Loading...CHAPTER 1
Let me say at the very beginning that Lora was not a beautiful woman. Only when the light and the expression on her face were just right could she appear rather attractive. But then, on second glance a moment later, she would be the plainest looking of females. I did not find her at all sexually appealing right up until the moment it happened.
The year was 1963. My college roommate Ronny had invited me to pass the spring break with him and his family in Houston, less than two hours drive from school. Since my own parents lived halfway across the continent, and were spiraling down toward a messy divorce, I gladly accepted his invitation.
We arrived at Ronny’s house late on a windy March day, just in time for supper. His father Carl was away on business, and would not return until our last day there. I was soon introduced to Ronny’s brother Dennis, who was 14, and sister Carol, who was 10. And to Lora.
My roommate’s mother was then in her late 30s. Like any college-age male, I sized up her physical attributes in a single look. She had black hair, worn in loose Marilyn Monroe style curls, and large green eyes that were alas, always behind horn-rim glasses. The night I met her, she was wearing a simple print dress that indicated her breasts to be quite ordinary, even smallish. In her favor, however, were full expansive hips and a waist that was surprisingly narrow, considering her age and the fact that she had borne three children.
In a story like this, I ought to say that Lora cast me a flirtatious eye, or that sexual sparks were ignited as soon as we met, but I would be lying. Nothing whatsoever happened. Lora gave me polite smiles, asked the usual questions about my family and my studies; then, more or less ignored me. As I did her. To me she was the most average of average housewives, not very pretty even by the low standards of that category. And definitely not in the same league with the soft luscious coeds who were then the focus of my carnal desires.
Spring had fully arrived in Houston, with warm humid weather already upon us. Ronny and I spent the first two days playing golf and relaxing around the family swimming pool. And of course trying, with only middling luck, to pick up girls.
On the third day, just after lunch, he and I were sitting in the breakfast nook playing chess. Lora, having agreed to join little Carol in the swimming pool, emerged from the bedroom area wearing a thick white one-piece swimsuit that did nothing to improve my low opinion of her figure. She was carrying a plastic clothes basket filled with clothes to be washed. She placed it down near the patio door to attend to Dennis, who had just arrived on his bicycle with a bloody scrape on his knee.
Ronny went to look at his brother’s injury. Lora turned to me, saying, “Jack, could you put that clothes basket on the washing machine? I’ve got to wash those clothes as soon as I find time.”
With a nod I agreed and carried the basket to their utility room, placing it on the washer. I cast a brief glance at the clothes. And there they were. Lying on Carol’s sundress was a pair of Lora’s white panties. I wish that I could say they were silk, or trimmed in lace, or designed to be sexy and enticing, but again I would be lying. They were just a cheap pair of women’s Sears-Roebuck panties. Like Lora herself, they were mundane and unpretentious, serving no other purpose than to cover a woman’s genitals and her butt.
But the thought that Lora had just now taken off these panties to don her bathing suit intrigued me. Do they still hold her body heat? I wondered. The thought was father to the deed. With a backward glance to make sure that no one was looking, I took the panties and held them to my cheeks and indeed felt the warmth of Lora’s body still present in the rayon/cotton blend.
But the panties held more. My nostrils became filled with the intoxicating scent of a woman’s cunt, musky and mysterious. Yes, there was the faint scent of urine as well, but the wonderful aromas emanating from those panties, in sum, were more fragrant that the rarest perfume. I’ve got to have these panties, I thought. I must have them. In less time than it takes to say, I stuffed them into a pocket of my khaki slacks and hurried to the guest bedroom. By the time I closed the door, I realized to my astonishment that I had the fullest erection of my young life.
So hard and throbbing was my cock that I had no choice but to undo my pants and give my cramped member some room. I could not resist holding Lora’s panties to my face again, which act caused a spot of pre-cum to appear on my Hanes tighty-whities. Jesus, what’s happening? I thought.
Now, it must be made clear that I was not at the time a sexual novice. I had had sex with a total of one girl, several times even. But nothing in my previous experience even remotely approached the intensity of pure carnal lust that now surged through me like a river at flood stage. And triggered by nothing more than a housewife’s panties.
Ronny, calling my name, interrupted my sexual reverie. I frantically thrust my treasure under the mattress, zipped up my pants, and opened the door. Please don’t let him notice my bulge, I prayed.
And he did not. “Hey, you wanna go for a swim?” he grinned. “Get your trunks on, and I’ll see you at the pool.”
The passion in my manhood had mostly subsided by the time I changed into my loose trunks and came to the pool, where Lora had put out cold bottles of Coke with straws in them for us. But my worst fears were quickly realized. As soon as I saw her, sitting on the edge of the pool messing around with Carol, my cock once again leaped like a baying hound on a leash. I now desired my roommate’s mother with complete unbridled lust.
Afraid that the ever-growing bulge in my trucks would embarrass me and perhaps frighten little Carol, I leaped into the pool and stayed there most of the afternoon. I kept telling myself, dammit, this is the same ordinary, fading housewife you’ve been around for the past three days. But it made no difference to my cock. She was the source of those divine womanly aromas in the panties. That was all it cared about.
Somehow I made it through supper. That night Ronny and I went to the drive-in on a double date with Kathy and Sandra. Kathy was cute, she smelled sweet and clean, and I tried to transfer my daylong sexual yearnings to her. But to no avail. She was not Lora.
When I was at last back in the guest room ready for bed, I indulged myself in one last face full of Lora’s panties. The aroma was fading, but my cock swelled nonetheless. Just then a thought occurred to me. I held the panties under the desk lamp and examined the crotch. And there lay more treasure, not one but four strands of Lora’s pubic hair. I picked up and rolled each between my fingers in reverence. I finally put them into a small envelope that went into my wallet, where they remain to this day.
I was still jittery the next morning, and now Lora’s nose was up. Occasionally I caught her eyeing me curiously. My only consolation was that no one else in the family seemed aware of my transformation from Joe College to shameless housewife addict.
And that night the little voice came. “Go ahead and do it,” came the cunning whisper, “you know you want to.” I tried to resist, honest, but the voice persisted. “It will only take a minute or two, and no one will ever know.” I was weak. It was futile to resist.
I took the panties from under the mattress, and then removed my T-shirt and tighty-whities. Already my cock was awakening, and the feel of Lora’s panties as they glided up my legs was beyond bliss. I drew the panties over my cock and for a few seconds caressed it through the smooth material. Of course the inevitable began to happen. As my cock throbbed I hastily pulled down the panties, desperate to avoid sullying their feminine purity with my tawdry cum.
I held my own shorts over my manhood to keep from spraying cum all over the guest bedroom, a definite faux pas. At once came the sweetest, most intense climax of my life. I seemed to gush for endless moments. Electricity surged delightfully through me down to my toes and back. Although Houston is a large city, I am certain that no one residing there that night experienced the level of pure sexual ecstasy that I did. And triggered by nothing more than a housewife’s panties.
The next day I made a resolution: you can beat this. Look at her skin, I thought, it’s kinda coarse, not very smooth or silky. But to no avail. I desired her all the more. But what about her chin that’s somewhat receding, and that too-prominent nose? Who cares, I want this woman. The more I tried to find fault with Lora, the more captivating she became. The truth was now plain: my obsession with her was as irrational as it was intense.
That evening I played badminton on the lawn with Ronny, Dennis, and Carol. After a while I needed to use the bathroom, and one of the neighbor’s kids took my place in the game. Lora was sitting at the breakfast nook table drinking iced tea and idly watching the game. She was beguilingly dressed in a shapeless white blouse and bright yellow pedal pushers.
As I returned from the bathroom, Lora asked, “Want some iced tea?” I joined her at the table and we sipped tea for a moment in silence. Despite my fascination with her, Lora and I had said little to each other during my stay. No sexual repartee, no clever double entendres. Just the perfunctory greetings, queries about what we were planning to do that day, and please pass the biscuits.
Finally she spoke. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I, uh, what do you mean?” I stammered, knowing of course exactly what she meant.
“You’ve been looking at me funny the past few days. It’s been a while since any fellow besides Carl looked at me that way, but a woman still knows what it means.” After a pause she continued. “Surely you can’t have a crush. On me, of all people?” Yes, the very idea seemed absurd.
They say confession is good for the soul. “Yes Ma’m,” I murmured, my cheeks now blazing crimson, “I guess I do.”
I wish I could say that Lora then grasped my hands warmly and gazed at me, her eyes filled with lust for my body; or that she leaned over with a whispered promise to come to my bedroom at midnight and there satisfy my every sexual desire. But once again I would be lying.
Instead she said, “Now look, I’m a good Christian woman, and I’ve got these young’uns to raise. I don’t have time for foolishness. You’re a nice boy and all, and you’re welcome in my house. But I want you to quit mooning around and looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes. You behave now, understand?”
“Yes Ma’m,” I said almost inaudibly, “I’ll behave.” But the impossible had happened. Now that Lora’s rebuff had made her unattainable, my aching desire for her increased all the more. Already my cock was once again swelling. In desperation I got up and went back to the badminton game.
CHAPTER 2
I never returned to Lora’s house. That summer Ronny decided to get an apartment with another friend, and in time we saw little of each other. After graduation I eventually obtained a Ph.D. degree in metallurgical engineering and took a faculty position at Tulsa University.
In 1970 I married Denise. She was the antithesis of Lora: honey blonde hair, generous creamy breasts, and a magnificent pear-shaped ass. She was just as passionate in the bedroom as she was voluptuous. In 1974 she bore my son Andrew, and two years later my daughter Staci. We settled into a comfortable brick home, landscaped with dogwoods and azaleas, in one of the better Tulsa neighborhoods. It was an idyllic life.
My most prized possession was my college diploma, which was mounted in a handsome frame and hung in my study. Every few months, when I was sure that I was alone in the house for a few hours, I would lock the study door, close the blinds, and strip naked. Taking down the framed diploma, I would remove the backing and draw out Lora’s white panties.
I always took my time putting them on, and then would walk around the room, savoring the feel of them as I conjured up images of plain, late 30ish Lora, horn-rim glasses and all. I seldom had to do more than casually touch my cock. Even after a decade or more, just the feel of the panties and the thought of that woman would produce a stunning climax. The sheer irrationality of it had by now ceased to astonish me. Lora’s panties were an essential part of my life. It was as simple as that.
In spring of 1979 I attended a national conference of metallurgical engineers in New Orleans. At the end of the first day I walked from the convention center down to Café du Monde near the Mississippi River. The day was mild and breezy. I sipped chicory coffee, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun. Just then a hand touched me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, but do I know you?” came a voice from behind me. I looked around and it was she. Lora. And as God is my witness, my cock surged to life as if had been only yesterday instead of 16 years since I gazed upon her ordinary housewife face.
“Yes,” I rose and stammered, “I’m Jack. I was your son Ronny’s roommate in college.”
“Oh, of course,” she laughed, “Now I remember! You came and stayed with us once during spring break.” She tactfully left out the part about my hopeless crush on her.
“Won’t you please join me in some coffee?” I asked.
“Yes, I’d love to. I’m over here in the Quarter with my friend Jean, but she’ll be in the gift shops for Lord knows how long. I told her to meet me here when she’s finished.”
I assume that her coffee was soon brought, but I have no memory of it. I was lost in Lora’s green eyes. She was in her mid-50s now, her hair short and straighter, streaked with gray along the sides. Lora had put on a few pounds, but it suited her, softening the bony angular nature of her figure. She had at last exchanged those damn horn-rim glasses for a pair of wire-rimmed ones.
As the sun disappeared we caught up on each other’s lives. Her husband Carl had died of an embolism two years ago; Lora had then move back to New Orleans, the city of her birth. Her children were doing fine, she said, although Dennis had lost a leg in Vietnam. And Ronny had two children. My Lora was now a grandmother.
I in turn related my career and life in Tulsa, and naturally took out pictures of Denise and our children for her to admire. “They’re all so beautiful,” she said, but we both knew that. A rosy blush then came to her cheeks.
“Jack, you’re doing it again. Looking at me that same way.”
Now I blushed as well. Was my pure unabated lust for her that obvious? Of course. Finally I had the nerve to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Lora. I still can’t help it.”
“After all this time? And me a grandmother? Oh Jack, what ever am I going to do with you?” she said as she placed her hand on mine.
Don’t you know what I want you to do with me? I thought. But gentleman that I was, I did not voice these lascivious feelings.
Instead of another stern rebuke, however, Lora shook her head and gazed out toward the river, a bemused look on her face.
At some point in life we become fully aware of our own mortality. And the fact that when life draws to a close we are left with nothing but memories. Was that the difference in her now? At any rate, she finally turned back to me.
“Jack,” she smiled, “I have a nice home in the Garden District now, and I enjoy company. Jean is leaving tomorrow morning, so I was wondering if you’d like to come over for supper tomorrow night?”
Did she even have to ask?
CHAPTER 3
Never was a love-struck teen more nervous than I when my cab pulled up in front of Lora’s house the next evening. She greeted me at the door, accepted the bouquet of flowers that I had brought, and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. That kiss was heaven, and my cock heartily agreed.
For the next hour we ate supper on her patio, Cajun cuisine as you would expect. I discovered that the object of my lust was, of all things, a real person. Lora was well read, enjoyed pottery making, and had traveled several times to Europe. Over coffee and key lime pie, she finally broached the subject that had remained unspoken throughout the meal.
“Jack, do you remember that week you spent with us in Houston?”
“Of course.”
“I seem to recall that you started, well, acting odd toward me all of a sudden, several days after you had been there. Almost as if something had happened. Did it? Did something happen?”
My last confession to her had been a disaster, but like a fool I plunged ahead anyway. I spilled everything: the discovery of her panties, their effect on me, the fact that to this day I could wear them and feel sexual bliss.
Lora listened with a mix of fascination, repulsion, and much shaking of the head. I believe the only reason she did not order me off the premises is that women have such low expectations of men when it comes to sex. This is just the sort of bizarre shenanigan that they know men are capable of. We can’t help it.
With a deep sigh and another shake of the head, she said only, “Well, come on, help me carry these dishes to the kitchen.”
At the sink it occurred to me, out of the blue, that Lora just might be awaiting me. Half expecting a good hard slap, I worked up the nerve to put my arms around her. She did not object, and when I bent to kiss her she gave me the full taste of her. As long and as much as I wanted.
I wish I could say that the feel of our naked bodies intertwined was just as I had always dreamed; that burying my cock to the hilt in Lora’s warm pussy was exactly as I had imagined. But yet again I would be lying. Because it was so much better. If ever there was a perfect melding of a spiritual and carnal experience, it happened to me that night in the Garden District, famous for its roses. Only after I had finally slid off her did the flush on her chest, the sheen of sweat, and her radiant green eyes tell me that Lora had taken as much pleasure as she had given. I suddenly and inexplicably burst into tears, not a very manly thing to do I admit. She held and caressed me, assuming that I was feeling guilty. It was that, but also, believe it or not, great joy. I had scaled my sexual Everest. I had mounted Lora.
Needless to say, I did not return to the Marriott hotel. For the next three days we lived almost as husband and housewife. In the mornings Lora made breakfast for me and saw me off to the meetings. At noon I would return for lunch and a quickie. At day’s end she would be waiting with another Cajun masterpiece, after which, for many hours, I pounded the woman like a jackhammer.
I discovered to my surprise that behind her modest housewife facade, she was and always had been a whore in the bedroom. Lora would slowly and lovingly suck my cock; I returned the favor, thoroughly exploring her pussy with my tongue and lips. On the second night, she emerged from the bathroom with a jar of K-Y jelly, and with a teasing grin knelt on the bed and presented her broad ass to me. I took my pleasure there as well.
On the last day of the meeting, I was due to fly back to Tulsa in the late afternoon. I returned to Lora’s for lunch one last time. She told me to first pack my suitcase. As I was doing so, she came into the bedroom.
“I’ve got a going-away present for you,” she said with a wry smile.
“What is it?”
“Can’t you guess?” With that Lora hiked up her skirt and pulled down her panties, stepped out of them and handed them to me. I would not have to resort to secret panty-snatching this time.
“Go ahead,” she smiled, “I know you want to do it.”
And so, shameless to the end, I held them to my face and relished the heat of a body and the scent of a pussy that was by now quite familiar.
Lora glanced at the growing bulge in my pants. “I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch first or have me,” she said, “but I guess I know the answer to that.”
“Yes, Lora, you do,” I replied as I slid the panties into my suitcase.
CHAPTER 4
I never saw Lora after that day. I do not know if she is even now alive, but if so, she would be close to 80. As for Denise and me, our children are now grown, with careers and kids of their own. Denise has been the dream wife, still fit and sexy even in her late 50s. She spreads her thighs for me as eagerly now as on our wedding night. My male friends, with both words and glances, have told me a thousand times what a lucky bastard I am to have had a wife like her. Denise and I have traveled the world together; I have showered gifts on her, and have truthfully told her that I love her very much. I hope it has been enough.
But sometimes sleep does not come, and I sit in my study late at night, staring into the flames of the gas fireplace there. My college diploma, now with two pairs of panties hidden in the back, still hangs on the wall nearby. It has been years, though, since the panties were put to use. Often I reflect instead on those last moments that I spent with Lora on that long-ago day. I had enjoyed her to the fullest, eaten lunch, and then showered and was getting dressed. Like any housewife fussing over her husband, she straightened my tie and brushed lint from my suit.
Then she spoke. “Now, Jack, you’ve had me every way a man can have a woman. And I don’t mind saying that it was just about the best sex I’ve ever had. But this is the end of it. I don’t ever want to see you or hear from you again. Don’t even try to call or write. Do you understand me?”
“No, I don’t!”
“The thing is,” she said sternly, “you’ve now got young’uns of your own, and a pretty wife. It’s a full time job for a man, just being a father and husband. Now, these past three days, I’ve given you everything I have to offer. There’s nothing left of me that you haven’t already had. So now I’m asking you to devote yourself to the family that needs you.” She leaned up and kissed me for the last time. “That’s what I want. Will you do it for me?”
I paused, slowly realizing the truth in her words. “Yes Ma’m, I’ll do it.”
And so the mounted diploma and its hidden treasure now remind me of the great irony of my existence: I have enjoyed a long satisfying life with Denise, the most charming and sensuous woman a man could ever hope for. But years before I met her, an ordinary housewife twenty years my senior captured my heart. And as long as I live, part of my heart will belong to her. To Lora.