As I chuckled, her hands went to the hem of my T-shirt (the one that proclaimed - I have a split personality. One is electric, one acoustic - across the image of a hybrid guitar, half classic flat top box guitar and half Fender Stratocaster) and started peeling it up. At this point, I was pretty far gone and wasn't about to argue about being naked in the front room. I lifted my arms and helped her.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmm," she said, stepping back and looking me up and down, slowly, taking inventory.
In for a penny, as the old saying goes, in for a pound. I struck a pose, the one called "Side Chest" in bodybuilding circles. Oh, I'm not one of those idiots, but when I was in the Air Force I went through a phase during which I was interested in photography and got good enough I was invited to do the photography at a bodybuilding event and learned a bit of the lingo. Anyway, I did the thing, left leg lifted slightly, body twisted at the waist, arms and chest flexed, and a big silly grin on my face.
"Oh yeah," she said, "hold that pose."
It's funny, how much energy you expend doing something like that. She stared and I stayed flexed and started to tire.
She closed the distance between us, brushed those big boobs against me, and ran her hands down my body, one palm starting at my throat, the other at the back of my neck, tracing my body with her hands almost like a blind woman learning what I look like.
"Ohhhhh, yeah," she said, "We're gonna have fun. Now come along, Davey, I'm an old woman and need my beauty rest."
She took my hand and led me down a short hall and then up the stairs. It was fun watching her big ass as she climbed the steps. Her spandex-covered thighs rubbed against each other, and each of those hemispheres of her ass moved in an interesting opposition. And here, this close, I could smell that delectable womanscent of her arousal.
She handled the steps well. On the second floor, she led me down a short hall to her bedroom.
"Welcome to fantasyland," she said, turning and showing me that smile that stripped decades from her face.
And it was. The bed was huge, I think it's called a California King. It looked like you could play volleyball on it. It was a four-poster-style bed. On each of the posts, a shiny chrome eyebolt suggested restraint games.
She reached up and pulled me down for a kiss. One of those excellent kisses as it turned out. It lingered as her tongue, already proved to be educated, explored my mouth.
After one of those timeless times, she released me and said, "Undress me now, Davey."
"Oh no, B'rer Fox," I said, smiling as I reached for the elastic band at the bottom of her top, "not the briar patch," as I slowly worked it up over her breasts. "Arms up," I added, smiling, kissing her, and gently working the top up past her head and then off of her arms.
The bra was a long line, strapless number, that laid her breasts on a wire frame, putting them on display. They were so pale I doubted she had ever been topless in the sun. Her skin was white with tiny wrinkles called crepe skin where cleavage showed, and fine blue veins formed a road map to the areolas, the tops of which showed above the material of her bra. They had no pigment at all. They were just as pale and white as the rest of the skin of her breasts.
The most obvious thing was her belly. She was one of those old women who had put on a belly when menopause struck. Standing there, smiling at me, she looked pregnant and near delivery. Her belly expanded from under her rib cage and was big enough that her big bra kind of laid on it. When I touched it, it was firm, without those soft rolls some fat people develop. I later learned that she was one of those women who deposited fat under her abdominal muscles.
She smiled and patted her belly, making a slapping sound.
"I hope you like," she said, "because I've given up trying to lose it."
I rubbed it like she was a big
Hotei
doll and rubbing would bring me good luck. "I love it," I said.
When I reached for the hooks on the back of her bra she pulled away.
"Pants next," she said, smiling.
So I slipped to my knees and lifted her foot to my lap to undo the ankle strap and get her shoe off.
Like the rest of her, her feet were pudgy, and I thought, cute. Tiny toes peeked out from archless feet like fat little sausages. The nails were bright red and tiny. She squealed when I ran a nail along her instep, making us both laugh.
I found myself enjoying peeling the spandex tights down. They were so tight that pale flesh bulged out above the roll as I worked them down. I wondered if she had purchased special maternity panties the way her panties stretched over her big belly in a way they seemed to be made to do. They were classic "granny panties," as Hugh Grant said to Rene Zellweger in
Bridget Jones' Diary
, and covered her from the thick material, almost a pad, between her legs to slightly over her belly button, a distinct outie showing clearly through the thin material.
Since I had her hobbled efficiently, she couldn't move when I covered her outie through the material and sucked. She squealed and giggled and I pulled the panties down enough to latch on to her belly button. She was laughing so hard by then that I wasn't surprised to catch the faint scent of urine joining her womanscent.
I released her and she held on to my shoulders as I finished rolling the tights down and off.
I got to my feet and slowly walked around her, making it obvious that I was staring. Taking inventory. And I LOVED what I saw.
