Anna Of Whitecliffs Hall

It was advertised as a spacious one-bed apartment in a recently-restored country house. And it suggested that it might 'appeal to an active, mature gentleman'. Well, I was certainly mature. And I was reasonably active. And the idea of being near the village without actually being

in

the village definitely had some appeal.

'How spacious is spacious?' I asked the estate agent when I phoned.

'The rooms are very generous,' she said. 'But, of course, there aren't that many of them . One bedroom. One bathroom. One sitting room. One kitchen. And a small boxroom which the present owner has been using as a study. There is also a communal library and a spa pool.'

It sounded perfect.

'It was originally designed by and built for Sir Charles Claxton, the eminent architect,' she said. 'Sir Charles himself died just after the outbreak of the Second World War. After that, the place had a bit of a chequered history. The army took it over at one stage. But it was restored and converted into eight apartments just over five years ago. And no expense was spared.'

'And are the apartments owner-occupied?' I asked. 'Or are some of them holiday lets?'

'Oh, no,' she said. 'All of the apartments are owner-occupied. The owners have a covenant. They are mainly - how shall I put this? - "of a certain age". Or "in their prime", you might say.' She laughed lightly. 'The possibility of holidaymakers and noisy children coming and going is definitely not something that the new owner will need to worry about.'

That also sounded perfect. And I arranged to drive down to the coast the following day to inspect the place. We agreed to meet at Whitecliffs Hall at midday.

I could immediately see why Claxton had chosen the location. It was perhaps three-quarters of a mile from the village, situated atop a small cliff, overlooking the sea. There were two apartments on the ground floor, and a further three apartments on each of the floors above. The apartment that was for sale was on the first floor at the eastern end of the building.

I think that I made my mind up the moment that I walked through the front doors and into the spacious downstairs lobby area with its adjoining library. After that, the apartment itself could have been a shabby shoebox for all I cared - although, of course, it wasn't. 'Where do I sign?' I asked the estate agent.

The stars were clearly in alignment and, just six weeks later, I was moving in. The moving men were just starting to unload the lorry when the first of my neighbours came and introduced herself.

'Hello. I'm Anna,' she said.

'Humphrey,' I said.

'Humphrey. Oh yes, I do like a Humphrey.'

Anna was a larger lady - although by no means fat - and, as the estate agent had suggested, she was 'of a certain age'. But then so was I.

'I won't get in your way now,' Anna said. 'There will be decisions to be made. And only you can make them. Leave it up to the moving men and you'll spend the next three weeks trying to find the teapot - only to discover it in the linen cupboard in the bathroom. But I think perhaps you and I should have a small gin and tonic at about six o'clock. And then a large one ten minutes later.' And she laughed.

By eleven o'clock, the moving guys had got everything inside and they were starting to unpack the books, the crockery, and the glassware. And hour or so later they were done.

I took a break and ate the sandwich that I had picked up from the bakery in the village. Then I got the kitchen into some sort of order, made my bed, and decided that it was time for a brief nap. Over recent years, I have more or less perfected the art of the 20-minute nap. But on this occasion, I slept for more than an hour. Oh, well. The sea air perhaps.

I got myself up again, made a cup of tea, had a shower, and then changed into some gin and tonic clothes. I wasn't sure of Whitecliffs Hall's dress code, but I got the impression that Anna might be more slacks and a blazer than jeans and a T-shirt, after all, she had been wearing full makeup at nine in the morning.

At precisely six o'clock, I was knocking on Anna's door.

Anna greeted me with a friendly hug and a little kiss on the cheek. She was wearing a red dress that would have been right at home in the pages of a smart fashion magazine. I was glad that I had opted for the blazer.

'How is it?' she said. And then, before I had a chance to answer, she said: 'I do so hate moving. It's so tiring. Although I must say: you look remarkably fresh.'

'Ah, yes, well I cheated a bit,' I told her. 'I took a nap this afternoon.'

'Oh, very wise,' she said. 'Now ... gin and tonic?'

'Perfect,' I told her. 'Thank you.'

'Hilary tells me that you were in London,' she said as she sloshed generous quantities of Tanqueray Gin into the waiting glasses.

Hilary? I thought that the estate agent's name was Helen. Still ... 'Yes. I had a business there. But I sold it. So now I'm hoping to have a slightly less hectic life down here on the coast.'

'Oh? What sort of business?' she asked.

'Oh, nothing very exciting. Importing. Distribution. That sort of thing.' I didn't think that it was necessary to tell her that the products I imported and distributed were mainly adult toys. Dildos. Vibrators. Masturbators. High-end sex dolls.

'Well, I don't think you'll find life at Whitecliffs Hall particularly hectic,' she said. 'Although I'm sure that you won't find it boring either. We like to have a little ... umm ...

fun

. You know. I think you reach an age in life when fun is necessary to keep you young.' And she smiled and raised her glass. 'Cin cin. And welcome.'

'Cin cin,' I echoed.

I must admit that upon taking my first sip, I wondered if Anna had forgotten the tonic. Boy, the girl knew how to mix a heavy gin.

'OK?' she said.

'Umm ... yes. Very OK,' I said.

'Good. I like to be able to taste the gin. The clue is in the name: gin and tonic - not tonic with a hint of gin.' And she laughed, and then leaned forward and kissed me again.

For a few minutes, we stood sipping and chatting, and then Anna said: 'Well ... let's sit down, shall we?'

In front of the doors that opened onto her small balcony, there were two dark brown leather Barcelona-style chairs, facing each other across a small glass-topped coffee table. 'Here perhaps?'

As she lowered herself to the chair, I caught a flash of a full-cup red lacy-looking bra with black filigree work and sturdy black shoulder straps, and then, as she pulled her already-short skirt up slightly, I caught more than a flash of stocking tops held up by sturdy black suspenders. And there was more to come. Once I too was seated, I found myself looking straight at a tantalising hint of dark pubic hair steaked with silver and partially framed by pale thighs. I quickly concluded that Anna may have been wearing what I believe is known as an open corselet - open ... because ... well, because it is. At one end, anyway.

'It's nice to have a view of the sea, isn't it?' I said, discreetly averting my gaze.

Anna frowned slightly. 'Oh? Is that all you can see?' she asked. 'I was hoping that you'd be able to see rather more than that. Perhaps I need to adjust my dress.' And she slid forward a little on the chair and hoisted her skirt a trifle more. 'There. Is that better?'

For a moment, I wondered if it was a trick question. Was this some sort of test for new neighbours? Maybe. But she was wearing a cheeky smile, so perhaps not. Or at least, perhaps not in any bad way. 'Well, yes, if you are asking what I think you are asking, I am getting another view as well. And it's rather an attractive view,' I admitted.

She spread her thighs slightly, smiled, and took another big sip of her gin and tonic. 'Do you think that you might be more comfortable if you took off your blazer?' she said.

'Umm ... yes. I could do,' I said. 'I wasn't quite sure of your house rules.'

'Entirely understandable,' Anna said.

I stood up and removed my blazer.

'Better?' she said, as she took yet another sip of her gin.

'Thank you,' I said.

'Tell me, Humphrey: are you a fan of the corselet?'

How was I supposed to answer that one? After perhaps a second's reflection, I thought that it might be easiest to just tell the truth. 'Umm ... yes,' I said. 'Very much so.' And then, figuring that I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I added: 'Particularly the ... umm ... open variety. Worn without knickers.'

Anna smiled. 'Yes,' she said. And she nodded in what was clearly an expression of approval. 'Yes.'

For a minute or so, we both sat there, saying nothing. And then Anna said: 'Perhaps I should refresh our drinks.' To be honest, I'd hardly started mine, but Anna got to her feet, picked up both glasses, and carried them over to the sideboard where she reacquainted them with the famous green Tanqueray bottle. When she returned and placed the glasses on the glass-topped coffee table, she remained standing.

'I think that this is the point at which I should probably remove my dress,' she said. 'What do you think?'

'Well, it's your house,' I said. 'I think you should probably follow your own house rules - some of which I have yet to learn.'

Anna nodded. 'I am sure that you will pick them up,' she said. 'As we go along. And I can always drop the occasional hint. When required.'

'Makes sense,' I said.

'And now if you could just help me with my zip.'

Anna turned her back to me. I got to my feet, found the little tab of her zip, and slowly lowered it until it came to a stop halfway down her ample arse. Anna turned to face me again and, with her eyes fixed on mine, began removing her dress, starting with her right shoulder, and then her left shoulder, and then uncovering her substantial lace-clad breasts. And then, after pausing briefly, she allowed the dress to make its way all the way to the floor.

Anna was indeed wearing a corselet. The red lacy-looking fabric with black filigree that I had earlier observed was confined mainly to the full cups that encased her breasts. The rest of the garment was made mainly from black lacy-look fabric (with cunningly-concealed reinforced panels, probably of Lycra), although there was a vertically-elongated panel of red lace that extended from just above her waist down almost to her luxurious exposed bush. She looked fabulous. And I could feel my cock beginning to stir.

'You approve then?' she said, presumably judging from the look on my face.

'Oh, yes. Very much so.'

Anna reached down and raised the lower front edge of the garment a little further and then fluffed her already-fluffed salt and pepper bush and, using both hands, parted it to reveal her exquisite cuntal valley. 'All right?' she said.

'Oh, yes,' I assured her.

Anna turned and reached for her gin glass. As she did so, I had a perfect view of the lower part of her pale globes of arse. 'According to house rules,' Anna said, between sips of gin, 'this is when you should gently goose me. And I should pretend to be shocked. But then I should relent and slowly push back onto your fingers. Do you think that you can do that?'

I did not need to be asked twice. 'Something like this?' I said, and I reached between her slightly parted upper thighs.

'Goodness me!' she said in mock surprise. And then she said: 'You learn quickly, don't you? I do like a man who learns quickly.' And she pushed back and 'swallowed' my fingers with her damp, furry slot.

I think that I may have leaned forward and placed a few gentle kisses on her bare shoulders. And I know that, in between making appreciative sounds, Anna reached back and assessed the state of my personal equipment. 'I think perhaps we should have those trousers off,' she said.

'House rules?' I asked.

'Almost rule number one,' she said. 'For the safety of the owner. Growing cocks ... confined spaces ... not a good combination. Well, not unless the confined space is a well-lubricated cunt. Or a suitably-prepare arse. But even in those circumstances, as the fuckee, I prefer the fuckor to be trouserless.'

'Fair enough,' I said. 'Perhaps you would like to do the honours.'

Anna helped me from my trousers, and my cock, which was already rising to the occasion, looked around the room and then stiffened still further at the prospect of a flesh-on-flesh encounter with such parts of Anna that were accessible via the open part of the open corselet.

'Well, well,' Anna said. 'He's a fine fellow.' And she bent over and kissed my cockhead - not once, but several times. And, with each gin-scented kiss, my cock grew a little more.

And then it was time.

Happily, Anna's high-heeled shoes - black patent leather with fabric bows - put everything that needed to be at a certain height at ... well ... at pretty much exactly that height. Oh, and she also unfastened the rear suspenders from her stocking tops so that when she spread her legs slightly and bent over the sturdy Mies-designed leather chair, her corselet rode up a little, revealing more of her pale arse, and giving me a peep of her delicious arsehole. Positioned so, her bush-fringed cunt was ready for my entry. And so enter I did.

We started slowly, the head of my cock playfully nudging her cunt and then making small exploratory expeditions before thrusting deep, withdrawing, and then returning to the warm, wet depths.

After a few minutes, Anna took over attending to her clit, and I turned my attention to her delicious arsehole. I began massaging the entrance with the ball of my thumb, and then, as I felt her start to relax, I gathered up some of her slippery cunt juices and added those to the mix. My thumb slipped inside. I thought that she was probably ready. 'What do you think? Is that a suitably-prepared arse?' I asked.

'I think it could be,' she said.

I withdrew my cock from her cunt and prepared it for its next adventure. Anna adjusted her position slightly, and I lined my cockhead up with her now massaged and lubed rosebud - which was also surrounded by wispy hairs.

I pushed gently, stopping once the head of my cock was past the gatekeeper. And then I left it to Anna to control how much or how little she wanted. It seemed that she wanted quite a bit.

'Oh, fuck, yes,' she said. 'I just

love

having a cock up my arse.'

Whether it was the result of having my cock up her arse, or the furious work that she was doing on her own clit, is hard to say. But a few minutes later, she was expressing her satisfaction to the entire county. I hoped that the apartments had been well soundproofed.

The gin had helped to anesthetise my cock somewhat and provided a degree of stamina. But at that point, I too was ready to 'let go'. I pulled my cock from her delicious arsehole, pointed it at her damp lady garden, and ... let go. Splash! Boom! Boom!

For a minute or so, we just stayed where we were, Anna partly supporting herself on the chair, and me supporting myself with the aid of the smoothly corselet-clad Anna.

And then Anna broke the silence. 'So, Humphrey, how's your drink?' she asked. 'I think that mine might need refreshing. This could be a busy evening.'