The figure in the doorway was a woman. She was just standing there, staring at me with her mouth open and a look on her face that seemed to say, "I don't believe this! Who the fuck are you? What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
She was probably about my age, but doing well. A blonde bob, wide brown eyes, and in good shape. Her sweater stretched over what looked like a decent pair of breasts, and her tight blue jeans showed her shapely hips. They were pulled up tight enough to show the slight vertical fold of her crotch, and the clear 'v' shape between her legs.
I brought myself back to my senses and pulled my trousers up. Just as they got to my hips, I noticed she couldn't help but glance at my cock as I flopped it in, out of sight. As quick as I noticed, she returned her gaze to me. It was as if she just wanted to get one more look before it disappeared.
"I think you'd better come with me." She asserted, as I fastened the button and zipped the fly, as if she was a teacher taking me out of the class to give me a telling off. Naturally I obediently followed.
She led the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, my eyes watching her tasty looking ass in those tight jeans. What the fuck was wrong with me? I'd just had the fuck of my life, almost killing what I presumed was this woman's daughter, and now I was eyeing up another piece of ass I wanted to conquer. Turns out there's nothing wrong with me, I just have a functioning pair of balls, the type that never stop producing. She went to the far end of the kitchen and stopped at the work surface, turning to face me a few steps behind. I stopped too.
"So, do you care to tell me what's going on?" she asked in a rather annoyed tone. Her face was calmer now, but still she seemed shocked. How was I going to explain nicely that I'd just fucked the hell out of her daughter, and I'm currently eyeing up her mother for potentially the same treatment? Silence. And continuing to look at her body, apparently.
She got the message and her face returned to its former eyes-wide, jaw-open state.
"You bastard. You fucking bastard." she said in a quieter voice while shaking her head. That well-educated accent forming those base words did it for me. She was definitely on my radar now. I reckoned I'd probably never get a chance to be with that delicious little thing upstairs ever again. Not after this episode. So I took a chance and took one step toward this woman.
"Stop!", she snapped, "Stop right there," and then added, "young man."
So that's how she wanted to play it! It was clear we were about the same age, but she wanted someone to boss around and get mad at. Boy, was I up for that!
I took another step toward her so that we were now within touching distance.
"I said stop." she reminded me, but there was a little, almost undetectable play in the command this time.
She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head slightly to the side, while looking directly at me. A half-smile played across her lips and her eyes were asking me a question. I looked down at her hips and took her hands, holding them between us. She made a half-assed attempt to pull her hands away, but there was no force or wriggling, just pretence.
I didn't want to rush this and blow my chance, so I just held her hands like that for a while, looking into her brown eyes. The lashes were treated well and the eye-liner was perfect. Her red lipstick accentuated the shape her lips formed as she pouted, suggesting she was unhappy. Every atom in me wanted to just grab her and fuck her, but somehow I managed to stay where I was.
Eventually she sighed and used both hands to keep nudging me backwards to the kitchen table, then onto a seat. I sat like a good boy, still holding her hands but having to look up at her face. She was smiling now and I lowered my gaze to drink in the sight of her crotch in those tight blue jeans.
Then she sighed again, but this time dropped to her knees in front of me. Now she pulled her hands from mine and started unzipping my fly, her fingers bumping and stroking my hardening cock as she struggled with the zipper. I reached a hand down to help her but she slapped it away, before returning to her task. These accidental hand nudges and rubs through the material of my trousers were now intentional, each one making my throbbing shaft fill out more and more.
When the fly was finally fully open, she reached in with one hand and found my stiffening member, curling her fingers round it and stroking gently and slowly. Losing patience, she tried to release it from its prison, but found it was too long to manoeuvre out of the fly opening. Tugging it this way and that, she almost bent it in half with her efforts. This is when I took the matter into my own hands and undid the button at the waist. My trousers fell open and her face lit up as her cylindrical prize leapt out, almost smacking her cheek.
