Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
My stomach did little flip-flops as I thought of the scandalous birthday gift flopping around in my messenger bag while walking the few blocks from my house to Sue Jean’s apartment. The July heat was still nearly unbearable at almost 9 P.M., small beads of sweat developing all over my freshly showered (Dr. Bronner’s citrus-scented liquid soap) body. Clad in a frequently washed burgundy Old 97’s tour t-shirt, frayed dark gray cargo pant cut-offs and black flip flops with my moderately graying hair a grown-out buzz cut, and my even more graying beard slightly more unruly than my hair, I looked like an unemployed record store clerk or a thirty-something college student.
Finally deciding that I didn’t want to work in a warehouse forever, I moved back to the small university town in which I had formerly lived (in the nineties during a particularly pathetic, clueless era when doting on my gorgeous, statuesque, way out of my league new girlfriend was of far greater importance than attending classes, which might have had something to do with why I was put on academic probation after a unforgettably embarrassing term in which I was absent more often than not) a few months earlier and was now taking summer English and journalism classes. I was still working at the same warehouse where I had been employed for a baker’s dozen years, but had recently switched to the weekend shift to better suit my class schedule. The hours were brutally long and I had little energy to go out on weekends. I was also newly single and not up to the bar life or random one night stands, so I really didn’t have a lot to do anyway.
Sue Jean’s marriage to a devilishly handsome Brazilian hand drum player in a nationally known jam rock band had dissolved a few months earlier due to his chronic infidelity which he lamely blamed on a rigorous touring schedule that put him on the road three quarters of the year. Sue Jean and her lovely three year old girl moved back to the same town in which I was living. Biting the financial bullet, Sue Jean purchased the failing coffee shop at which she had toiled in the late nineties when we were good friends (and almost lovers) and turned it into the most popular spot locally to feed one’s caffeine addiction.
My crazy work and school schedule and lack of desire to make my own coffee sent me constantly, sleepily hurtling to the brazenly named Wake the F Up Coffee Stop where Sue Jean, looking a bit like a granola version of Meg White, uber-buxom drummer for the White Stripes, held court, slinging coffees, sandwiches and other goodies at a ridiculously rapid pace, while finding time to charm her devoted regulars with an easy smile and occasionally wicked sense of humor. Catching up with Sue Jean was one ray of sunlight in my otherwise heavily clouded recent existence and I looked forward to our [less frequent than I would prefer] get-togethers with teenage exuberance.
Tonight’s visit was of special importance because it was Sue Jean’s 30th birthday. As I sweated profusely on way up the back steps of Sue Jean’s tiny apartment above the Wake the F Up Coffee Stop, I momentarily contemplated turning around and going back home or at least not giving her the gift I had had made for her, a flesh-colored vibrating dildo created by a local starving sex toy artist known to me through my writings for an erotic literature website. Taking a cast of my own erect cock (six and a half inches and about as thick as a large Maglite flashlight), the artist then inserted the inner workings of the vibrator and added a couple clever enhancements: a Reebok Pump-like feature that increased the girth in tiny increments as well as three extra inches that extended gradually via button according to the user’s needs/desires. I paid a pretty escort izmit penny for this purchase but I was certain that Sue Jean would love this one of a kind toy, especially considering her recent flirtiness and frequent mention of the need for mechanical love due to her divorce from her well-hung, handsome, hand-drumming, philandering husband.
Knocking quietly at the door so as not to awaken her sleeping child, I tried to imagine what course the evening might take, quickly abandoning all these thoughts when a radiantly beaming Sue Jean swung open the front door, a bottle of red wine in one hand and the other reaching for my sweaty embrace. She wore a cute, lightweight summer dress (which was probably made of fair trade materials in a non-sweatshop workplace and purchased at a Saturday market) whose various hues of darker blue and low-cut front accentuated her eternally pale skin and wonderfully big breasts, which always visually pulled me in like the tractor beam of a spaceship in “Star Trek.”
“Welcome, Rob. Come in. Sit down. Take a load off,” Sue Jean cooed, and I inwardly giggled at her last sentence as I sat down on the aging futon which had been ground zero of so many long-winded, passionate discussions for her and me in the past and a few memorable occasions recently as well. I rooted around in my messenger bag, avoiding the bulky, sloppily wrapped sex toy, grabbing instead the two mixed CDs I had made for the evening which contained all my favorite recent indie and alt rock faves as well as a few left-field choices like a rare Prince b-side from the promo copy of a soon-to-be released seven disc box set whose review deadline for an online music website for which I wrote was rapidly approaching.
Over the course of a couple laugh-filled hours Sue Jean and I chatted, quickly draining the first bottle of red wine and polishing off another in a more leisurely manner. Talk of work, child-rearing, music, movies and politics mingled and blurred in our buzzed state. Soon we were sharing stories of our respective sexual frustration. I spoke of my five minutes of glory in the shower in the morning and some evenings a little longer before I passed out from sheer exhaustion or microbrew overload, or both. Sue Jean spoke of the difficulty in finding times her daughter wasn’t awake and the creative household items that were replacing the generously-sized cock to which she’d been accustomed during her five years of marriage. The most intriguing for me was a wine bottle, especially considering that we had two empty ones sitting directly in front of us on the fingerprint-smudged and cup ring-stained coffee table.
“That must feel pretty nice. The wine bottle, I mean,” I clumsily, gently offered more as a question than a statement of fact. Sue Jean was well aware of my appreciation of female masturbation and had long teased me with all-too-vivid descriptions of her solo activities, occasionally hinting that she’d show me sometime but never actually following through.
“Oh yeah, Rob, it’ll do in a pinch, but nothing replaces a nice warm cock. Or a man-sized toy, which I never seem to have the time or childcare to find on my own,” Sue Jean mock-whined.
I pursued this line of discussion for a few more minutes and through a potent combination of questioning and jokingly begging and cajoling, Sue Jean abandoned her usual tease and torment m.o. and offered to show me how she and her various wine bottle lovers attended to business.
“But you better show me what you do as well,” Sue Jean countered, sternly adding, “and it better last more than five minutes.”
Not certain how long this offer would be on the table, I quickly unzipped and stepped out of my shorts and boxers and sat back down on the futon izmit escort with one leg up on the couch so that I had better access to my rapidly growing cock.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that,” Sue Jean giggled. “Have you been working out?”
“Way too regularly but I never get to actually use it in a sporting event,” I complained, shaking my head glumly for effect.
Sue Jean turned down the lamp to a more mood-enhancing glow and pulled her dress over her shoulders. She was wearing nothing underneath. Her breasts were even bigger than I remember them, somewhere comfortably past the first three letters of the alphabet and probably double that letter. 10-plus years and motherhood had added some hang to her bountiful boobs but they were still way more than appealing and I longed to squeeze and suck on them.
Intuiting that I was enjoying the sight of her naked body, Sue Jean stood there as I visually feasted on her little mound of a belly and the carefully trimmed bush that led to the future home of the thicker and longer of the two empty wine bottles that she eventually chose before reclining languorously on the futon.
I slowly pulled up and down on my almost fully hard cock, which was dotted with pre-cum. Sue Jean sat up for a moment and put the bottle to my mouth. Assuming her intentions without missing a beat, I coated the upper third of it with my wine-sweetened saliva and Sue Jean placed the pouring end of the bottle at her petite pussy lips, gently working a bit of it into her as she flicked the hood of her clit almost as if to wake it up, then rubbing it with her middle finger in a circular fashion. She established an easy rhythm of insertion and withdrawal and would occasionally push the bottle all the way to the fat, wider portion. When she got it in as far it would go, still rubbing her clit intently, Sue Jean would close her eyes and toss back her head and luxurious long black hair and moan the most loudly.
As I stroked my rigid cock super-slowly so as to last longer than the requested five minutes, I guiltily, excitedly thought of the toy that would give Sue Jean so much more pleasure than what she currently had in her, which was ably doing the job. For both of us.
I could tell from her increased moans that Sue Jean was going to cum soon, and I knew I wasn’t far behind, so I interrupted our respective activities with a startling, guttural clearing of my throat. Sue Jean’s huge breasts jiggled and her eyes came wide open, the wine bottle still partially buried in her sopping pussy.
“What is so fucking important that you have to derail my O-train?” was Sue Jean’s booming, half-serious query.
“I forgot your other birthday present. It’s in my man-bag.” I reached onto the floor for said bag and produced the hastily wrapped toy and presented it to Sue Jean with mock reverence.
“Mmm, what could it be?”
Tearing through the flimsy paper hastily like a late, last second lunch order, Sue Jean pulled out the handmade sex toy as I explained its origins and function. Unlike a new stereo or computer, Sue Jean quickly figured out what to do with her new plaything.
“Oooh, this is nice,” Sue Jean cooed. “Not too long so as to puncture my cervix, and just thick enough to make my pussy grip it,” she noted almost like she was reviewing it at a Consumer Reports sex toy party.
I slowed my stroking to a glacial crawl as Sue Jean pushed the vibrating replica of me in and out her slowly, adjusting the vibrations so that a light hum permeated the room, blending with the self-made music mixes playing at a low level.
I couldn’t tolerate the distance between us any longer and I moved over to Sue Jean’s side of the futon, breathing in her izmit kendi evi olan escort scent, my nose buried in her hair, gently dragging my lips and teeth across her ears and neck. I was temporarily unable to see Sue Jean dipping her new toy in and out her pussy with increasing speed and aggressiveness but I could feel it in her torso as I made up for my loss of visual stimuli by gently squeezing her huge boobs and raising the nipples gingerly with my eager team of tongue, lips and fingertips.
Sue Jean pulled my head brusquely from her memorable mams and returned my oral favors by biting and licking my neck and ears, sending chills down my spine and further pre-cum to leak from my inflamed cockhead. I had stopped rubbing for fear of an early explosion and I didn’t even know if that was going to halt my impending spasms.
Sue Jean finally pushed me away entirely. “Hey mister, you’re not watching anymore and I’m not getting the full meal deal with this toy. Remind me again what these two buttons do.”
Tutorial completed, Sue Jean opted to first increase the girth of the toy with several depressions of the first button. “Oooh, fuck, that’s nice. Mmm, wow, I don’t seem to be able to get as much movement with this added thickness.” I was again amazed by Sue Jean’s ability to be so accurately analytical while over-stimulating her equally oozing nether regions.
Sue Jean’s pussy soon accommodated the further girth as I drank in the sight of her facial pleasure, swaying boobs and the pussy juice-coated toy pushed as far into her as it would go. “Mmm, I’m gonna cum pretty soon, but I want to take this last option for a test drive before I do. And Rob, you better start rubbing, you’re falling asleep on the job,” an obvious, witty reference to my lust-heavy lids.
I carefully stroked my cock, trying to hold out as long as I could, leaning further back on the futon while aiming my cock at my belly. Sue Jean pressed down on the second button and an extra inch materialized from the generous base of the toy. “Whoa, that was unexpected. I wonder how much more this bad boy has to offer,” Sue Jean calmly commentated, pumping the button a second and third time, her mouth forming a surprised, satisfied “O” as the vibrator extended its last two thick inches into Sue Jean’s leaking pussy.
Sue Jean made one last adjustment to the toy, increasing its vibration to almost full speed and rose to her knees on the futon and pushed the toy all the way in so its base was flush with her pussy lips. This new bodily arrangement made her giant breasts jut out even further and I knew in less than a minute I would be goner, spewing my hot cum load all over my non-six-pack, not-too-hairy stomach.
Sue Jean stopped talking and closed her eyes, moaning and grunting, purposefully rocking on the hefty homemade toy. She let out a series of low wails, boobs bouncing hard against her upper midsection and I came powerfully, a healthy dollop of semen landing in the tiny valley between my collarbone and throat. Orgasm subsiding, Sue Jean deftly turned off the vibrator but kept moving back and forth on the now still, quiet phallus, its fully extended and puffed-out shape still conformed to her soaking insides.
“Rob, you rock my world,” Sue Jean giggled. “That was one of the best, most considerate birthday gifts anyone’s ever given me,” she gushed as she threw her arms around me, her pussy still hungrily clamped down on the toy.
“You won’t be hearing me complain about needing a battery-operated lover for quite some time,” Sue Jean quipped. “But I may need to call my day manager and ask her to cover tomorrow’s shift so I can get to know this toy a lot better.”
“Wanna call in with me, Rob?”
How could I say “No” to that offer, I thought, reaching into cutoffs for my cell phone, the call-in line number permanently memorized thanks to a plethora of similar late night flake-outs, often with Sue Jean, now my partner in crime in yet another exciting realm.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32