I hadn't had a lot of luck with Craigslist, so when I got Claire's pictures, I initially thought they were too good to be true. She was exactly what I'd been fantasizing about: a true MILF, 40 if that, strawberry blonde and gorgeous, like a grown up version of the cool girls from my high school. Though at 30 I wasn't that much younger than Claire, I felt like we were worlds apart: she lived with her husband in the suburbs, had two kids at sleepaway camp, bought paper towels in bulk. I was finishing art school, living with two roommates in a live/work loft; I had the feeling we might be each other's fantasy come to life. So I wrote back. She was kind, not great with words but better on the phone when we awkwardly arranged to meet. "I need David--that's my husband--to be involved," she said. "He doesn't have to do anything, but he'll want to watch." Fine by me. The idea of playing with Claire's tits while her husband's balls tightened made my vision swim.
A week later I stood on Claire's doorstep in the clothing she'd requested, in detail, in her last email. A navy pleated skirt, a soft white blouse, white cotton panties, no bra. I wore high heeled black ankle boots and straightened my black hair, to make it look a little longer. It almost hit my nipples, now. I was young looking enough for it to be a relatively authentic schoolgirl vibe, if a little gothy with my purple nails and rows of earrings. I loved that she'd specified an outfit, like I was a meal made to order.
I shivered under my coat.
Claire appeared, smiling in a printed wrap dress. "Claudia." She looked me up and down, and took my hands in hers. "Wow. You're so beautiful. Thanks for coming." I stepped in. Even in heels, we were about the same height.
"Thanks for having me," I said automatically. She laughed and took my coat. She led me into the living room. Two glasses of red wine waited on the coffee table. I took one and sat on the couch, feeling a little dwarfed by the hugeness of the house. I looked up through a skylight.
Claire sipped her wine, looking at me, and I met her gaze. She really was beautiful, in a complete Real Housewives way: the smooth self-tanned skin of her toned legs, the slightly frosted pink lipstick. Everything about her looked normal and expensive. I wondered if she'd done this before, once or one hundred times, and as if she could hear me, she leaned in and said, "Don't be nervous."
I could tell that meant, act nervous, I like it. I smiled and she started touching the hem of my skirt almost absently with her fingers. "I hope it wasn't a long drive for you. You've probably never even been out here." "I actually grew up not far from here," I said. She playfully narrowed her eyes. "Is that right?" I laughed and tugged my earrings. "I know, 'the city has changed me.'"
Claire's hand trailed off my skirt to my waist, then up to my cheekbone. "I was just going to say, I can't imagine running into someone like you at one of the mothers' houses. You must have tortured the dads," she looked at my mouth softly. "Maybe the moms, too."
I closed my eyes and let her kiss me, so softly, her lips barely closed. We mouthed each other like that, then I gently touched my tongue to hers. She moaned into my mouth. She sat back, replaced our wine glasses, and kissed me again, this time letting her tongue go everywhere. I could feel the heat coming off of her body. I pressed my palms against her sides and slowly moved them up until I could feel her tits through her dress. They were fake but really nice, too big for her frame in a sexy way. She broke away again, this time motioning for me to get up. "Let me look at you."
I stood up and turned, slowly, in a circle, flaring out my skirt at the end. My nipples were poking through my thin white shirt. Claire stared at my chest. She pulled me by the hand into her lap and, using both hands, gently grazed my nipples with her fingernails. I moaned and involuntarily squirmed in her lap. "You've got the most perfect tits," she murmured. "Look how sensitive," pinching my nipples through the fabric, brushing them, pressing them gently like buttons. I humped her lap, desperately for something to make contact with my clit. The only thing hotter than her playing with me was watching her do it, this beautiful older woman, playing me like an instrument.
I wasn't the only one who felt that way, as something moved in my periphery and I turned: a man, tall, sipping a short glass, looking simultaneously bemused and intoxicated. He was handsome with a square jaw and broad shoulders, brown hair graying on the sides.
