Max And Cheri

1 - Foreplay

"Cheri! Comment ça va?"

"Oh, g'morning, Maxine." Cheryl looked up from collecting her mail at the lobby mailboxes. Maxine was coming in from the parking garage, towards her, her robe flapping loosely, wearing God knows what underneath—if anything.

"Well, now. Got the boys all happy and off to work. And the morning still before us."

Cheryl knew that Maxine lived in the penthouse with her husband. Cheryl, on the other hand, lived, also with her husband, on the second floor. Their husbands both worked downtown and the two wives often met at the mailboxes in the lobby after seeing their men off to work. They were slowly getting to know one another, although, while Cheryl quite liked her older neighbour, she considered her a little 'out there.' In fact, Cheryl often found Maxine quite intimidating. However, for as much as she was intimidated by Max's larger-than-life personality, she, also, was somehow attracted to it—to her.

"Men." Maxine gave a chuckle. "They're so simple—and easy to please."

Cheryl gave her a puzzled look, thinking, "And this is apropos what?"

But Maxine just blithely went on. "Come and have coffee with me, darling. We haven't had a good chin-wag in..., well, I guess, ...ever!" Turning toward the elevator, she threw back over her shoulder, "I'll make lattés... unless you'd rather I brew up a fresh pot. Come on, then." It was more a demand than a request.

Cheryl squeaked, "Lattés would be lovely," figuratively kicking herself for sounding so wimpy, and wondering why, as she stared after Maxine until the elevator doors closed, she, once again, felt so unsettled, as she often did in Maxine's presence.

It seemed clear to Cheryl that she had just received a non-negotiable order.

Maxine and Paul were in their early forties and had been married for thirteen years. They lived in the penthouse suite, many floors above Cheryl and Jeff, in the same condo tower. Cheryl and Jeff were in their late twenties and had been married just three years. Both Paul and Jeff worked in the downtown financial district, and left for work around the same time; indeed, they followed much the same route.

Maxine and Cheryl were both stay-at-home housewives.

Truth was Maxine was Max to all her friends and acquaintances except Cheryl. Cheryl was initially introduced to her as Maxine, and, once she'd started using her full name, Cheryl felt that using the diminutive—Max—seemed just a little disrespectful. For some reason, Max never disabused her of that idea; while Cheryl was Cheryl to everyone but Max, who always addressed her Cheri—with the French inflection—accenting the second syllable.

Cheryl flipped through the contents of her mailbox as she took the stairs up to the second floor and dropped the mail on the table just inside her door. She paused a moment in indecision before nipping into the bathroom to put on a bit of make-up. Even as she watched herself in the mirror—putting on her face, she wondered, "What am I doing? It's just coffee, fer cryin' out loud, with a neighbour. Geez-zuzz!" Still she kept at it. While Cheryl admired Max's easy confidence and worldliness, she was, she realized, rather awed by Max's larger than life personality.

2 - Quickie

Cheryl ascended to the penthouse with a strange feeling of trepidation; still, Maxine greeted her effusively, leading her out onto the expansive deck, overlooking the city, and, amidst a non-stop, stream-of-consciousness welcome, smoothly set out the lattés and biscottis. Then, Maxine flopped into a chair, and, suddenly silent, studied Cheryl as she looked out at the spectacular view. Somehow, Cheryl could feel Max's eyes boring into her back, and abruptly turned again to face her hostess. Max just smiled, leaning forward to pick up her coffee. "Here," she purred, "Don't let it get cold."

After each had had a sip, Max cast her gaze over the scenery as she began. "Nice to get the boys off to work, eh?" Then turning back to look at Cheryl, "Got plans for today?"

"Er—no—not really. I haven't actually decided yet." She paused, feeling just a little befuddled. "You?"

"Oh, this and that. But I'm so glad we could have this time together—before the day erupts." Even though Cheryl was getting used to Max's often ribald conversation, she was rather taken aback when Max, squirming a bit in her seat, announced casually that she had just given her husband his morning fuck. "And," she chuckled, "I haven't even had time to clean myself up yet."

Cheryl didn't know how to respond to that; notwithstanding, Maxine ignored her sputtering and just carried on. "At your age, I s'pose, you get drilled at least a couple mornings a week. No?"

Although Cheryl was completely embarrassed by Max's frankness, even more, she was amazed at her own blithe rejoinder. "No. We generally make love in the evening—to make sure we have enough time."

"I'm sure you could be a lot quicker than you think. Take this morning, for example." Max went on, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "As I leaned over to push the elevator call button, Paul flipped up my robe and pushed himself into me. He was thrusting hard when the elevator doors opened. Luckily the car was empty." She giggled, as she continued. "Hardly anyone comes this far up. Anyway, still fully inserted, Paul shoved me forward, into it and hit P2. He came just as we started to descend." Shrugging, she concluded, "And we got him cleaned up and tucked in before we reached the parking level."

"Hence, the melting cream pie down below," she laughed, nodding at her own lap, and squirming a bit in the chair.

Ignoring Cheryl's shocked silence, Max stated, matter-of-factly, that she and Paul had sex as he was leaving for work very often. Cheryl gazed, aghast, as Max began to recount, in a dreamy voice, "Why, just the other day I gave Paul a stellar—even if I do say so myself—blowjob in the elevator, as we'd descended to parking—having fished his turgid tool out as the doors had opened, and sucked him off just as we'd arrived at P2. Fortunately, we weren't joined by any of the neighbours." She laughed. "A couple of times, though, we've very nearly been caught."

A few times, she said, he'd had to be finished in the passenger seat of the car before he drove off into the real world. She laughed heartily. "We've even been at it once or twice when you were saying goodbye to Jeff. You didn't notice, I take it."

"Of course, felatio's not so conducive to cumming yourself. But then, that's why we masturbate, eh?" She looked at Cheryl inquiringly. "I mean, that's what fingers are for, don't you think?" But, seeing the lost, innocent look on Cheryl's face, she could only gasp, "Oh, Cheri, come on? You do masturbate, don't you?"

"Ohhh, Cheri! Mon Dieux, mon Dieux!" Shaking her head, she despaired, "We certainly have our work cut out for us."

"You've got to be able to operate your own sexuality—else how will you know what's right? How will you know when you're really getting it right—when you're really getting it, right?"

As Max chided Cheryl, she snaked her hand into the open front of her own robe and began fingering herself. "It's all in the fingers—well, fingers and head." Cheryl stared, dumbfounded.

"Come on, child. Try it! Just do what I'm doing." Flopping her knees apart, exposing her glistening vagina, Max ran the fingers of her right hand in slow, sensuous strokes up and down her dripping sex, pausing to flick her clit at the top of each stroke. At the same time, she reached in and grabbed the waistband of Cheryl's yoga pants, and flipped the front panel down. Guiding Cheryl's hand into Cheryl's own bush she muttered, "It works through clothing, but it's better skin-on-skin."

Moaning, "Yesssss, that's what I mean!" Max began moving Cheryl's captured hand in circles over her now exposed pudendum. "I'll bet you're already getting aroused—you're already damp, no?"

Indeed, ever so slowly, Cheryl's eyes had fixed on the activity at the juncture between Max's inner thighs. She marveled at how the fingertips lightly—rhythmically—danced among the glistening folds and furrows. And, despite her rather conservative—almost prudish—mien, the strange, lewd novelty of the situation piqued her libido. She could feel an odd, growing tingling within her fundament.

Max leaned in, continuing to openly finger herself, and, conspiratorially, issued a challenge. "I'll bet, Cheri, you can give yourself an orgasm—right here, right now—say, in the next twenty minutes."

Cheryl sputtered, "Ah...er... No... I..." She was flummoxed, but fascinated. As Max let go of her hand it stayed where it was, continuing to idly circle her furrow on its own accord.

"That's right," Max purred. "Don't be shy!"

Cheryl couldn't understand why she seemed unable to resist or protest Max's insistent instruction; nonetheless, her hand began slowly transitioning from lazy circles to imitating Max's dancing fingers—fueling her increasing arousal. Meanwhile, Max continued coaxing her—directing her. Cheryl was gob-smacked, flabbergasted at her own complicity. Still, Max went on as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a couple of women to do over coffee.

"Think of your favorite fantasy," Max softly encouraged, reaching for Cheryl's other hand and gently raising it to push up under her top, and cup Cheryl's own breast.

Noting her clumsy, self-conscious, novice manipulations, Max drew both of Cheri's hands out front, and placed them on her knees, sighing, "No, no, no. Softly, like this." She, then, reached over to replace Cheri's hands with her own, and commenced twiddling her young neighbour's nipple and vulva with a featherlight touch.

Eyes closed tight, Cheryl sighed, amazed at both herself and the developing situation. More than just following directions, though, Cheryl quickly began anticipating Max's suggestions—which she, somehow just knew were actually demands. Hence, when Max withdrew her hands, she was pleased to see, that, without needing to be told Cheryl snaked her one hand back up to her tit to squeeze and maul, while dropping the other hand to stroke and swirl her pussy, fiddle and flick her clitoris in time with her breast manipulations.

Max's chattered encouragement and advice slowly petered out, and as she went quiet her eyes fixed on Cheryl's—as Cheryl's gaze fastened intently on Max's fingers, so very active at her pussy. Their breathing, falling into synch, became increasingly ragged and rapid and labored—a chorus of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"s and "Ah! Ah! Ah!"s; until they crashed together into orgasm, coming simultaneously on their own respective fingers.

In the crackling silence of their afterglow, Max said, "There. I believe you were well within your twenty minutes, eh?" And with that, the conversation swung back to quickie sex with hubbies, as if there had been no interruption at all.

"Y'know, even if they complain about being rushed, or there being no time, or whatever, men generally love morning sex. Furthermore, it gets them off to a good start.

"And really, anything'll do: hand jobs, blowjobs, stand-up doggie, on-your-back-in-the-kitchen, anal. It's all good. All surprise and spontaneity. It's a great way to show them they're loved."

Checking the clock, Max stood, abruptly. "I have to go," she announced. "Got some pressing business to attend to. But we'll continue this discussion tomorrow morning, all right?" Without giving Cheryl a chance to reply, she added, "Here—same time." Offering no room for discussion, she strode out of the room, with a dismissive "Bye!" leaving a stunned Cheryl to let herself out.

The next morning, surprised, and, indeed, more than a little perplexed, Cheryl found herself at Maxine's door, once again. After pouring the coffee, and settling into easy chairs on the deck, Max casually picked up her lecture on quickies where she had left off the day before. ""Remember, if you get turned on, he gets turned on. The closer you get, the closer he gets. Mind you, it's sometimes fun to see who comes first—who can 'cum' first." Suddenly, Max leaned forward, for emphasis. "But don't, for goodness' sake, let him always win!"

She sipped her coffee as she gathered her thoughts. "You'll find, it's usually better with skin-to-skin contact. A loose robe, without any underwear, allows lots of versatility—as you can see," she chuckled, momentarily flipping open her own dressing-gown. "Although, for a real quick quickie, through-the-clothes arousal can work, too. You can even give yourself a head-start, say, at the breakfast table, without him noticing. Max weaseled one hand under Cheryl's top to dance her fingertips around her stiffening bud. "Just like this." Throwing her robe wide open, she pulled Cheryl's hands to her own bosom. "Flick and pinch my nipples," she instructed, "just like I'm doing to you."

While snaking her other hand down the front of her captive's pants, and into her panties, twining her fingers through her pubes. "Evenings you can take your time, but I find mornings generally require quickies. You don't want them late for work too often. Especially if they are going to support us in our stay-at-home lifestyles. Eh wot?"

Nonplussed, Cheryl found herself paralyzed—unable to consciously respond or even react; although her body displayed no such reluctance. Accelerated breathing, flush and glow, bouncing legs and trembling body all betrayed her growing arousal.

Then, unexpectedly, Maxine stopped, leaving Cheryl hanging just short of her impending climax. "See?" Max said, with an air of satisfaction, "That didn't take long at all." Gently removing Cheryl's hands from her own chest, she casually—cruelly—went back to the earlier conversation, briefly recapping the handling of horny husbands in the morning, before segueing to the more mundane aspects of their morning routines.

Cheryl was still tingling and twitching when Maxine excused herself to get ready for an appointment, more or less dismissing Cheryl. "I'm busy tomorrow, so can't meet again until Monday. Your assignment for next week is to surprise Jeff with a pre-commute quickie. It'll have to be tomorrow or Monday. I expect to hear all about it at coffee first thing Monday morning."

Cheryl hurried downstairs, eager to get home and, amazing her very own self, masturbate. She couldn't believe how much she was looking forward to re-igniting that elusive orgasm. And she was, in fact, eminently successful.

Friday went by in a fog as Cheryl tried to make sense of it all. Saturday and Sunday Cheryl concentrated on 'being normal'. She was relieved that Jeff didn't seem to notice any difference in her behavior. The weekend passed in a blur, and Monday morning, Cheryl found herself, once again, standing at Maxine's door. Max welcomed her effusively, and, after a modicum of small-talk, took up just where she'd left off Thursday.

"Well?"

Embarrassed and unsure of herself, Cheryl began tentatively. "Well," the edge of a grin quivered on her lip, as she cleared her throat. "Well, I did it. I surprised Jeff with a quickie!"

"Friday?"

"No. This morning."

"Why not Friday?" Max asked, making it clear she was disappointed by that.

"Well," Cheryl replied defensively—feeling somewhat deflated. "By the time I'd figured out what to do, Jeff had his coat on and was heading out the door."

"Okay. That's all right." Maxine flashed a forgiving smile, before prompting. "So, tell me about today."

"Well...," Cheryl giggled self-consciously. "I keep saying that... Well...!" She cleared her throat again, then began: "As Jeff put down his briefcase and reached for his coat, in the front hall, I grabbed him with both hands, by the front of his shirt, and pulled him into what I hoped was a sizzling smooch. I guess it was, because he reciprocated, pretty much. Slowly, I shifted one hand to the back of his neck, keeping him tight against my lips, then, dropping my other hand to his crotch, I clutched his package through his pants and began fondling it.

"He actually pulled back a moment and asked me what I was doing. 'Giving you a good start to your day,' I purred. He had the audacity to complain through my kiss. 'Don't do that.' 'I'm gonna be late,' but I ignored his whining. He stopped soon enough.

"I could feel him getting stiff. It was nice. Kissing him even harder, I managed to unzip him and fish him out, without breaking our liplock." Cheryl got a dreamy look in her eye as she continued. "He got really erect really fast! I kept him pulled in tight to my lips—kissing him hard, and as I did, his hands parted the opening of my dressing gown and pushed in to begin mauling my boobs. I just hung onto his woodie, giving it the odd squeeze, though not really stroking it. I was too busy responding to his pinching and twisting of my tits. I was rapidly getting really, really turned me on.

"It was kinda funny—how our breath both got ragged, and we were puffing into one another's mouths, our tongues dueling." Max nodded her approval but stayed silent during Cheryl's erotic recollection.

"Without breaking our kiss, I slowly began stroking his steely cock. I could feel him leaking, lubricating my grip. He began twitching and quivering, huffing and moaning into my mouth. Then, I was really amazed at how fast he came. He froze for an instant, then climaxed. Luckily I was able to drop my other hand just in time to grab my flapping dressing-gown and catch his spurts as he squirted copious amounts of semen into the folds of my robe. He was still panting when I wiped him down and tucked him in, checking for leakage on his trousers. Luckily there was none. "He zipped himself up, muttering under his breath, 'What brought that on?' I just shrugged. Still he had a big smile on his face as I sent him off.

"Funny thing is that, despite being left hanging, sitting there, staring at the closed front door, I couldn't believe how good I felt—like I had done something special. And, you know," she said, bowing her head demurely, "my fingers found their own way to my moistened pussy and my stiff nipples. It only took moments before I brought myself off!" Cheryl lifted her head abruptly, meeting Max's stare with a wide-eyed gaze. "I've never done that before—by myself—so fast!"

Maxine congratulated her, although, whether for the hand-job or masturbation or both was unclear. "Well done, Cheri! Tres bon."

Cheryl felt an odd tingling at Maxine's praise. In a flash of introspection, she suddenly came to the realization that she really liked it when Maxine called her Cheri. To the rest of the world she was Cheryl, but Cheri belonged to Maxine—that seemed somehow fitting.

Max poured them each a warm-up of coffee, and went on, continuing their conversation from the day before as if there had been no interruption. "As to the morning quickies we were talking about—remember—I thought some more about that."

Without warning, Max grabbed both of Cheryl's—Cheri's hands and, letting her robe gape, pulled them to her own breasts; then, letting go she reached in to strategically grab Cheri's boobs with both hands. Fixing her shocked neighbour with a steely glare, daring her to say something, she slowly went on. "Handjobs may be simplest, but they invariably, or almost invariably, mess clothes and clothing—you, I think, had a bit of first-time luck in that regard; but a blowjob is easiest—easiest to clean up; just suck, and swallow to destroy the evidence; and lick clean. Missionary keeps the spunk fairly well contained, but standing doggy has a tendency to leak all over the place. We did it, kinda semi-reclined, on the kitchen island counter this morning."

Max then stood, pulling Cheri up with her, and allowing her own robe to fall completely open, exposing her puffy, dripping pussy and glistening inner thighs. Taking one of Cheri's hands, she lowered it to her own vee, holding it there, nestling amidst her sodden bush. "Feel that? That's fresh cream pie!"