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My mother shrieked.This was not unusual. My mother was fond of shrieking. She would shriek in any circumstance where a reaction was called for. Now she was standing in the middle of the kitchen in her best clothes, ready for her and my father to go out for the evening.“I completely forgot!” she shrieked. “I meant to take the bulbs round to Angela!” She turned to where I was pouring myself a glass of orange juice. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Darren? Taking the bag of flower bulbs round to Mrs Hotter? If she’s not there, just leave them on the doorstep. She’ll know who they’re from.”“All right,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Just give me ten minutes or so.”“That’ll be fine, dear,” my mother said, already preoccupied with some other thing.She had no idea how keen I was to run this unexpected errand. I shot up to my room, wondering if I ought to change clothes, then deciding against it, not wanting to arouse suspicion. A bit of extra deodorant couldn’t hurt though.I was always happy to see Mrs Hotter, ever since the day after my 18th birthday when she’d caught me in possession of some dirty magazines and brought herself to a climax in her car looking at them, and using her other hand to bring me off too.It had been two months since then, but every time I saw her, she would wink at me in a way I hoped meant something, even if I’d almost given up hope that anything more would happen. When she came round to the house, my mother was always there, and I couldn’t really go round to her place on the off chance, because how could I explain my visit to her husband and/or her perfectly ghastly son, Tommy, who I positively loathed? Had mobile phones been around back then, things might have been different, but they weren’t, and so things were the way they were.By the time I got back downstairs, my parents had already left. I departed by the back door, locking it carefully behind me. The flower bulbs were in the shed. I had no expectation of anything happening this evening either. It was Friday, and if Mrs Hotter wasn’t out somewhere, she might easily be sat in front of the television with Mr Hotter. Hope? A bare minimum, if any.The Hotters lived in a large bungalow in the next street, and it didn’t take long to get there. The chances were, I thought, as I rang the bell, that either Mr Hotter or Tommy would answer the door and I wouldn’t get to see Mrs Hotter at all. I was so convinced of this, and when there was no response to my second ring that no-one was home, that when Mrs Hotter suddenly appeared before me, all I could do was stutter, “G-g-g-oo-d-d e-evening, Mrs H-o-o-t-t-t-t-er.”“Hello, Darren,” she said, with a big smile. She was wearing some kind of turquoise lycra top that clung to her breasts, revealing a certain amount of cleavage. From the way everything underneath was perfectly outlined, I guessed she wasn’t wearing a bra. She was, however, wearing a skirt with some kind floral pattern and black nylons. The whole outfit looked very haphazard, but to me she never looked less hot than her name suggested.“M-m-m-u-u-m asked me to drop these by,” I said, holding up the bag.“How kind of you to bring them,” Mrs Hotter said. There was a short pause. “Would you like to come in?”“Oh no,” I said, not wanting to meet Tommy, or Mr Hotter for that matter. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”“Oh you wouldn’t be intruding,” Mrs Hotter said. “I’m all alone, watching a film. Tommy’s out with his friends and Charles is at the Lodge.”The full weight of every hope I’d harboured these past two months descended on me. Alone again with Mrs Hotter was exactly what I’d hoped to be, but now the opportunity had presented itself, I panicked. If Mrs Hotter hadn’t held the door open for me and said, Acıbadem Escort “Come in!” I would have turned tail and run.But with the invitation there, politeness dictated that I accept. I entered, letting Mrs Hotter show me into the lounge. “Would you like a drink?” she said. “After all, you are of an age now, aren’t you?”Was it just my imagination, or was there something in her tone? I was still far too inexperienced to tell. “Thank you,” I said. “That would be lovely.”I sounded like a prat. Who was I, pretending I belonged in this swanky looking lounge? But Mrs Hotter merely went over to the sideboard and poured. She’d said she’d been watching a film, but the tele wasn’t on. Maybe she’d switched it off when the doorbell went.“Take a seat,” she said as she handed me the drink. I had no idea what it was, but it burned the back of my throat so bad I choked on the first mouthful. Clearly this was not something to be drunk like orange juice.Mrs Hotter, to her credit, pretended not to notice. She sat down in an armchair opposite. “So how is life treating you, Darren?”“Oh, can’t complain,” I said, again feeling like a prat, but hardly able to stop myself from playing some absurd part. “And you, Mrs Hotter?”“About the same as always,” she said.“Good, good,” I said, not really knowing if that was good or not.There was an awkward silence, during which Mrs Hotter crossed her legs. My eyes fastened on the nylon, which she couldn’t fail to see. She sipped her drink and some slight playfulness entered her eyes.“So, have you acquired a girlfriend yet?”“No,” I said. “I haven’t, worse luck.” Somehow it occurred to me that this might make me out to seem as unpopular as I really was, so I added, “There have been moments, though…”This wasn’t entirely bravado, although the plural was misleading. There had been a moment in the intervening months. An unsuccessful moment based on Frida, the Bensons’ Swedish au pair, giving no indication that she wanted a repeat, but at least I was officially no longer a virgin.“What about you?” I returned, rather stupidly.“Oh, you know, same old husband,” Mrs Hotter said, sounding a little bit weary.In her car in the multi storey, Mrs Hotter had suggested that her husband didn’t show much interest in her these days. “But you’re gorgeous,” I said, not really knowing how to react and just blurting out the first thing that came into my head.Mrs Hotter gave me an appraising glance. “I’m glad you think so,” she said. “If only Charles shared your opinion.”Still not giving proper thought to what I was saying, I blurted, “He must be mad not to! I think of you every evening when I…”Finally I heard myself and stopped in mid flow. Not only had I just insulted Mrs Hotter’s husband, I’d pretty much revealed that I used her as a wank fantasy. In my embarrassment I took a swig of whatever the drink was and coughed as it singed my throat.Then I discovered that Mrs Hotter was looking amused, taking my revelation in her stride. “What, not young nubile things your own age?” she said.I wanted to say that they weren’t a patch on Mrs Hotter. I wanted to say that ever since the experience in her car, I’d wanted to be with her properly. I wanted to say that compared to her, girls my own age were frankly dull. I realise now that what it boiled down to was Mrs Hotter being old enough to be at ease with her own sexuality, the way girls my own age weren’t – the way I wasn’t – but suddenly I didn’t know what to say.To stave off the awkwardness I drained my glass, bringing on a new coughing fit. Why hadn’t I learned? When I was finished, I noticed that Mrs Hotter had curled up in the armchair, legs underneath her. The skirt had ridden up a little. An inch Acıbadem Escort Bayan or so higher and I’d be able to determine if the nylons were stockings or tights. Please, please…Mrs Hotter saw me staring, of course she did. The corners of her mouth curled upwards. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Darren. I’m glad you find me attractive. That I can still hold my own.”“You’re the most beautiful woman I know!” I blurted out, still completely unable to avoid sounding naïve and out of my depth.But Mrs Hotter just smiled. “Tell me more!” she said.I couldn’t rightly think what to say. Not without sounding stupid or coarse or insensitive, or all three at the same time. “I-I-I…” I stuttered. Mrs Hotter raised an eyebrow, but more than that, the hand that was resting on her thigh moved. Fingers moved, gripping fabric. Suddenly the skirt was moving in such a way that it did indeed reveal stocking top, and a good deal of skin above the same. I felt my cock begin to stir.“Tell me what you think about when you…” The gesture Mrs Hotter made caused my head to swim, or was the alcohol having its effect? She shifted slightly as she spoke. My mouth fell open. I now had enough of a view up her skirt to believe, though I couldn’t be sure, that she was naked underneath.I couldn’t hold my tongue. “Are you not wearing any knickers?” I blurted in amazement.Mrs Hotter pulled her skirt back down a couple of inches or so, obscuring the view. “I’ll tell you if you tell me what you think about in the evenings,” she said.This was a game I was ill-equipped to play. “I-I think about ev-everything.”“Everything that’s in those magazines of yours?” Mrs Hotter suggested.I nodded, not wanting to say anything out loud. I’d made enough of a fool of myself already.“You can tell me,” Mrs Hotter said. “It’s not like I’m a blushing innocent. I could tell you a story or two.”I wished she would. It would take the pressure off me, besides being totally outrageous. I still had no idea what to say, except possibly ask for another drink, but I was enjoying the sight of her stocking tops too much, besides which the stuff was so strong I wasn’t sure I could take another.When my tongue still wouldn’t work, Mrs Hotter prompted, “The last time you came thinking of me, what were you thinking?”Her directness shocked me out of my silence. So much so that I blurted out with brutal honesty, “I imagined that I was coming on your face, Mrs Hotter.” It sounded bad. It sounded worse than bad. Why had this compulsion to be honest come over me? Was it the drink? Couldn’t I have just said something that sounded less offensive?But Mrs Hotter was actually tittering. “And was I wearing panties?” she asked.“Eh? No, you were wearing nothing except a pair of shoes and stockings,” I said, not quite able to comprehend how I was suddenly able to say that without feeling as if it was the kind of thing that merited being hauled in front of the firing squad.“So no panties,” Mrs Hotter mused. “Just as I’m not wearing any panties now.”If I hadn’t already been hard, I would have become so. I stared at her, at her skirt, but Mrs Hotter wasn’t moving. Perhaps she just liked me to know she was naked underneath.“You should know, Darren,” Mrs Hotter said, “that far from every woman enjoys having a man ejaculate on her face, but I simply adore it!”Mention of her face made me finally tear my eyes away from her stocking tops, and when I lifted them, I discovered something else. Where the lycra top had provided an outline earlier, now it was clear that Mrs Hotter’s nipples had swollen to epic proportions.“So what else do you think about when you…” Again Mrs Hotter made that obscene gesture with her hand.I said the Escort Acıbadem very thing that was already in my mind. “Your breasts.”“Oh yes,” Mrs Hotter said. “Tell me more.”I swallowed. I’d already behaved like an idiot far too much, and now I was determined not to be so vulgar. “I imagine touching them,” I said. “Kissing them.” I paused. “Sucking on them.”Before I had time to blink, Mrs Hotter had somehow pulled the straps from her shoulders. I was finally seeing the shapely mammaries I and no doubt every other red-blooded teenager in the vicinity had fantasized about. Her hands were on them as she pushed them together, thumbs rubbing up against nipples that were more like bovine teats.“And do you imagine placing your big, swollen cock between them?” Mrs Hotter asked. “Do you imagine yourself fucking my tits?”The filthy way she uttered this forbidden sentiment made my cock throb. My recent determination to stop behaving like the inexperienced teenager I was vanished along with my cool. “Yes!” I exhaled. “Yes! Can I do it now, Mrs Hotter? Can I… fuck your tits and cum on your face?”I’d obviously said something wrong, because Mrs Hotter snapped the lycra back into place, obscuring those luscious mounds.“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to…”“When I was interrupted,” Mrs Hotter said, “I was busy watching a film. Would you care to join me?”So this was it, was it? All hopes reduced to watching a film with Mrs Hotter. Well, it was better than nothing, I supposed, and it was my own fault for being such an idiot. When Mrs Hotter rose, I imagined it was to reactivate the television, but then she said, “Come!”I followed, understanding nothing. It was when I realised she was showing me into the bedroom that I suddenly grasped that things might not be as bad as I’d imagined. I grasped something else too. There was a large towel spread out on the bed, and a white, plastic dildo next to it along with a remote control. This explained Mrs Hotter’s haphazard outfit. Clearly she’d been enjoying herself on her own when I rang the doorbell.This boded well. “Lie down,” the woman instructed.In the marital bed? My mind was blown even before the woman laid down next to me and grabbed the remote control. The room was furnished with a television and a VCR, and when an image appeared, it was of a woman on all fours, huge breasts swinging beneath her as a man did the doggy on her with great determination.My experience of porn as moving pictures was strictly softcore. The magazines I owned were subject to a bizarre form of censorship. This was something else entirely. Where had Mrs Hotter got hold of it?More importantly, had she just invited me into the boudoir to watch, or was she expecting me to take some kind of initiative? The woman was so unpredictable it was impossible for me to know. I lay there, caught between not wanting to be too forward and not wanting to disappoint her.Then my attention was distracted by a change of scene in the film. On screen appeared an absolutely massive cock, more like someone’s lower arm than a penis. A woman with long, dark hair had her mouth poised just above it. Her lips pursed and she drooled onto the organ, making it slick with saliva and giving it a few rubs with her hand. Then she opened her mouth wide and made an attempt to go down on it, hardly able to fit any of the gargantuan organ between her lips.I was mesmerised by the sight, but also slightly demoralized. Was this what Mrs Hotter got off on? How could any normal person compete with that?No doubt Mrs Hotter saw the way I was staring, because she said, “That man’s a freak of nature. I wouldn’t mind getting fucked by him, to see what it’s like, but I wouldn’t worry about him, Darren. From what I remember of your cock, it’s easily big enough to provide satisfaction.”Was she being kind, or did she mean that? And was I expected to take some kind of initiative? Like a big dummy, I said, “Would you like to see it again, Mrs Hotter? To see if you remember correctly?”“Oh I never forget a cock,” Mrs Hotter said.

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