kryptonite
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Jan 25, 2007
- Messages
- 112
- Points
- 0
Some times I drink a lot. The pressure my overbearing boss puts on me at work, and the unpredictable mood swings of my wife, resembling those of someone with a split personality disorder, just make me head for the bottle. For some reason I associate the following day hangover with my clandestine lover, Arlene Pierce. I start thinking about her and can't resist because she's the only person who can make me feel better. I tell my wife I'm going to work; I call my boss from the car and tell him I've got the flu and have to stay home. But I really go to a little condo where Arlene lives alone.
She used to live in the neighborhood where I grew up. I knew her as the friendly lady next door, a short, pleasant blonde with unusually large bosoms. From her hick accent I could tell she was born and raised in some rural country county, but her ex-husband successfully made a fortune in the construction business, allowing them to afford to graduate to the upper middle class suburb we shared. As clicheed as is common, her husband found a younger horse he'd rather ride and coldly threw her out of the house one day.
In my mid-twenties, I was still a bachelor and sexually inexperienced. My job as a door-to-door salesman took me to the condo she rented after stuggling to better herself by going to business school and obtaining a job as an administrative assistant. She warmly re-introducted herself to me when we recognized each other. She invited me into her apartment and one cup of coffee led to a long conversation and my seduction.
She showed me how to please a woman, exciting me with her nude womanly body which she kept covered in silky negligee's until the last second before intercourse. She's a short, spunky woman--her height making her bosoms seem disproportionately large, a sexy build that drove me out of my mind. Her short hair contained not a speck of gray, despite her age of 45. But what made our relationship even more exciting was its secretive nature. She had a son nearly my age. She wanted me as a secret boy toy and made it clear that she didn't want her son to know she was sleeping with a man my age, unlike her husband who married his young lover. I readily agreed to our arrangement, not wanting anyone to know I was seeing a woman old enough to be my mother.
My fixation on her, however, began on our eighth time together. I often spent a long time during foreplay, sucking on her nipples. twirling my tongue. While I busied myself, she asked me if I was gitchy. I got a little nervous and didn't verbally respond. She continued on this track.
"You like pretending to nurse like a baby so much, I thought you might like me to gitchy you like a baby. Would you like that?"
My penis, already rock heard, throbbed. I paused, contemplating a fantasy I'd always had as far back as I could remember. I mumbled a yes. I never knew whether she heard me or not.
"I mean, I wouldn't want to embarrass you. Some men are afraid to let go...Well, do you want me to gitchy you?"
"Yes," I said more clearly this time, burying my face in her cleavage. I resumed nursing.
"Gitchy, gitchy, goo," she said in a high soprano-like voice.
She surprised me with her first choice of a tickle spot. My body tensed, expecting an attack on my belly or sides, but she went for the bearded area under my chin. I tried to hold in a giggle, but I wasn't used to being tickled--it had been a long time since anyone had tickled me. I only had a faint recollection of the feeling from when I was a small child. I sneezed a giggle on her bosoms.
"You are gitchy, gitchy as a baby. Gitchy, gitchy, goo," she repeated, continuing to tickle under my chin. I became nervous and grabbed her hand. I felt silly all of a sudden--a grown man forced to laugh by a matronly woman.
"I can't gitchy you, if you hold my hand," she said teasingly. "Babies can't stop a gitchy. Let my hand go so I can gitchy you some more."
Still nervous, but curious to experience the feeling again, I let her hand go and she tickled under my chin with her right hand, and snuck her wiggling fingers of her left hand to my scrotum. I burst out laughing right away and quickly grabbed both of her hands.
"Now, this has got to stop. How can I gitchy you, if you hold my hands?"
But she saw I'd already had enough excitement, my sweaty, flushed face gave away my uncomfortable feeling of entrapment. Though I wanted to continue our game, I feared losing control of my ejaculate, and I was beginning to feel ashamed at the joy I felt in becoming a baby once again. She gently pushed me on my back and rode me in our favorite posture--the female superior from which I could watch her large bosoms bounce away while I carressed them.
Our next time together, she introduced the straps...
(To be continued)
She used to live in the neighborhood where I grew up. I knew her as the friendly lady next door, a short, pleasant blonde with unusually large bosoms. From her hick accent I could tell she was born and raised in some rural country county, but her ex-husband successfully made a fortune in the construction business, allowing them to afford to graduate to the upper middle class suburb we shared. As clicheed as is common, her husband found a younger horse he'd rather ride and coldly threw her out of the house one day.
In my mid-twenties, I was still a bachelor and sexually inexperienced. My job as a door-to-door salesman took me to the condo she rented after stuggling to better herself by going to business school and obtaining a job as an administrative assistant. She warmly re-introducted herself to me when we recognized each other. She invited me into her apartment and one cup of coffee led to a long conversation and my seduction.
She showed me how to please a woman, exciting me with her nude womanly body which she kept covered in silky negligee's until the last second before intercourse. She's a short, spunky woman--her height making her bosoms seem disproportionately large, a sexy build that drove me out of my mind. Her short hair contained not a speck of gray, despite her age of 45. But what made our relationship even more exciting was its secretive nature. She had a son nearly my age. She wanted me as a secret boy toy and made it clear that she didn't want her son to know she was sleeping with a man my age, unlike her husband who married his young lover. I readily agreed to our arrangement, not wanting anyone to know I was seeing a woman old enough to be my mother.
My fixation on her, however, began on our eighth time together. I often spent a long time during foreplay, sucking on her nipples. twirling my tongue. While I busied myself, she asked me if I was gitchy. I got a little nervous and didn't verbally respond. She continued on this track.
"You like pretending to nurse like a baby so much, I thought you might like me to gitchy you like a baby. Would you like that?"
My penis, already rock heard, throbbed. I paused, contemplating a fantasy I'd always had as far back as I could remember. I mumbled a yes. I never knew whether she heard me or not.
"I mean, I wouldn't want to embarrass you. Some men are afraid to let go...Well, do you want me to gitchy you?"
"Yes," I said more clearly this time, burying my face in her cleavage. I resumed nursing.
"Gitchy, gitchy, goo," she said in a high soprano-like voice.
She surprised me with her first choice of a tickle spot. My body tensed, expecting an attack on my belly or sides, but she went for the bearded area under my chin. I tried to hold in a giggle, but I wasn't used to being tickled--it had been a long time since anyone had tickled me. I only had a faint recollection of the feeling from when I was a small child. I sneezed a giggle on her bosoms.
"You are gitchy, gitchy as a baby. Gitchy, gitchy, goo," she repeated, continuing to tickle under my chin. I became nervous and grabbed her hand. I felt silly all of a sudden--a grown man forced to laugh by a matronly woman.
"I can't gitchy you, if you hold my hand," she said teasingly. "Babies can't stop a gitchy. Let my hand go so I can gitchy you some more."
Still nervous, but curious to experience the feeling again, I let her hand go and she tickled under my chin with her right hand, and snuck her wiggling fingers of her left hand to my scrotum. I burst out laughing right away and quickly grabbed both of her hands.
"Now, this has got to stop. How can I gitchy you, if you hold my hands?"
But she saw I'd already had enough excitement, my sweaty, flushed face gave away my uncomfortable feeling of entrapment. Though I wanted to continue our game, I feared losing control of my ejaculate, and I was beginning to feel ashamed at the joy I felt in becoming a baby once again. She gently pushed me on my back and rode me in our favorite posture--the female superior from which I could watch her large bosoms bounce away while I carressed them.
Our next time together, she introduced the straps...
(To be continued)
