Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
I’d dragged Freya’s drunken ass halfway to the summit when I noticed Mr Cartwright’s gangly silhouette towering ominously atop the stairs. He looked the epitome of bygone patriarchal splendour in a preposterous pair of pin stripe pyjamas and matching slippers.
Apparently the cacophony of two clumsy eighteen year old girls’ crashing through the front door to a chorus of thuds, bangs and giggles had roused my would-be paramour from his slumber.
‘She’s a bit drunk.’ I offered, batting my lashes and flashing my please don’t be angry doe eyes up at him.
‘You don’t say.’ Mr Cartwright quipped, his gaze flitting between the slashed décolletage of my dress and the sight of his daughter clinging haplessly to the banister rail as if we were battling a force ten gale.
‘I is not drunk, I’s just feels a bit drizzy…I mean dizzy.’ Freya insisted, as her father began helping me carry her up the stairs.
I spent the next half an hour or so holding Freya’s hair as she puked into the loo. It wasn’t an entirely unprecedented event, truth be told, ever since she’d split up with Dean Travers.
‘He was my one true love!’ She groaned, right on cue, before chundering up half a freshly digested kebab.
I offered sympathetic support, rubbed her back, and agreed that Dean Travers was indeed a complete fucking douche for having cheated on her with Clarissa Fairbanks. It was all terribly unfair, I concurred, bending over and dragging my knickers down so Mr Cartwright could gawp at my ass from the bathroom doorway.
‘You’re being so brave about the whole thing!’ I added posthumously, spreading my butt cheek and gaping my fuck-holes as Freya clung to the sides of the loo as if her life depended on it, ‘Fuck Dean Travers, and fuck Clarissa Fairbanks!’
‘What an asshole and what a cunt!’ Mr Cartwright added enthusiastically – an outburst that might have shocked his daughter even further had she known to what he was actually referring.
Freya re-commenced her spewing, affording me the opportunity to turn and grin appreciatively at Mr Cartwright. He peered back at me with the stern manner of a school master, so I cheekily slipped the straps of my dress over my shoulders and offered him a good old gawp at my tits. He groaned with agonised delight as my bare breasts cavorted from my dress, though it was fortuitously drowned out by the sound of his daughter’s frantic chatter with Ralph on the big white phone.
I even managed to shimmy out of my knickers before seductively twirling them on the end of my finger like a Dallas cheerleader delighting her fans with a high stepping jiggle of her pom-pom’s.
Alas, I was neither a net-baller or a tennis player at school and so the glorious denouement to my routine didn’t exactly go as hoped. Rather than effortlessly tossing my knickers into Mr Cartwright’s waiting hands with an elegantly sexy flourish, I somehow shanked my effort and watched in horror as my black lacy smalls leapt high into the air before crash landing rather pitifully on the edge of a radiator uncomfortably close to my puking bestie.
Being a gentleman, Mr Cartwright gallantly strode inside the bathroom and chivalrously protected my honour with a deft snaffle of his skimpy prize. What selflessness!
In honour of Mr Cartwright’s noble act I reached between my legs and wantonly unfurled the glistening petals of my cunt for his wide eyed gaze.
‘Good girl, that’s it!’ He encouraged.
Freya took it entirely out of context and barfed up a load more of Kebab King’s finest doner, whilst I did as Daddy truly wanted, parting my cunt lips even wider apart for him to visually inspect my excited flower. It was all I could do not to shriek with delight as Mr Cartwright’s fat, veiny cock suddenly sprung forth from between the slit in his pj’s with a bolshie vigour.
‘Daddy’s so proud!’ He cooed, and only he and I were entirely sure for whom the sentiment was intended.
‘Thank you Daddy!’ Freya and I both replied in unison, with hers a choking snivel whilst tossing her cookies and mine a lip-sync’d whisper as I frantically rubbed my clit.
It was around one in the morning when I slipped Freya out of her puke stained clothes and put her to bed. Mr Cartwright was loitering on the landing. He had my knickers pressed to his nose and was barely managing to conceal the pleasingly prominent pole expectantly hoisting itself at the front of his pin striped pyjamas.
I suspected he was stealing glances at Freya’s pendulous bare bosoms as they cascaded from her top like two excitable blancmanges – and again when I dragged her skirt down and offered the revelation of her exquisite blonde bush protruding so exotically from between those wondrously shapely legs.
But he kept his distance, so I didn’t judge him too harshly for it. Men will be men, after all – and Freya was a head turner, with buxom curves and an abundance of heaving bosom that was as boisterous and irrepressible as the girl herself.
We were kindred spirits in that respect, having bonded over the endless fat jibes we’d fatih escort endured in early adolescence from the hordes of acne peppered school boys over at St Joseph’s. Walking half a mile to a bus stop in one’s youth ought never be that fraught an experience.
But every duckling is destined to become a swan.
And so it was that the Good Witch Puberty appeared one day and waved her metamorphic wand. Hourglass curves blossomed in lieu of evanescent puppy fat, cavorting, jostling, jiggling bosoms riotously announced our womanhood, and every one of those little bastards from St Joseph’s suddenly wanted to fuck rather than castigate us.
We did half the senior year instead. It’s amazing what rocking up in a bikini to an inter-school swimming class can do – even if Miss Trenchbull had given us both detention for our act of rebellious exhibitionism.
‘I find it utterly implausible that you both forgot (sarcastic air quotes) your school issue swimming costumes, moreover you have shamed the school and yourselves in parading about in those…those…monstrosities!’ She’d gasped, desperately clutching her pearls in one hand as the other gesticulated towards our matching skimpy two pieces.
Whilst Miss Trenchbull was less than enthused, the senior boys over at St Jospeh’s seemed wholly appreciative. Freya and I made hay on the back of it.
We also fucked each other a shit-ton. It was one of those kinda by accident things that had been simmering for so long – the sort where in one instance I felt giddily certain of Freya’s interest in me, and the next I was chastising myself for being so stupid as to have even dared countenance she might be so inclined.
I suppose my timidity to act was exacerbated by not wanting to fuck up the friendship – but as luck would have it, not only did the Good Witch Puberty bring forth all kinds of wondrous physical changes, she also pointed both of us in the direction of booze and weed.
Inhibitions, what inhibitions?
It happened during a cuddle under the Sycamore tree over at Hampton’s meadow, with its view of the billowing smoke stacks standing tall amidst a carpet of industrial revolution. It wasn’t exactly the plains of the Serengeti, but it was ours.
I’d made sandwiches and we’d lain out on a patchwork blanket listening to Josephine Baker on an old Gramophone I’d bought from Arlene’s antique shop.
I remember telling Freya how much I loved her – from the way she’d squeeze my hand whenever we were out and about – to that laugh, like Sid James on helium after twenty cigarettes and a glass of whisky. I’d often lose myself in her blue eyes and marvel at the kindness of her soul. There was no side, no judgement, just something pure and beautiful. And there were so many little things too, like her stubbornness, and the adorable passion with which she’d read aloud from obscure penny dreadfuls.
I will maintain to this day that deep inside that slightly kooky gal was a Domme just waiting to jump out. With me she always seemed to find that part of herself – which made it inexplicably wonderful when she took me in her arms, cupped the back of my head and smiled affectionately at me as I sucked her tits.
‘Just be you…’
Oh, those words – and the confidence she exuded in reaching down and pushing her hand inside my knickers as I spread my legs and revelled in the way she’d hitched my summer dress up around my hips. I could’ve swallowed my own heart it was beating so fast.
‘Ooh, would’ya look at that – you’re all wet.’ She giggled, sliding my panties aside and exposing my cunt to the greater north east, ‘You sure you haven’t got a gay pussy?’
It was gay as fuck for Freya. She’d wanted to control my orgasm, but lying in her arms, getting fingered and sucking on her boobs had me gushing like a fountain well before permission was granted.
We ate the sandwiches regardless, sodden as they were. I blamed myself – I shouldn’t have lain them out on the paper plates so presumptuously. But hindsight’s twenty-twenty, and I’d never squirted for anyone prior to that. Turns out I can hit the contents of a wicker picnic basket from five yards, albeit with a slight southerly breeze assisting.
Ours was a secret love affair, mostly. We’d play to it from time to time, like when a group of jovially inebriated workmen noticed the two skint lasses sipping a shared half shandy through straws from a dingy corner of Kirk’s bar. They offered us a bottle of champers if we’d get our tits out – so we flashed the entire pub, snogged each other for the fuckery of it, and spent the afternoon getting tiddly on mo-weezy. Those are the truly special memories.
The beauty of sex with Freya was that I could explore with someone who didn’t judge, which made the experience profoundly more cathartic. We’d get stoned, share fantasies and she’d ram things up my holes for shits’n giggles. Like I said, closet Domme.
Nights ‘oot on the toon’ often preceded our most intense love making, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when my çapa escort wasted bestie thought nothing of playfully spreading her legs and pleading with me to go down on her as she lay in an drunken stupor across her bed. It was just unfortunate that her father happened to be lingering on the landing with my knickers up his nose and a raging erection in his pyjamas.
‘Not tonight sweetheart.’ I explained, kissing Freya’s forehead as she lay sprawled atop her mattress in all her curvaceous, bosomy naked glory, ‘Just keep those eyes closed and the room won’t spin quite so much.’
She’d passed out before I’d even finished speaking. When I turned to face Mr Cartwright in the hallway he was blushing even more than I was.
Even with flushed cheeks and a guilty hard-on he somehow exuded all that’s so gallingly, assuredly charming about educated middle aged men. It’s invariably why they get away with *so* fucking much, aided in Mr Cartwright’s case by the enormous fat cock protruding between the slit of his 1950’s patriarchal pyjamas.
I flashed a grin and began tip toeing towards him. It was supposed to be wanton-sexy, an irresistible vision of tits, teeth and flouncing tousled hair, but I tripped over Freya’s heels in her bedroom doorway and face planted at his feet.
‘I’m not drunk, I’m just clumsy.’ I mumbled, pondering whether I ought to simply turn back towards Freya’s room and bury my face in her duvet, or better still, her snatch.
Mr Cartwright appeared unperturbed and simply crouched down and eased the straps of my dress from my shoulders. It was as if he deemed it uncouth of me to be sprawled across his landing without having my boobs hanging out.
‘That’s more like it.’ He offered, helping me onto all fours before cupping my hanging bosoms in his palms the way one might when weighing produce at a market. I was ‘pleasingly busty’, he mused rhetorically, before turning his attentions to my ass, which he confessed to having enjoyed me ‘flaunting’ during his daughter’s chunder party. He rubbed my buttocks as if to reinforce the point, and then spanked me. Twice – one ferocious wallop for each cheek.
It stung. Deliciously so.
I’d have punched out any boy my own age who might have dared try such a thing, but with Mr Cartwright I felt like Twist.
Please Sir, can I have some more?…
I thought it, but chose to remain silent, and instead delighted in the stinging ripples that were its glorious aftermath. Mr Cartwright was oblivious anyway, having begun calmly disrobing out of his pyjamas, folding the top and then the trousers with a fastidious attention to detail. The whole process was excruciatingly anal, which would later seem pertinently fitting, what with how things went down.
‘Now be a good girl and crawl to my bedroom.’ Mr Cartwright instructed expectantly, placing his folded garments in the small of my back, before arranging his slippers neatly atop them.
Crawling to his boudoir like a pack mule proved unexpectedly arousing. I tried to make theatre of it, exuberantly throwing one hand seductively in front of the other with my breasts swinging back and forth like a kinky Newton’s cradle. I even raised my ass like plumage for his perusal. It probably wasn’t Gyllenhaal in Secretary, but my moment did at least come first.
I whinnied as Mr Cartwright brought my ostentatious crawl to a halt with a tug of my hair. It felt kinda bratty, and held at least part of his attention as he began calmly placing his pyjamas and slippers on a wicker seat in the corner of his bedroom.
‘Kneel.’ He instructed, and I tingled inwardly at the effortless manner of his authority.
He was affectionate, running his hand through my hair as his eyes bore down on me. I’d shown remarkable enterprise in making him ‘that special little scrapbook’, he explained, playfully slapping my cheeks with the fat, veiny trunk of his penis.
‘I know I’m risking so much in being with you, but I can’t help myself…’ I confessed, wallowing in my phallic face-smacking prize.
Mr Cartwright nodded sagely, like a naughty shrink with a hard on upon hearing an all too familiar admission from yet another highly sexed, deeply unfulfilled patient who would stop at nothing to do his bidding.
‘There are expectations.’ He explained, clutching my cheeks in his grip before running his thick bulbous purple tip over my lips, glossing me with his pre-cum as he held me firm, ‘And it remains to be seen whether you can meet them.’
I gibbered an insistence that I felt I could, whilst looking adoringly up at him with doting doe eyes and batted lashes. He smiled and released his grip, so I leant in and ran my tongue lasciviously across the bullock sized sack swinging so demonstrably from between his Twiglet thin legs.
‘Test me, if you like.’ I pleaded, to which he blustered his doubt that I even knew how to suck a man’s cock ‘properly’. I considered retorting that perhaps calling something a ‘blow job’ when the act was clearly nothing of the sort was güngören escort setting a girl up for a fall. Surely it ought to have been called a ‘suck job’, no? Thank fuck for More magazine, is all I can say.
Regardless, it felt like Mr Cartwright had laid down a challenge, particularly with his massive, curved willy protruding towards me. I seized the invitation and ran my tongue along the length of his beautifully engorged shaft, and then swallowed his hot thick length to the back of my throat, purposefully gagging as his fat tip choked me.
It earned me a scolding, open palmed slap across my tits. The pain was cathartic bliss. I moaned with delight, pulled his penis from my mouth and playfully poked my tongue at him, only to drag it across his twitching tip with the worshipping awe of a cock drunk slut.
He let me play for a while, but ultimately we both knew he was going to face fuck me. I’d made him do it, so he said, what with me being a fucking tease n’all. I couldn’t much reply, offering only a eye bulging, nose snorting reverence as his palms held a vice like grip to the back of my head and his cock rammed itself down my throat, to and fro, to and fro…
The scrapbook was inspired though, Mr Cartwright admitted, peering down at me as I choked on the fattest cock I’d ever known, and I’d shown commendable initiative in finding a way to gain his attention.
‘Now you must work just as hard to maintain it.’
He paused as he said it, stepping back and slapping my face. I barely had time to revel in the searing sting before he’d re-engaged with a piston thrust of his cock to the back of my throat.
‘Be honest – this is a need for you, isn’t it.’ He grunted, viciously face fucking me as his fingers dug into the back of my skull as if he wanted to draw blood.
I groaned desperately and gazed adoringly up at the man abusing my mouth, wide eyed with blackened tears tumbling down my cheeks in an homage to streaked mascara. It seemed to encourage him further and yet another violent barrage of deep throat thrusts smashed back and forth down my throat.
I was a slovenly wreck of smeared makeup and drool when Mr Cartwright finally broke from using my mouth and pulled me up by my nipples.
‘I ought to grab some shots and add them to our scrapbook.’ He mused, looking longingly at his camera bag.
‘I thought you only photographed lesser spotted blue tits.’ I retorted cheekily, and received yet another wondrous slap across the face – sending spittle leaping into the air with an overtly theatrical splendour.
Oh my, how I adored that feeling – so I laughed again – only this time Mr Cartwright reached out and grabbed me by the throat, squeezing tighter and tighter as I stared back in utterly contented eye bulging submission.
Having asphyxiated any bratty predilections out of me, the man who made Peter Crouch look hench then somehow managed to scoop up my buxom figure with relative ease. For a brief moment I was but a cooing mess in his spindly arms, butterflies riotously swooning in my tummy – and then he tossed me onto his bed like I was Kate Moss after a thirty day hunger strike.
Oof.
I might well have careered off the far side under the sheer force of his impetus had he not already begun aggressively dragging me back to him by my ankles.
I think we both knew that our first fuck had to be rapey – the sort of screwing where Mr Cartwright was so overcome by his desire to have me that any perceived non-compliance of mine was entirely ignored for the betterment of his cause.
So I internalised my shrieks of delight and locked my knees together with all the verve of a nun at a Weinstein meeting. Mr Cartwright smirked and clambered onto the bed, looming over me with a delicious sneer on his face.
‘Meek and innocent all of a sudden? So that’s how you want to play this, is it young lady?’
I feigned ignorance and softly snorted more of the musty masculine scent emanating from his bedsheet. He mumbled something about me being a prick teasing slut and we fought – jostling to and fro atop the mattress as he battled to prise my legs open and I tried desperately to push him off. The more I bit, scratched and kicked out, the more excited and aggressive Mr Cartwright became. I felt so proud of him for that.
‘You’re getting it in the ass for this!’ He huffed, finally managing to prise enough of a cranny between my legs to wedge his knee in place, splicing me open as he bore the full weight of his body down upon me.
My ass, you say?
I froze, a look of dumbfounded horror etched to my spittle and mascara streaked face. The more I peered at Mr Cartwright’s implausibly long, unspeakably girthy cock, the more I wondered how the fuck something *that* big would fit into my tiny little butt hole.
It afforded Mr Cartwright more than enough time to lean across and procure a tub of lube from his bedside drawer. Shock and awe, baby!
I won’t lie, it felt kinda nice having two of his fingers nuzzling the wet sloppy gel into my nervously twitching anus – more so when he pushed both of his lanky digits up inside me and began intermittently pumping and splaying his fingers as if he knew to stretch and prep my virgin fuck hole. He even gave my clit a boisterous rub with his free hand and then slapped my pussy as his knees nestled atop my thighs to hold my legs apart.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32