I hated it. I had just turned eighteen, but still my mother and my stepfather insisted that I accompany them on their summer vacation to this summer resort by the sea; an old, crappy beach hotel that had seen better days. The only nice part was that I had got my own room, whilst my mother and stepfather slept in a family room together with my two younger, irritating sisters. That at least gave me some privacy.
When the rest of the family went to the beach each morning, I retreated to my hide-out. I had no intention of enjoying the sun with them. The hotel had an old, overgrown conservatory that no one used, and here I had found a particularly gloomy space that suited my mood perfectly – just two cushioned benches hidden behind some large palms and a mass of green foliage. Here I could surely read my books about dungeons, dragons, doom and death without being interrupted. Or so I thought.
On my second day there, I was interrupted in my reading by an older woman with bleached hair who seated herself on the other bench. I had noticed her before. She dressed in a rather sluttish fashion. My mother had pointed her out in the breakfast room on the first morning and criticized her appearance and my stepfather had made concurring noises and shook his head. To me she was an old hag – old enough to be my mother; older than my real mom even. But looking closer, I had to admit that there was something about her that I liked.
She dressed as if she did not care one bit about what others thought about her. In the breakfast room she looked as if she had just risen from bed in a black, oversized, fuzzy knitted morning coat of the wrap-around kind – only held together at the waist with a matching belt - and added to that black high-heeled "fuck me" slippers and black fishnet stockings. She looked a bit out of place in a family hotel. She could have been an actress in some sleazy movie, I thought. Looking at her now in her warm and fuzzy wrap-around coat, a voice at the back of my mind admitted that I would not mind being wrapped up inside that soft, cosy coat, sharing its warmth with this mature woman, being caressed by the soft fluffy wool.
What really put that idea into my head was that I knew her to be practically naked underneath. In fact, I had caught a glimpse of one of her tits during breakfast. I had seated myself a bit apart from my boring family, and this woman had seated herself at my table – not directly across from me, but near enough for me to peak down her cleavage. And a couple of times when she reached for her coffee, her morning coat fell sufficiently open for me to get a glimpse of her naked breast and a brown, jutting nipple. The sight had understandably sparked my fantasy.
Her breasts must have received some surgical help, for they sat rather high and jutted out nicely, straining against the black, fluffy fabric. And she did not wear any bra – I could see that. And when I rose to help myself to some more food from the buffet, she had followed close behind. Normally, I have a distinct need for private space. I do not like people who stand too close. But she did not seem to notice – in fact, more than once I could feel her perky tits pressing against my arm or my back. And once I am sure that she stroked my bottom.
Oddly enough, I did not recoil from her touch as I normally would. She smelled nice and those amazingly firm naked tits under that cosy knitted morning coat had sent my head spinning. And now she sat here across from me, dangling her high-heeled slippers in very enticing fashion. I tried to concentrate on my book and the young damsel in distress, but somehow, even though she was described as young and supple, the heroine in the book could not compete with the woman in the flesh across from me. This woman was after not a fantasy; she was very real and very alluring. I had noticed that her legs were quite nice too – their shape outlined by the texture of her fishnet stockings.
She seemed to be totally absorbed in her reading matter; some kind of colourful magazine. As she read on, she seemed to stroke herself. Her long, scarlet fingernails looked like drops of blood against the dark knitted material. She seemed to caress her breasts and – if I was not totally mistaken – even pinch her nipples through the woollen coat. It was hard not to stare. It was also very disturbing when she constantly crossed and uncrossed her legs. From where I sat, I had almost an unrestricted view.
