Mrs Fleming's Ass

I took Mrs Wendy Fleming for her tennis lesson; she'd arrived twenty minutes late. It was the last lesson of the day and when we returned to the clubhouse everything was closed.

"Oh hell, it's Monday, early closing. It's your fault – you were late. We would have just made it easily if you were on time."

"Thank you very much Jake," she said in that haughty tone of hers. "You are no gentleman."

Wincing, I offered: "Sweat does go down well in a leather interior car – leather breathes."

"I have the same problem. Can't you get us in?"

"I'll attempt but the doors are all on electronically controlled deadbolts."

"Does that mean they're locked."

"Almost as good as bank security."

Mrs Fleming became a little more relaxed. "Just do your best Jake, that's all I ask."

At the back of the remote-located clubhouse in Messenger Park I spotted a high window opened slightly; it was in the men's dressing room. I circled the building twice but there was nothing else. Without thinking I took her by the hand and led her around the building. I was halfway to the spot before I realized what I'd done but there was no haughty protest

I pointed upwards and she stepped back to look. I was against the 3-foot high retaining wall so she backed right into me and looked up. I sniffed but no perfume – only sweat. My dick apparently thought cunt juice sweat as it began to stiffen. I began to sweat and apparently feeling me hardening she said, "Jake, really."

That's all – 'Jake, really' – and I imagined she said that with a raised left eyebrow and a ghost of a bemused look. Definitely not a reprimand. And then, "Why are you a little in awe of me?"

"You are the club's president's wife and Donald is my boss."

"Scared of the boss – oh my."

"And of you?"

"Of me – whatever for? I'm an asshole of a tennis player."

That profanity shook me.

"You are coming along fine – if only you could relax more."

"What do you like about me Jake?"

"Can you stand the truth without belting me one."

"Oh, it's naughty is it? Try me."

"I like the movement of your ass in action when you're walking to the base line."

"Oooh, naughty boy. Do you think about it away from the club?"

"Yes, occasionally in the morning when I wake up."

"With a stiffy?"

"Yes – and when the image is you that's when I blow quickest and make the biggest mess."

"Oooh, my little ass can do that?"

"It's not so little Mrs Fleming – it's having a bit of meat on it that makes it look so delectable."

"Delectable – oooh."

I was beginning to really like Mrs Fleming; she was showing me her more human side and I had the sniff that she might show me more – in the flesh, so to speak. Usually she just scowled and sweated as towards the end of the lesson we went to opposite ends and I made her stretch and jump to extend her a bit, using some of the points she'd learned that afternoon. In that role I could play any student as if on the end of a piece of strong. Mrs Fleming's face would show fury when all she hit was air which is why I knew, as the club's new resident professional, I could really get something out of her: if only she would relax. The tougher the going the more she'd tighten.

I knew what we had to do: years of tennis had given me exceptional strength in my shoulders and forearms so once I gripped the window frame I was capable of pulling myself up and entering the room. All the lower doors and windows would be alarmed so we had not other option but to enter this way. Either that or I could have my shower and change into my fresh clothes in my locker and bring down some towels for her to wrap around her body. Oh yeah, her body. I'd already fucked a few of my senior pupils so why all this attention on Mrs Fleming? I knew; she was the most unlikely fuck for me in the entire club of females 18 upwards but circumstances had now presented me with an opportunity.

But why go to all this trouble when we could both drive home sweaty and deodorize our vehicles? I didn't know the answer. Yes I did; because I thought I could make something out of our dilemma. Then it hit me between the eyes like a cricket ball: Christ, was she thinking the same thing?

"Isn't this exciting?" she said.

"Why?"

"Because I know you're going to get through that window come hell or high-water."

"Huh?"

"We all know the Lady has to give the Knight Hero a reward when he triumphs."

"What sort of reward?" I asked, my mind not quite up to speed at the suddenness of this turn in conversation.

"Figure something out when you get through the window," she said, completely straight-faced and that rather flummoxed me.

I got to figure. The 3ft wall was too far back from the building to serve as a jumping platform. It had to be her.

"How strong are your back and shoulders?"

"Not strong but perhaps stronger than most women: I do light weights twice a week."

"So that's why you have good body shape."

She fluttered her eyelashes and said, "Oh really Jake, is this the time for sweet talk?"

I outlined the plan, a plan doomed to failure I thought but didn't tell her that. She said she didn't think she could take my weight and I said of course she could, as she was a woman with true grit.

"Oh really?" she said turning a little pink.

Hard ass Mrs Fleming embarrassed? I found that difficult to believe.

"Look," I said in my coaching voice. "It's exactly like tennis shots you play except when reacting instinctively is your only chance. In those other shots you visualize playing the stroke milliseconds before you swing into the shot."

"I understand."

I said I she should bend not too low, palms against the wall of the building. I would climb on to her back barefooted and she was to visualize as eastern mystic climbing up and down her spine to give her greater subtlety before taking her through to the Master.

She looked at me agog and then lowered her head over her arched fingers submissively.

I said then it was entirely over to her. Once I was on her shoulders she would gradually straighten, walking slowly forward and imagine she was lifting sufficient weight – I didn't say snatch as that had other connotations – to win Gold at the Olympics. I said I would put my palms like suckers against the building and try to climb up like Spider Man to take some of my weight from her.

She grabbed my hands and licked them wet, laughing and saying the sweat was unwholesome but my palms would now have grip on the verticle wall.

I laughed and said I had something else she could lick if she preferred the salty taste. Suddenly neither of us was laughing. We just stared at one another until I mumbled, "Come on, and let's get to it."

Well I guess we now had something else occupying our minds because we struggled and groaned and sweated and cursed until I had my mitts on the wood windowsill and thinking only of Mrs Fleming moist pinky just beyond my reach I hauled myself up. I held on dangerously by only one hand while I flicked the window right open and then began the agonizing end to the feat by hauling my chin, then my chest and then my belly over the bottom edge of the window frame, almost shearing off my undercarriage in pulling my groin over before free-falling to the floor with a bone jarring thump.

"Oh my God, are you okay Jake?"

"Manfully I staggered to the window, almost out on my feet, pulled myself up to look over the sill and gave her both thumbs up, calling, "You were brilliant; absolutely brilliant – are you okay?"

"Yes, I think so. Beam me up Scotty."

I yelled give me five. Scotty had to figure how to beam up Mrs Fleming. I raced through the other rooms in the basement stupidly looking for a folding ladder but in the storeroom I did find what would do the trick – a roll of strong twine, a length of rope, a small set of steps and a tennis net. I stood on the three-step ladder on the wooden seat, which gave me enough height to lean over the sill. I rolled down the net and tied my end securely with twine to the support beam under the seating. Making a loop in the end of the rope I lowered that and then gave instructions. She was to claw her way up the netting while I took much of her weight on the rope, which she should stand in its loop with her strongest foot.

"Will this work?"

"Do you want a shower and to give me my reward?"

"What about my fingernails?"

I wanted my reward so didn't say fuck your fingernails. I called for her to set the pace, pushing her fingers through the netting carefully and as she took the strain I would feel that through the rope and pull until I saw her stop.

It was a slow process. But we made it. There were trees in the background so there was no chance of alarmed neighbors in the far distance calling the cops about a break-in. As she reached the window opening she kissed me, mouth open. That was promising, although I would have to say she was breathing with difficultly through exertion which could explain the open mouth.

"My fingernails, knees are toenails are okay – you are a genius."

Scotty the Genius asked her to put her arms around his neck and drag herself up as high as she could and then hook her arms under his armpits. My dick danced merrily as Mrs Fleming's tits came up to my face. The metal stepladder was groaning alarmingly but the rivets and two stays held.

"Sorry about this," I called, reaching down a hand and hooking it through her crotch.

"Oooh."

"Stay perfectly still."

"Yes Master."

I bent my back and calling her to let go pulled her over one shoulder until she was perfectly balanced, the noose having fallen off her right foot. Slowly I backed down the ladder, swung sideways and jumped on to the floor, deafened by her squeal. I lowered her to the floor, dragging my arm free of her crotch but exercising maximum friction. In straightening up slowly I paused momentarily to waggle my face between her tits to leave her with a clear message.

"My gallant hero," she said in a swooning voice.

And then my courage left me. "Get into the shower," I growled fetching her a towel. "I'll put this gear away."

Off she went into the shower box like a lamb, pulling the curtain and I could hear the rustle of clothing being removed. My dick hung wistfully in disappointment and probably hating me for my treachery – but she'd been so brave and showing such grit it would have been a sin to shaft her when her strength was sapped and she therefore vulnerable and defenseless. I had my code and stood by it steadfastly: I only fucked women who wanted it.

Buoyed by those indulgent thoughts I put away the improvised rescue gear and trudged back to the men's shower room, closing the door and waiting my turn.

"Oh Jake, could you help me? I've dropped the soap."

Morose in mood I went to the shower, promising myself to grope only for the soap but as I pulled opened the curtain I was confronted with the most beautiful sight in the world; she was bent over, legs apart, hands gripping just above her ankles. The penny only then dropped with a clunk: we only have liquid soap at the club! All this was for me.

In one of the quickest somersaults of forgiveness in the history of man, my dick was purring as well as dribbling, ramrod straight and so taut that not a wrinkle showed; it quivered like an archer's arrow.

I dropped to my knees, admiring the Michelangelo of butts. The totally bald pussy showing a touch of pink was perhaps the longest I'd ever seen but I'd yet to sight the other end; the rounded lips bulged indicating its readiness for masterful attention and the little puckered secondary orifice looked impenetrable but later with lube and her total cooperation I'd attempt to conqueror that challenge.

I licked tentatively and drew the now familiar, "Oooh." It would be a sin to put my long, fat and hairy dick into such an exquisite receptacle but then I always had been a sinner.

* * *

Almost two hours later Mrs Fleming who was wrapped in two towels and me in my change of clothes staggered to the upstairs women's dressing room where I dressed her, regrettably unable to get my exhausted cock interested. We were both extremely tired and waterlogged from all that activity under raining water.

At the front door I cancelled the perimeter alarm system and reset it again which gave up sufficient time to leave the building. We kissed and parted. On the way to my bachelor pad I went through two red lights thinking about what had been the greatest fucking spree of my life. She hadn't wanted to wait until we had lube – she made do with the discomfort of liquid soap knowing it was bound to be an uncomfortable experience anywat as she was an asshole virgin.

I still only call her Mrs Fleming simply because she's offered me everything but the invitation to call her Sandra. That's fine by me because her husband the club president had insisted I call every female in the club Mrs, Miss or Ms. As if that is supposed to offer older female members immunity from being shafted by me if that's what they wanted.

In public Mrs Fleming continues to treat me with a touch of contempt, thereby satisfying her husband but she now carries a tube of lube in her handbag. Most Monday nights before taking my last booking I volunteer to close up and set the security system. Sweaty and happy – she's becoming a star pupil now she is relaxed with me – we walk hand in hand to the men's shower room with big fat smiles on our faces. She recently told me I'm the best fuck she's ever had since she sent me off for hair removal.

THE END