This is a good start to Christmas Day I must say. Dinner not started, hair, face and shirt covered in my favourite Chinese delicacy, "Cream of Sahm Yang Boi" and still no present wrapped. I giggled remembering Mike Myers ordering that in Wayne's World. I found myself giggling more as I trailed a silver taste of my young boy's cream to my tongue. Damn. Now I needed something in me to quiet this building need for cock. I looked at the clock. 7.00am. Plenty of time yet. Warm the oven first then bird in at half past. Note to self; "take his little chef's hat shoes off first".
Still giggling like a demented schoolgirl I eased myself from the chair and pulled off my sticky slender shirt in one movement. I'll take that upstairs in a moment to hide beneath the other washing in the basket. Walking through the kitchen door I stopped in front of the mirror to examine my bukake face. Well maybe not bukake exactly, only one lot of spunk, but I did enjoy the sight; hair highlighted with glistening strands and rivulets of spunk from my eyes, cheekbone and chin. I adore how much a young man has to give. I tasted it again.
What if I went upstairs now and woke Mick to show him? I wonder what he'd say? "Come here and fuck me." Or "Fuck off out of it."? Best not, I think. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. I need some cock… or something.
The fun stuff's in the bedroom, don't want to wake him just yet. Washing machine? Not at this time of a morning. I stood undecided, trying to think of something nice and hard I could use. Shirt first. Then I'll have a look. I crept up the stairs, missing the creaking ones and managing to hide the shirt whilst savouring the feel of cooling spunk on my face, which only got me hotter and made puss more insistent.
Back down the stairs.
Creeaak.
Shit.
Listen.
Lift foot quickly.
Crick.
Stop.
Listen.
Ok. Back down the stairs.
[i]I wandered, naked, as a naturist
From room to room in search of a cock
When all at once I spied the surest
Implement that would make my world rock
Just long enough and thick around
Now in my cunt I'll push and pound.[/i]
I think I'll send that one in.
Sitting astride the chair I took hold of my kitchen cock and scooched down to point puss at the door so I could keep an eye out for any other visitors. Wiping cum from my face, I lubricated my 'lover' making him shine wetly and grazed him gently down my lips. I re-adjusted my hold and opened my legs to rest my arms on my thighs. A long, low moan escaped as I slid from puss and down to press ever so lightly against my other hole. Oh yes, this will be nice. Now I'm looking forward to giving Mick his present. Press a little bit more. Oh fuck, this is going to be good. I glide the pretend prick upwards again (don't want to be giving him second hand gifts) and up between my lips, amongst the dark thatch of hair.
Looking down to watch, (I love seeing my cunt get fucked) I place my right hand near the base of the slime instrument ready for a lovely deep fuck and halt, amazed.
Grey. One, two, three, four… Oh my god. I've got grey hairs on my mons. Is that what Martin was looking at? He must think I'm ancient. I'm a grey haired old granny. I'm not even a granny. Ouch. No. Don't pull them out. I'll shave them. I'll shave it all off. That would be a nice surprise for Mick. A nice clean, girly cunt to fuck. I don't know if he'd like that. I don't know if I'd like that. Fucking hell. No. I love seeing his face in my pubes. Fuck it. If it's grey, it's grey.
I rise quickly from the chair placing my waiting 'lover' on the table and head for the mirror in the hallway. Raising my arm above my head I search for any signs of grey in my armpits. After searching both I sigh relief. Not where anyone can see yet, anyway. 'Cept Martin obviously. Giggle. Oh but I need a fuck.
Falling backwards my shoulders hit the doorjamb and I push out my hips so that I can look down at puss. I rest my fingertips in the hairline pulling the skin upwards so that I can try to inspect the lower end for grey hairs. I instantly forget about searching when my stomach muscles contract as a wave of pleasure laps at my beach.
That's good. Why haven't I done this before?
Pressing fingertips and nails into my pubis, I alternate push and drag, drawing my cunt lips around my enlarged clit. Tightening belly and loosening legs make me sink slowly to the floor in the hallway. Fuck. Now I can't see. Up. To there. Bit more. Ooh I like that view.
I lock my knees to try to avoid sliding again, difficult, because now I'm sweating. Slick skin on polished wood doesn't make a good leaning position. Hips out. No. Bend knees again. Slide again. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Put the mirror on the floor? Something is bound to break. Frustration almost becoming anger I stamp to the end of the corridor. Shoes, you simpleton. I slip my feet in to white trainers, fastening the laces tightly. Assume the position. This is good. Fingers there. Oh good. Press, pull. Oh god. Push down, pull back. The slithery lips around my clit send pulses through my belly. My nails catching single hairs send painful full stops, and make me wonder at liking it.
In the back of my mind I hope that the hairs I'm pulling out are all grey.
In the mirror I watch, as sweat slicked palms push fingers deeper into the hair on my mons. That is so nice. At the first flick of contact with a roughened fingernail (have to file that one) on my proud clit, I swoop upwards on wings of lust, straining for that updraft to carry me over. A bird cry escapes as I begin falling. Now I flap more vigorously, lofting upwards, straining, and pushing harder down and inevitably in.
One finger-feather, arches my back. I start the beat. Steady, rhythmic I begin the ascent; spreading wings catch the updraft as I insert one more. The need to fly sends my free wingtips to push my breast upwards, to lift myself on wind and wings. Pinching hard on my nipple and pulling myself up towards the blue, I push the third finger in. I'm above the clouds; a few more strokes and I can reach the sun.
Oh fuck, I love that. Seeing three slime-trailed fingers in my mirrored cunt pushes me further heavenward. On the downbeat I add the needed fourth and plunge deep. I'm gliding on the upcurrent and fold my feathers slowly inside. With short, twisting movements of the wrist, I watch as I fist my aching twat to orgasm.
After 10 minutes of lying naked in the hallway, I tentatively got to my knees, then my feet. I rested my hand against the mirror and studied myself. Cum for highlights in my hair and a stupid dreamy expression plastered across my face along with the spunk for make-up.
Nice.. As high as I can fly, there is no air and already I know I'm doomed to fall, but first I perch between vacuum and gravity and my frail form begins the tearing pull that scatters me wide.
Keeping my fingers closed tightly I make the final leap and deliberately pull my fist out of its nest, for that exquisite pain and release of a flailing orgasm.
* * *
In the shower I let the needles pin me to the floor whilst I thought furiously about how to make those panties out of wrapping paper. Did she cut them from a pattern? She must have folded them around her hips. Some sort of Arse Origami. I tried desperately to picture how they looked before I ripped them from her. Visualise it. What happened? All I could remember was her beautiful fat pussy after I tore her paper knickers off. Start from the beginning.
The party.
More than enough to drink. Some light flirting. Very light, since no one can bring themselves to call me anything other than Mrs Edwards. Then Anne.
"I don't know if you've met Anne yet? Mrs Edwards?"
"Oh I'm sorry Alan. Miles away."
"Anne Parsons, Mrs Edwards."
"Thank you Alan. Is that Helen waving? Hello Anne, I think we met once in Lucas's office."
"Hello again Mrs Edwards. Yes, that's right."
"Excuse me for being personal, but just how tall are you?"
"Six foot one Mrs Edwards."
"And I'll bet you weigh no more than I do. Nine and a half, I expect you have every male in the office asking you out."
"Yes. But I can handle it. Even Jeremy."
"Jeremy. Yes. We all know Jeremy. So tell me Anne, are you attached?"
"Not at the hip, I have one or two good girlfriends."
"Girlfriends?"
"Yes. The gossip hasn't reached this far?"
"Not as far as my desk. No."
"Not even the stock room?"
"I don't use the stock room. I ask Helen and she brings it for me."
"Helen? I know Helen."
"You know Helen?"
"Yes… We meet quite often in the stock room."
"So tell me Anne. Tell me the goss. No one lets anything slip when I'm there. I'm The Boss. I'm frozen. Tell me all the gory details. Tell me about the stock room."
"There's not really all that much to tell. Some people sometimes meet there. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes intentionally."
"Why would they meet intentionally in the stock room?"
"Don't tell me you don't really know Mrs Edwards."
"I have an idea of course but… Oh you have a little smudge from your eyeliner. Let me. Just… There. Let me see. Not quite. Hold still… there. You have wonderfully penetrating eyes. That outline of the pupil, I always wished mine were coloured like that."
"You do have nice eyes Mrs Edwards. I love that almond shape. And these cheekbones. Oh. Now I've smudged your blusher. I'll… hold on. Look, come to the loo and I'll fix it for you."
"You have to tell me all about the stock room on the way."
"Better yet Mrs Edwards, I'll show you the stock room if you'd like. A guided tour."
"Will you?"
"Yes. I will. If you want to come."
"Have you seen my office Anne?"
"No. Not yet."
"Then let [i]me[/i] give [i]you[/i] a guided tour. This way. Now, intentional meetings in the stock room?"
"Well, let me think for a moment. Do you know what the Secret Santa is?"
"Everyone buys one gift for one other person, but you don't know who has bought you yours."
"Yes, but not all the gifts are bought gifts. Sometimes it may be a poem or a story that you'd like to give. You wouldn't believe the amount of dealing and bargaining that goes on to be someone's particular Secret Santa."
