined fellatrix almost seemed to be mocking me. Even today, nearly a year later, I can get aroused all over again and reach orgasm with just those few seconds of her showing off like that in my memory.
This session ended same as the last (and others to come): Mrs. Harris rising up to go to her shower and me leaving her apartment, discreetly. At least this time she thanked me as she got up, and even ran a hand softly over my cheek. It wasn’t exactly a loving gesture, but it was a bit more personal than other times.
I left, moving awkwardly in true exhaustion. I had to go find a furnished, unoccupied apartment to lay on the couch for a while before returning to work that day. My balls felt empty and achy.
I have yet to penetrate any part of Mrs. Harris with my penis other than her mouth, but I do know her body rather intimately. The next time she called, for instance (simply saying “Raymond” this time, and softly hanging up the phone), was for me to enter her sizable bathroom, where she awaited my arrival. Naked from the waist down, her lower body was thrust out toward me as she perched on the marble sink with her legs wide open, a spiffy white towel under her pampered behind, a towel which already showed moisture stains caused by the copious arousal that delineated her cunt lips. It was running down to her ass crack. I swear this woman gets as wet as a teenage girl.
I couldn’t help but notice there was a somewhat larger spiffy towel on the floor in front of the sink, thoughtfully folded over a couple of times so that my knees would be well-cushioned. I’ve always enjoyed pleasing a woman this way, and in fact have made it part of every true lovemaking session of my life, but I’d been rather worrying that in Mrs. Harris’ case I might find her nether region, well….perhaps, less appetizing than those I’d visited before, closer to my own in age.
I had a thing or two to learn about older women in general (and rich, pampered women in particular), because her pussy and ass crease were just as attractive and arousing as those I’ve seen in the flesh, on screen, in pictures, or in magazines. She had nicely shaped, Bermuda sand-colored vulva gleaming wetly in the halogen bathroom light, invitingly pink and liquid inner lips, sensuous haunches that led to a smooth division of her backside, and a softly-wrinkled rear hole that was clearly as well-cared-for as the rest of her.
Did I mention that she trims herself but doesn’t shave? Well, she probably has someone else do it, now that I think of it. Enough hair removed to make for fine dining, but just the right amount left so that you’ll know it’s a woman you’re performing cunnilingus on, not a callow girl.
I removed my blazer this time as well as my tie. No sense having that hang down below my neck, getting all stained. Mrs. Harris watched me do this with some arousal showing on her face but no impatience. I slid to the floor and planted a hand on either of her thighs, a move which she accepted without protest, and then started to make tender small kisses and licks to the inner parts of her thighs. My nose took in the unmistakable scent of a hot woman.
As her heels settled upon my shoulders I studied her open cunt, searching for the proper place to start. The glistening pearl of her swollen clit was slightly protruding from its nest at the top of her furrow, showing me she was warmed up enough that I wouldn’t have to coax that out of hiding. It would probably do to merely nudge it along with the bridge of my nose as I supped lower.
And so, I nestled in and started to lap up her juices, which were salty and plentiful but not thick and viscous like some ladies produce. More like tears, as though her pussy was weeping. My tongue roved over the flaps of her opening at will, delving inside just a bit as her muscles relaxed further to allow me full access.
My nose indeed brushed at her clitoris as I pushed forward to give her warm flesh as much contact with my face as she needed, my tongue going inside a little to lap at her inner walls. My chin rested on the edge of the sink, rubbing against that towel as I licked away and sucked now at her inner labia.
Mrs. Harris made no sound but her lower body was alive with the stimulation she was receiving. She gave a little jump when I ran my tongue tip up her furrow and teased her clit for an instant. I chose that moment to look up at her eyes but they were closed and relaxed, one hand lazily brushing inside the front of her robe. I wondered if she’d go off like a firecracker, as she had in our last session.
As I say, I enjoy going down on a woman, so I continued happily licking, sucking, kissing and rubbing her pussy and the surrounding soft skin with my lips, tongue and face, starting to feel her push outwardly towards me in a sustained rhythm. This brought her to the very edge of the sink, with her backside opening up to my close scrutiny. Her juices seemed to slow down not a bit, and the wetness clung to her everywhere, as well as to my lips and chin. Her crack gleamed in the reflected light from the tile floor.
Her scent was strong but not unpleasantly so, adding to the sexual rawness of this master and servant moment, and I shouldn’t have to mention that I wish I’d taken a moment to unzip myself before kneeling; my poor cock was cramped up again in my trousers. I wondered if I dared to move one of my hands.
Mrs. Harris gave out with a minor sigh as I brought my fingers into play at her ass crease. I felt momentarily triumphant at guessing that such a move might get a rise out of her. I ran a fingertip over her anus and then quickly away again, teasing the area as my lips locked onto her clit and gently sucked. My other hand held her left thigh firmly, to keep her in place. I rolled her clit with my tongue, trying to find just the right pressure. Too often a lover can be overly aggressive with this little ball of nerve endings, driving a woman into unpleasant overload.
Her ankles were now locked behind my neck, her heels pressing against my upper shoulders. I love that, personally, I don’t know about you. Nothing tells you she’s feeling great about what you’re doing to her more than a pair of legs, ankles or thighs hugging you and urging you forward (or, at least, trying to hold you in place). As well, her pussy started to get that sort of sweet flavor that I’ve only ever sensed just before a climax is approaching. I can’t describe it, really, but when it’s present, get ready!
I entered her ass hole with the tip of my finger just as I used my upper lip to rub urgently at the top of her cunt and slid my tongue as far into her pussy as I could manage. Quickly she began grinding against my lips with her pelvis, and I swear I could feel liquid flowing like a stream into my mouth. When her hands gripped my hair and her ass humped out almost off the sink I knew this was one woman who never had an average climax.
My face and mouth were engulfed by her hot flesh and moisture as she shivered and came in four great, strong convulsions. I kept my finger in her backside all the while, in fact it slid in to the second knuckle as Mrs. Harris came and came and came. God, she was hot inside. She made subdued but audible mewling and light grunting sounds deep in her throat as her ass rose and fell and her vagina tried to swallow me whole.
My face was soaking wet. It felt actually wrinkled from the drenching she’d given me. And damned if Mrs. Harris didn’t like the slow fade approach to her pleasure: as her orgasm concluded, she held me in place and simply rubbed her sex all over my lips and chin, milking out the feeling gradually. Her cunt was visibly swollen, her outer lips puffy as the rubbed, her inner labia super-heated against my tongue. Again and again she pressed and slid herself against me until she’d had enough.
I gingerly slipped my finger from her rear hole as her body withdrew. I felt proud, to be truthful. Even though I was a tool I’d given her my all, and that had been more than enough. Hell, my finger was redolent with her odor, as was most of my face. No doubt this woman had enjoyed my efforts.
Mrs. Harris was visibly exhausted as I helped her down from her perch and toward her shower. Her robe fell to the floor and I beheld her completely naked for the first time. She really is quite well put together, even if she’s not anyone’s idea of a teenage love bunny. Proportionately, pound for pound, I can’t imagine any man, of any age, not appreciating her form.
I took awhile, through the translucent shower curtain, watching her wash herself. I used liberal amounts of soap to clean her residue from my face and chin. A word about soap in such situations: if you’re married or have a regular thing going on, gentlemen, do not use anything flowery. I had to search under her sink that day, for instance, to find a cake of something unscented. English Seaside Lavender is a plain giveaway.
Almost forgot to tell you: I’d just gotten all presentable that day in her bathroom and was set to leave when the shower stopped and Mrs. Harris peered out around the curtain at me.
“Do you have a few minutes, Raymond?”
“Um, yes, sure Mrs. Harris.” Actually I didn’t, but what else could I say.
“I wonder if you’d do something for me. You see, you might not know it, but I miss my husband when he’s away like this, and you could help me through it by doing a little something. Can you?” I couldn’t help noticing she was looking at the front of my pants.
I heard myself saying, “What the fuck were we just doing? If THAT wasn’t helping you out a bit, what the hell WILL?” Of course, that’s not what came out. In fact, nothing did. I simply nodded.
“Good”, she replied, and emerged from the shower and reached for a towel. “I’m prone to sad spells, you know. You’ll be a dear and help me put that off for awhile.”
I watched her dry her breasts, her legs, and between her legs. Then she spent a moment fluffing her hair in the mirror, not bothering to don her robe. She watched me watching her, all the while. A tiny smile seemed to play over her lips and then was gone. I wondered what she needed.
To my surprise she moved over to the toilet and lifted the lid, then turned and settled onto the seat. I reflexively turned my head to give her privacy, but she motioned for me to approach her.
“Gerald sometimes likes to do something with me when I’m in the bathroom, Raymond. I hope you won’t think it odd.” I noticed she was squatted as if to pee but not doing so. Her eyes were again on my pants. I realized I’d never lost my hard-on.
“It’s just that I miss him and this will help”, she continued. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind moving over here in front of me.”
I did so, my uneasiness giving way to a strong feeling of sexual anticipation. I was looking down at Mrs. Harris’ proper face, and below that her improperly naked tits. Below that were her very improper pair of thighs spread open over the toilet, revealing her still-swollen cunt lips. Her eyes were on my zipper.
“I’ll need you to say some things to me now, while we’re doing this. I hope you won’t find it silly.” Her eyes met mine, and for a moment it seemed that I held a certain power over her. I didn’t like that at all.
“Whatever you need, Mrs. Harris”, I replied softly.
“Thank you”, she said quietly. Then her eyes went back to my pants. “I imagine from the look of it you could use some release?”
“Um, yes…..”
“Good. I was hoping so.” She motioned hurriedly for me to remove my slacks, so I quickly did so, trying not to look awkward in the process. In moments, although my socks and shoes were still on and my shirt tail hung down below my blazer, I stood a foot or so away from her with my prick bobbing before me and my swollen balls hanging free. Mrs. Harris relaxed against the toilet tank and alternated her gaze from my eyes down to my cock, and back up again.
“Gerald, must you bring that thing in here like that, all rampant? You can see I have to pee.” This took me aback, as you may imagine. It was several moments until it registered within me what was up.
I twigged to what she was getting at, wanting me to play-act the husband, doing whatever this thing was that they do. I had to guess what my line of response might be. While I thought about it I noticed Mrs. Harris was actually pinching one of her nipples. It was distended and looked almost purple.
“Who cares what you’re up to. I need to get my pleasure, and you’re Mrs. Harris, last I looked at the marriage certificate”, was my stagy reply. I used a gruff voice and my eyes were on her to see if I was going the right way.
She looked up at me without malice. “I suppose you want to do what you always do, wank at yourself while you watch. Isn’t that right. You’re very naughty, Gerald.”
I said nothing, just brought my hand right away to my cock and started doing just what she’d described. Her eyes lit up to see this, and one hand went to her lower belly. Despite how weird this scene was, my cock was indeed “rampant”, as she’d put it. It hung low and thick in my hand as I masturbated.
“You want to see me pee, don’t you? That always gets you off, brings you off so your spunk gets all over me. Watching me take a pee.” She was telling me what to do, with her little ritual phrases. I wondered how the two of them had ever started all this up? It must be important, what with Mrs. Harris even needing an occasional stand-in.
“I can feel it starting. You’re so dirty, making me piss in front of you like this. That great big cock of yours is right in front of me. Tell me what you’re going to do. I can feel it just starting.” She squirmed in her seat and I could see she was strumming lightly at the hood of her clitoris. She had her pussy thrust slightly out so I could get a good look.
“I’m going to shoot my cum all over you, that’s what. As soon as you start to pee. It’s what you deserve”. I saw immediately that the last bit was a little out of line, her face had gone momentarily dark, but that moment passed and she returned her attention to my cock and then my face, then back again. She was trying to time everything perfectly.
“All right, you dirty bastard. Go ahead and do it, I’m going to pee. Watch me. Shoot your spunk all over my face and my tits.”
Now I knew where she wanted it, so I stepped back just a bit to get a good look down between her legs. As soon as I saw and heard the stream begin I furiously pulled at my cock and felt myself start to tense up deep inside. Mrs. Harris was pretty flushed in the neck and looking a trifle desperate as she saw me bring my dick to her face. I couldn’t tell whether she was physically or emotionally distraught, but it was too late for her as my semen came roping out and covered her left cheek in two quick splats, then more spattered her nose and upper lip.
It was really quite an exotic sight, something I’d always imagined I’ll do someday with my wife (if I ever get up the nerve to tell her about how cool it is in the fuck films, and can manage something like “gee honey let’s try it you might like it”). As her urine stream positively gushed into the toilet my thick cum jetted out, now onto her chin and then down onto her neck, immediately starting to drip from there down onto her hanging tits as she stared wide-eyed at my prick, hanging there mere inches from her face and spitting out sperm.
It was a wild scene, replicated out of the corner of my eye in the mirrored wall behind her. I’m not one to find a woman taking a piss to be a major turn-on (well, I once did in my teens, when a girl let me watch her in the woods), but I gotta admit old Gerald knew what he was doing in this case. Mrs. Harris came across as elegantly nasty, riding her own fingers while she peed and took cum in her face. It was all around her lips and she was not above licking it in a little as she moved on the toilet seat.
She was cumming, had been ever since her peeing began, it turned out. I was too lost in my own pleasure to realize that, what with my balls happily churning out the froth for her immaculate, salon-toned skin. As my spurts became dribbles I held the flanged head of my penis against her cheek and smeared it into her like I guessed her husband would do; her little shakes and shivers then cued me in that she was having a series of small climax peaks despite the continuation of her peeing, which seemed to go on forever.
Finally her pissing subsided and just a couple of little drips came out of her. With that cessation came the easing away of her orgasm, as well. Her whole body slumped against the toilet as I gazed down at her and saw how utterly erotic (in a very dirty, very raw way) she looked with my cum dripping down her flesh. If I could have managed it physically, just the look of her would have been enough to spur me on to do it over again, right then and there. I even had a quick mental flash of how another burst of my cream would look being launched across the already-wet features of her face, and over the puffy nipples of her sperm-smeared tits.
After watching her lap up a few drops from the sensitive tip of my prick as I fought for some sort of dignified recovery, I began the task of tidying myself up as best I could. I left Mrs. Harris sitting on that toilet, her eyes closed and her mouth slack. Neither of us spoke, as had become our custom at parting.
Since then I’ve been with her twice more, the latest time involving me lying flat on my back while she fellated me and in turn enjoyed the services of my tongue laving her rear. If anyone tells you a woman can’t orgasm just from that, then you haven’t met Mrs. Harris.
When next I write I’m thinking I’ll tell you of the interesting young mother who has a thing for having her breasts pumped in an unorthodox manner. Or, perhaps, a little story about the lady who needs to have her bottom spanked when she’s had a bit too much to drink. We’ll see, it could be something else entirely.
Until then, remember that tipping is a sacred responsibility.