Jill walked up the hill with her shopping, past the identical new row houses, still a bit tipsy from lunch at Covent Garden with the girls. She'd had a wonderful time, despite the heat wave and her dearest friend Liza not being along. She and Liza had met when the communicating door between their tiny joined up houses -- A house! Her house! Imagine! -- had first been tried, as the movers were making a mess of moving Jill and Paul into their first home, a week after their wedding. Liza hated the scars of the Blitz that remained downtown, but Jill found the flush of scaffolding and cranes exciting - as if Britain were being built anew. The girls had been inseparable for the past year. Paul and Bertrand (Liza's husband, practically newlyweds themselves) liked to joke that with the girls' mannerisms increasingly overlapping, and each being about the same size, it was becoming hard to tell them apart.
Jill passed her square yard of front garden (three feet by three feet) and found the front door open. No one locked their houses out on the hill.
She was becoming tired. Stepping inside, she kicked her shoes off in the gloom, set her bag down, and laid on the couch. Paul had left a trunk propped against the communicating door. Silly boy. She'd have to move it before Liza came over. She'd move it... in... a minute...
It was hot. Cooler in the house. But hot. Her face felt flushed.
She rolled her blouse up around her belly. Still hot. Oh, why not? She hiked her skirt up and pushed her stockings, garter belt and panties off in one go. The tights stuck on her feet. After some backbending, she got them loose and threw the lot behind the couch. She snuggled into the couch. It felt softer than usual. She'd rest up for a few minutes before starting dinner. Pretty soon she was sound asleep.
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Bertrand walked up the hill. The boss had taken them for drinks, partly to celebrate the new accounts, and partly to get out of the heat of the five storey building now that business was buttoned up for the week. He felt good. He was early. What did Liza do this time of day? He'd find out soon.
The door was open, and a shopping bag sat in the foyer. Nothing too expensive he hoped. Unless it was for him. No, Liza was too careful with the budget for that.
And there she was. Asleep on the couch. The light glared off the stack of greenhouse windows he'd salvaged out by the garden shed, cutting a strangely colored light across the room. Liza's hair looked reddish, darker. The orange light slid across her bare calves and the backs of her knees, the rise of her little bottom under the bunched up skirt. He knew what he wanted.
Bertrand stepped out of his shoes, undid his tie and shirt, and quietly removed his pants. Already his penis stood up straight. That one pudgy Belgian girl from the end of the War had nothing on Liza's little frame, her swaying hips, her smooth fine-boned face, tiny nose and sparkling blue eyes. Her face was buried under her hair in the crook of the couch, her neck and arms bare.
He gently lowered himself onto the couch, smelling her scent, the new perfume that was probably in the bag. He grasped her soft arm and kissed the back of her neck, lowering himself onto her. She came awake slowly under him. His penis pushed at her crotch, through the material of her skirt. She began to breath more deeply. He dug his hand into her hair, lowered himself fully onto her, and reached down to rub a soft breast. It felt wider, squished to the couch cushion, and when he found her nipple and squeezed it between two fingers it was already very swollen.
He humped against her. His penis pushed against the fabric, pushing it into her hot, wet pussy. He could feel the wetness, her tightness, through the material.
"Wait," she breathed, ever so quietly. She reached back, grasped his penis and slipped it under her skirt, between her wet lips. He could feel her now, bare against the skin of his cockhead. He wanted in. But uncharacteristically, unstead of letting go as soon as he was in place, she held him in her fist, letting the head but no more penetrate her, pumping his dick with her hand. It was driving him crazy. He began to strain against her fist, wanting desperately to be inside her.
After a few pumps, she let go. He sank all the way in in one go, eliciting a tiny cry from her. She braced her arms under herself as he really let her have it, pumping deep inside her from behind.
He pulled her skirt up around her waist, pounding into her, grasped and squeezed both of her butt cheeks. He might as well have zapped her with electricity, she jumped so hard. He held her and fucked down into her.
"Ohmi god, ohmi god, ohmi god..." she began to whimper, using Jill's catchphrase.
He pulled her blouse and bra over her head. She straightened out, freeing her arms. Her hair popped with electricity in the darkened room. He threw the shirt away. She remained up on her arms, tucking her knees under her, her back sphinx straight as he continued to pound into her soaking pussy. Having soon forced her halfway onto the armrest, he grasped her hips and pulled her back into the middle of the couch. She buried her face in the cushion, knees still under her, and moaned loudly.
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Jill's head was spinning, clear of the alcohol but dull from her nap and forced to its limit by the fucking she was receiving. They'd been so goofy and hesitant about it at first. It was amazing to think what a year could do. Aside from a little tug and a grope here and there, she had been a good girl, and dammit this was her reward.
He was being a little rough with her hips. He'd never grabbed both of her butt cheeks like that before. Her breasts ached though: Why wasn't he mauling her breasts? It made her so damned randy, and she wanted to come so badly.
