İçeriğe geçmek için "Enter"a basın

Mum’s Friend Dorothy

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Cuckold

Twenty years had passed since that terrible evening. Twenty years in which lives had been repaired, if not healed, and had branched off in different directions from how those involved had intended.I had moved away, because I had been about to do that anyway. I wasn’t running from anything, or at least I didn’t think I was. I just had a life to lead. I was 20 when it happened and I had ambitions to pursue – ambitions which could best be pursued in London, not this small town on the Norfolk coast. I was a talented illustrator, and although you can work remotely, and could even in those days, to make a day-to-day living from it, I wanted to be in the thick of it, moving in the right circles, getting to know people.And it had worked. I had established myself on the books of a prominent agency and been called upon to work on all sorts of assignments, from food packaging to small books.I was back home for the 20th anniversary of the crash. It wasn’t billed like that, of course. My Mum had just said it would be nice if I could be around on the date that year, so I took two weeks off and got the train from Liverpool Street station to Norwich and down to Cromer. Staying in your mother’s house when you’re 40 is quite strange. She lived an old lady’s lifestyle. The house was quiet, with just the ticking of an old clock unless the TV was on for some dire daytime soap.I arrived on the day before The Day and we had a quiet meal with my dad’s favourite food and wine: spaghetti puttanesca and Chianti, and it was fine. Poignant at times, but okay. Then, after a few days, she could see I was getting bored, so she invited me along on a weekly get-together with a friend. They were a group of four and each of the women had lost a husband in the crash when a train derailed kaçak iddaa outside Norwich. The men had been returning from a football match at Wembley and apparently there was a broken rail, which flipped the front of the train off the track, dragging the rest with it.The afternoon was spent at Dorothy’s terraced house in a quiet, leafy avenue. Edna and Grace had made other plans, so it was just the three of us. Dorothy was tall and slim, a retired teacher, with carefully combed quite long hair dyed a very pale orange. She probably didn’t call it that, but that’s how it looked to me.I had met the other two in town on shopping trips. There was Edna, a rough-and-ready little brunette, the joker in the pack, with a coarse sense of humour, and Grace, a slightly chubby and stilted grande dame who had never done a day’s work in her life because her parents had money and then she had married a well-to-do businessman with fingers in a lot of pies including a Ford car dealership. Grace wore too much makeup in an effort to add something to the perfectly good face which she spent too much time looking at in the mirror. She had big pouty lips and baggy eyes and was one of those over-managed women who made me want to pin her down and wank onto her chest.All these thoughts were going through my mind as my mother and I sat with Dorothy and made small talk about my life in London and they told self-deprecating tales of their provincial existence. Nothing could have been more innocent than this regular little social occasion, but I have seen enough in my life to know there is always a subtle undertow of lust and longing. There were probably unspoken feelings among the women when left to their own foursome, but my presence stirred things up a bit and, I thought, accounted kaçak bahis for the absence of two of them.Dorothy seemed to be on my wavelength, as she herself might have put it. She was too old for the hippie generation but I could imagine her waving disconsolately as the peace and love train disappeared over the horizon, leaving her to the middle-class suburban future that had become her life.A few days later, Mum had arranged to buy Dorothy’s microwave and I was deputed to go round and collect it. Dorothy made a pot of tea and produced some homemade fruit cake and we had our own highly civilised afternoon tea. As I left with the microwave safely stowed on the back seat of my car, Dorothy touched my arm and quietly invited me to go back for the evening meal. She had made a curry with some leftover chicken and there was far too much for her, she said. I graciously agreed and neither of us mentioned my mother, so I assumed it was to be a private matter.I was back at Dorothy’s house three hours later with a bottle of Gewurztraminer which I thought was bold enough and spicy enough to cope with a curry which I expected to be on the mild side of bland.Sure enough, it was made with curry powder rather than individual spices, and although it had plenty of flavour, it wasn’t going to knock anyone’s socks off. I, on the other hand, intended to get Dorothy’s socks off, along with everything else, and I sensed that was what she had in mind too.We sat together on the comfortable tapestry-like sofa, with the dishes hastily shoved into the dishwasher, and made awkward conversation, both wary of saying the wrong thing and jeopardising what we saw as a relationship within the relationship Dorothy had with my Mum. The music of Queen played softly in the background – chosen, illegal bahis I could tell, as the closest thing her tame collection had to “my kind of thing”.As if at a given but undetectable signal, just as I decided I would have to raise the intensity, she shifted in her seat and came down closer to me, her hip and its lovely surrounding area pressed against mine. I put a hand on her knee and she giggled.“Well,” she said, “Here we are.” It was the sort of carefully-pitched, non-incriminating choice of phrase that confirmed to me that I should continue. I slid my hand a little further up her leg, onto what could only be described as her thigh, an inch or two into her skirt. She was wearing a knee-length, sleeveless, pale blue dress that was nicely fitted around her chest and stomach, and slightly looser further down.“You have very nice shoulders,” I said, moving the focus without really knowing why. Dorothy laughed.“Well, that’s a compliment I’ve never had before,” she said, her right hand landing on my knee with a carefully innocent, friendly pat. I leaned down and kissed her shoulder, and as I did so, my hand slid even further into the tunnel of mystery. It was now definitely between her legs and an unspoken request for permission to continue needed to be approved or rejected. She involuntarily adjusted her stance to free her breasts, which jiggled demurely beneath the blue cotton mix. I went for her neck and my hand leapt up to her chest, squeezing her left breast gently as my face landed on hers and we kissed. I could tell she wasn’t accustomed to this but was determined not to be the stuffy old lady she feared she had become. Her hand moved way up to the top of my thigh and she jammed it down so it was sandwiched between my muscles, the edge of her thumb against the bulge of my cock. As the kiss became deeper and dirtier she opened her hand and placed it on my bulge. I responded by putting my hand back inside her skirt and gently tracing her slit.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

İlk yorum yapan siz olun

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak.

izmir escort izmir escort illegal bahis canlı bahis siteleri casino siteleri canlı bahis kaçak bahis bahis siteleri bursa escort görükle escort bursa escort gaziantep rus escort antep escort gaziantep escort izmir escort maltepe escort