A Most Unwanted Present

Here's my entry into the Winter Holidays Contest, albeit there's not too much mention of the holiday season in it. Not until the end anyway. I didn't intend it to be that way when I started, but the thing grew legs and wandered off and went where it wanted.

In this one a middle-aged man is seduced by a twenty-something hottie. But the trouble is she's also a married woman. He tries to resist but is too weak and can't manage to find the strength to deny him, and her it seems, the pleasure.

Just a note on the point-of-view: because it's in the first-person doesn't mean it's autobiographical. I anticipate there might be some confusion over that issue. Well, that's been my experience in the past, with some of the Public Comments and other feedback on previous first person POV submissions being of a personal nature, a lot of it regarding the marital status of my parents or accusing me of all manner of perversions in my mother's cellar, etc.

Anyway, we'll see what happens, if anything. Some of the comments make good entertainment in their own right -- better'n the crap I write most of the time!

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy the short piece despite any shortcomings. Feedback is appreciated ... mostly. *wink*

GA -- Ranong, Thailand -- 20th of November 2014.

***

She breezed in on long legs and high heels, somehow slipping past and then leaving me standing at my own front door to gawp over one shoulder, stunned by the audacity. She was in my flat before I could stop her. I can't explain just how she managed it, some kind of sleight-of-hand Houdini technique it seemed: blink of an eye quick. A trick the old door-to-door salespeople would have coveted.

"Hiya," she'd said when I'd responded to the knock. Then she'd flashed a smile at me to complement the cheery greeting before, somehow, she was past me and strolling into the living room.

I recognised her as a neighbour from two doors along, a striking young woman not long moved in with her husband. I'd passed her once in the entryway downstairs, but only exchanged a nod in greeting on that occasion. I'd been going out and she was coming, her laden with a bag of supplies from the Budgens shop across the car park.

We didn't exchange a word at the time, but I'd noticed her all right. She was difficult to miss with that platinum blonde hair and a propensity towards miniskirts.

And why shouldn't she wear those skirts? There was no complaint from me, seeing her legs certainly brightened my day. And the rest of her, in my chauvinistic opinion, was worth a second look as well -- a good long look, too. But that's all it was, a look. I indulged as we passed in the vestibule, contriving a brief survey of her slender yet appealingly curvaceous frame from behind. I fully appreciated the moment, soaking in the sight of a very engaging feminine swing. I knew she was involved with someone, was spoken for, and I respected that. Plus she was at least twenty years younger than me, probably even a quarter of a century. I doubted she even registered my existence.

Oddly enough the athletic way she moved, full of bounce and energy, caused me a brief stab of melancholy. It suddenly dawned that I would never experience such vigour again. I'd had my day, plenty of days in fact, but in the ignorance of youth I'd failed to fully appreciate just what it was I'd held in my hands, literally as well as figuratively.

The blonde girl climbed the stairs and I walked out of the block, the moment passing as I went to my car, day-to-day matters displacing the young woman in my thoughts. I didn't really think about her again until I found myself confronted by her physical presence at my front door.

Following her breezy entrance into my flat -- a

what-the-fuck

moment if ever there was one -- I closed the door and caught up with her in the living room.

She stood there in front of the sofa, backlit by the afternoon sun coming in through the balcony doors. I have to admit she made a very appealing sight: high heels, long legs, hemline to the tops of her thighs. She also wore a canary-yellow 'gypsy' blouse loose about her torso, a garment that revealed nothing but somehow still emphasised the bounty beneath. In that way she reminded me of a lady I'd known a long time before, her charms concealed yet with me very aware. I had no way of knowing it at that moment, but this blonde would resemble my decades ago former lover in another way. Both women shared a very specific physical attribute, something I would help the young lady discover for herself that same afternoon.

In my living room there was another flash of her smile and, before I could speak, before I could ask her just what it was she thought she was doing, the first words I ever heard her utter were, "I was just wonderin'..."

She paused, face tilted in survey towards her legs and, regardless of my surprise at her not completely unwelcome yet totally unexpected intrusion, with my brain not processing much in the way of sense, it still filtered through that she was a long way from her home city.

In that second or two I placed her accent at distinctly North West England, from somewhere close to the city that birthed The Beatles. All it took was that single word, the distinctly Liverpudlian drawl in the way she pronounced

wonderin'

.

I was just taking in that fact when her face came up from the critical appraisal of her own legs, those eyes fixing on me, huge and blue and captivating. She blinked twice, flawless brow furrowing when she pouted, "I was just wonderin' if this skirt isn't a bit too short. You're a bloke -- what do you think?"

Several impressions tumbled in my head, a tombola of thoughts, a lottery draw of ideas:

Who bursts into a neighbour's home -- a man she doesn't even know, a man at least two decades older than she is -- and asks a question like that?

What am I supposed to say?

What does she want to hear?

Why is she asking me

?

This has to be a joke -- where are the cameras?

Fucking hell, she's gorgeous...

Then I saw her looking at me intently and I realised she actually expected and answer.

All I could come up with was a rather stunned, "What?"

The word just popped out of me. It was the best I could do. I was confused by her presence, distracted by her legs. A minute earlier I'd been immersed in work, concentration focussed on the computer screen until the knock yanked me back to where I was physically. I'd only answered the door because of the rapping of knuckles against wood. If it had been the buzzer sounding I would have ignored it, but for someone to physically tap at my door meant they were already inside the block of eight flats. I couldn't ignore the fact a potential stranger was in the building. For my neighbours' security I had a duty to respond. Now I was being asked for my opinion on the brevity -- or not -- of hemlines. I was on the wrong foot, off-balance and struggling. The fact she was supremely good-looking and, in my opinion, superbly put together wasn't helping much either.

As eye-catching as that hemline was my immediate answer had to be yes, the skirt was too short for decency. It barely came down to the undercurve of her buttocks. It wasn't suitable for public consumption.

Another thought occurred to me:

What would her husband-slash-boyfriend think of her flitting around with her pudding almost on display?

My blurt prompted an eye-roll and a crossing of arms beneath substantial breasts. She cocked one hip and tilted her head, eyebrows arching as though she thought I might be a bit of an idiot. "I was tryin' on this skirt," she informed me. "I only got it yesterday. I loved it in the shop but I think it might be a bit short. I just wanted someone else's opinion." Then she uncrossed her arms and swivelled at the waist, craning round to examine the drop against her thighs as best she could without the aid of a mirror.

I had to stare. I mean ...

Jesus

...

When she turned to face me again her eyes were shining. She'd caught me gawping and the corner of her mouth twitched. "If I'm on the stairs," she giggled. "Anyone could see me knickers."

That vision appeared across my mind's eye. In my head I could just picture her on the stairs ahead of me, giggling as she climbed, all plump and packed into her underwear. I could

see

the flimsy scrap of material nestled close to her body. During that quick fantasy moment I could just reach up and trace a finger against her cleft outlined against the filmy fabric.

In real-life I gulped, desire fizzing until the girl's voice snapped me out of my led reverie.

"So," she queried, "too short or what?" Before I could begin to formulate a coherent reply she nodded in response to her own question, crinkled her nose at me, and added, "Yeah, a bit too short." Then she stalked across the room to the sofa, with me boggling as she collapsed into it, legs sprawling, the skirt stretched tight as a drum skin across her thighs.

I felt my throat working again. Swallowing heavily in a great gulp of anticipation it occurred to me that if I moved a few feet to my left I'd be able to see what she'd had for breakfast.

The sound of her sigh came from a long way away. I knew I was staring but couldn't help myself. It was a compulsion to just soak up the image of her legs, a visceral uncoiling of something dark and primal inside me.

My cock was hard, yearning a hollow ache, something primitive, something with an appetite.

"Are you perving at my legs?" she asked, with no hint of objection in her voice. The primordial tug came again, more urgent, insistent when I watched her squirm her rump on my settee, gangly as a colt. Her eyes and smirk teased me. "You got a thing for legs?"

I could have whined when she, in what seemed to be a deliberately provocative gesture, wriggled so the hem of her skirt rose higher and exposed the pristine white gusset of her underwear.

Her chin nudged at me. "It sure looks like you've seen somethin' you like." She grinned and added, "Is it me legs or me boobs?" The vulpine smirk broadened. "Or is it me pussy?" The brazen tart paused, still smirking as she murmured, "You can touch me legs if you wanna ... Then you can touch me boobs."

The way she looked at me and breathed those words had me across the room and on her in three steps. The woman, I didn't know her name at that point, yelped and giggled, wriggling as I plonked myself down and aimed myself at her so my hands could get to her thighs.

It was mindless in those first minutes. There was no room for consideration inside my head: the work I'd been doing, deadlines, her husband. None of it mattered. There were no thoughts of what I was getting into, of where would it go from that point. I didn't care if this was premeditated on her part or just some spur-of-the-moment thrill. It was all about the physical: her legs and her body and her face, the undeniable urges raging within.

My need was irresistible. Lust flared white hot and all-consuming. Desire was a ravenous, slavering beast roaring for sustenance, a hunger desperate to be sated. All of this was a great mass of yearning that needed to be drawn down through me, sucked down into my core until the pressure grew so great that sobbing relief pumped from my cock.

"Tear it off," she urged, sliding down the sofa cushion until her backside hung over the precipice, thighs tensed because of her heels digging in to the carpet. It made for a very pleasing aspect, this aroused young woman mewling at me with her skirt riding high, her mound obvious beneath her underwear. "Go on," she urged. "Rip my knickers off."

That whisky-voiced instruction and her heavy-lidded gaze caused the beast inside me to bellow.

A quick rending of cotton and she was exposed.

I could see she was looking up at me, expectant, but my attention was zeroed in elsewhere.

All I could manage, when I saw her mons all smooth and bare was a gurgled, "Fuck."

Then, without knowing properly what I was doing, I was down on my knees, my hands on her thighs as I forced her legs apart. I took a long look at her all vulnerable and glistening, her labia already tacky and folded back like butterfly wings.

When my tongue found her, when I probed at her opening and then lapped at the taut and shiny clit she squeaked and then groaned, body jerking in response. "You dirty fucker," she cooed, holding my head and forcing me against her body, legs folding at the knees. "Lick it, lick my pussy."

I did that all right. I slurped and slobbered at her. I lapped at her opening, probing with my tongue before flicking at her clit. The young woman squirmed, gasping and mumbling when I came up to look at her face.

"You're gorgeous," I moaned when I'd yanked up the gypsy top to find her bra-less beneath.

Her nipples were like the top joint of my pinky finger, thick and elongated in the coins of her areolae. She whined when I sucked at her, moaning and whispering profanity close to my ear when I went for the fleshy tip of her other breast.

"You're absolutely gorgeous," I repeated when I came up and found her gazing at me.

In reply, with my hands on her breasts, while I kneaded their spongy softness and marvelled at the shape and texture the girl squeaked, "Squeeze them. My tits. Really squeeze my fuckin' tits. Treat me hard." Then she gasped and pulled me to her for another kiss as I complied with her breathy instructions.

I was still kneading and mauling and sucking when the kiss broke and she squeaked, "I'm so fucking horny. You're gonna fuck me, aren't you?"

I had a voice like barbed wire when I replied with, "If that's what you want."

I'd decided, in a vague, disconnected sort of way that of course I was going to fuck her. What else was I going to do? I was fifty-two years old, she could only be mid-twenties. I was enduring a drought, it had been some time, yet there she was, stunningly pretty and obviously predisposed towards getting what she needed. Her looks and her body had inflamed me beyond reason. There was a flicker of thought for her husband, a brief flash in my mind of him at work, oblivious while his wife squeaked and groaned and lay there on my sofa and offered me the use of that body. It shames me to say it was merely a fleeting thought; I had much more immediate concerns -- his wife peeling the gypsy blouse over her head being one; the ache of my erection and the need for relief just one more.

Besides, I consoled myself, if it wasn't me it would be someone else. She was that hot, that revved up for a fucking.

The woman herself confirmed my assessment by saying, "Oh, it's what I want." She pulled me in for another kiss, our tongues writhing for long seconds before she released me. We both gasped as I looked into blue eyes glazed with desire, another thrill of wanting her pulsing in my dick when she purred, "I want you to fuck me. I want your hard cock in my pussy."

It was me who initiated the next kiss, my hands moving over the girl's body. I mauled her breasts and ran my palms down over her narrow brisket. I slid my wandering hands past the cinch of her waist, moving them down over her hips and onto her legs where I savoured the velvety texture of her thighs beneath my fingers. After playing that body I then arranged her to my liking. With her still scrunched up on the settee, chin on her chest, tits wobbling, legs wide, pussy at my mercy, I knelt next to her and split those sticky labia with a middle finger.

She was so wet she took two digits easily.

"Oh!" the girl yipped, blinking at me, jaw slack. "Oh, that's so fucking nice..."

With the initial shock dissipating quickly I grinned and nodded and growled, "Wait and see." I'd been in similar situations before. I'd had women in this position in the past, them squirming against my fingers. "Just let me get you there. Trust me," I murmured.

The blonde gulped and blinked before she nodded quickly and whined, "Uh-huh."

So I went to work at her.

Years before, in the summer of my nineteenth year, I had a temporary job in a coffee shop near an army camp. It was seven miles from my home at the time, a tiny bedsit off Grosvenor Road, Aldershot. The lady who owned the cafe was a doe-eyed Italian

senora

with masses of ringlets the same colour as her coffee beans, her skin the hue of cappuccino. She was early forties and possessed of a figure like Sophia Loren. She was, in short, exquisite to look at, and, as I was to discover very early on, had a rapacious sexual appetite.

She seduced me at the end of my second day of working for her.

I'd been eyeing her breasts for hours, wondering if they were as big and heavy as I suspected. My employer favoured summer dresses with a loose bodice, the jiggle of the promise beneath a constant draw for surreptitious glances. There was nothing overtly sexual in her manner of dress, it was simply the way her dress moved as she poured drinks, the hint at a ripe voluptuousness beneath while she served sandwiches and flirted with the young soldiers, using her femininity to draw every coin she could from them.

Every man in that coffee shop had the same thoughts as me. Each one of us wanted her. It was unfortunate for them that they had duties that called them back behind the fence, which left me to soak her up all day.

Early evening and we were closed for business. It was the end of my second day. She saw me looking as she mopped the floor, the side-to-side movement necessary causing her big boobs sway and roll, that soft, hypnotic swinging stiffening my cock.

I pretended not to be looking. I feigned an overwhelming absorption in stacking chairs onto tables, busy at my work, dedicated to all things janitorial until, calm as you like, she told me to look at her and casually unbuttoned the dress.

I boggled for a bit, jaw heavy and dangling. Of course I couldn't believe what I was seeing. She let me gaze for a time, standing there blithe and without inhibition, all her bounty revealed to my callow stare.

Eventually, after ascertaining I was, in fact, a virgin, she took me upstairs. That night we left several cups in the sink and the coffee machine unwashed. I cleaned that machine early the next morning, physically drained yet buzzing with the thrill of what I'd seen and done and felt and tasted with my mature lover all through the night.

For the next three months, every evening after work, when we'd properly cleaned and scrubbed the café, stacking the chairs on the tables before mopping the floor, with the coffee shop ready for business the following morning, my Mediterranean Mrs Robinson used my cock, my tongue and my fingers.

Her rooms were directly above the café, a very convenient ascent from where we worked together all day.

During working hours it was difficult to keep my hands to myself, especially in the hour or two leading in to closing. But sometimes, when business was slow she would lead me to the dry store, lift the hem of her dress and have me lap at her sex. Occasionally she would use her fist on my length, tugging me to completion, jizm spattering onto the tiles, with me mopping up the mess a few minutes later while she went calmly about the business of doling up the refreshments to customers unaware of what had been going on.

After work we usually tumbled naked across her bed, often with her riding me, my hands full of her. I think it was three times I stayed with her for the entire night, our pleasure mostly frantic bouts of delightfully hot and urgent sex before the last bus passed through the village. Sometimes, on Sundays or when my day off fell during the week, when her need was on her, she would drive to town to visit me in the bedsit. During those times she would arrive with a bottle of red wine in hand and a glint in her eye, libido snarling and her pussy invariably sodden. Pleasantly squiffy on the wine and always naked we'd make love, sometimes tender and full of emotion but usually with an animal intensity that left us both spent and breathless and blinking, stunned, like victims of some violent crime.