Unlike before, this time, Marie required no convincing. In the space of a few short weeks of summer she'd been transformed from a fifty-two year old teacher and housewife whose sex life was in severe decline, to a wanton slut-in-waiting eager to submit her mouth for a young black man's pleasure.
Now Blaine was naked as she stood by his side, every square inch of him visible except for that 12" by 3" cylinder protruding from his groin. That was covered by a thin terry cloth towel that Marie clutched tightly in her hand. He'd just told her to "kiss it."
She'd protested at every step along the way. She hadn't even wanted to discuss sex. But she'd inadvertently blurted out secret knowledge of Blaine knocking up a white girl then confessed and embarrassing episode involving a black man named Andre from her own past just to even things up.
Even uncomfortable talk of sex is talk of sex. A few kisses were reluctantly given and instantly followed by resolutions to avoid behaviors unsuited to a married woman and a young man one-third her age. Yet her good intentions became passionate make out sessions in less than a week.
Marie was certain she could handle the soft, sweet kissing sessions with Blaine. They were nice, the proper blend of tenderness and passion. His strong arms felt so good holding her body as his tongue traced her ovaled lips like a NASCAR driver under the yellow flag of caution.
The young black kid was such a refreshing change from those awkward twelve tentacled squids she'd had to fend off when she was Blaine's age. If Blaine were representative, perhaps the younger generation wasn't in that hand basket headed for Hell after all.
Marie had tingled all day in anticipation of Blaine making a move on her at the end of their shift. So comfortable was she in Blaine's powerful embrace and two minute apiece kisses, she'd given up her protests and telling him it was wrong, and just accepted the pleasant excitement as something they'd continue to enjoy without regret.
The arousing prep work Blaine was putting in was even paying positive dividends at home where afternoon masturbation sessions proved a wonderful release. When the burning returned after dinner, her husband Dave became the beneficiary.
Dave probably wondered how his luck had suddenly changed but was not prepared to see it stop by asking for an explanation. Marie considered telling him. After all, it was only kissing, and Dave had done much worse. In the end, the questions he'd probably ask kept her silent on the matter.
Marie's best intentions to hold the line at simple, if passionate, French kissing sessions were as easily overcome as those to prevent the kissing in the first place. Blaine's hand crept up her side, playing a game of chicken with her breast. Every time she was sure he would cup her there, and prepared to remove his hand, he changed direction.
Marie spent the better part of an hour one afternoon on an extended period of high alert. Her anxiety was compounded by the fact that part of her wanted him to touch her there. Blaine's kisses were exceptionally ardent and her vagina exceptionally wet. In all honesty, she was as much to blame for that first touching as Blaine...maybe more.
Blaine's big hand moving on her torso had driven her crazy. Her nipples were demanding contact. Blaine had been instructed that all the touching there would ever be between them would be their mouths, their lips, their tongues. It seemed the black college student was trying his best to comply with Marie's wishes even as he got a close to the boundary without crossing it when Marie herself twisted in such a way that her breast contact his hand.
Marie immediately removed the hand but it was, for all intents and purposes, too late. Blaine knew what had happened and so did she. His hand wandered to her breast more and more often until Marie gave up trying to remove it. She warned him, of course, the following morning, not to try that again but the admonition was ineffectual because neither of them desired its enforcement.
Blaine's new knowledge that Marie's rules were flexible, more guideline than decree, meant that he was destined to seek her bare breast, something Marie protested vehemently before accepting so completely she'd even partially undressed herself in public, in her car, on Blaine's orders, just so he'd have easier access to her when they were alone.
Skin to skin touching led to Marie letting herself be stripped naked above the waist so her young colleague could engage in nipple play and soon rough nipple activities. The mature beauty's submission to him and her wanton responses to the aggressive "caressing" he gave her tits led to Blaine no longer being able to control his arousal.
The inordinate size of his cock meant that Blaine had to release it to prevent the insufferable pain a full blown hard on in his jeans would cause. Once out, Blaine was obliged to discharge his semen in order to soften his cock enough to return it to his pants.
It was Marie who insisted on cleaning up his messy cum from the walls and floor of that musty corner in that musty room, finally resorting to lapping up the salty liquid just to feel a second-hand closeness to the young black stud because she feared a complete loss of control were there ever to be a direct transfer of Blaine's essence into her mouth.
But it was that driving perversity, witnessed by Blaine when she was on her hands and knees suctioning pools of semen from the concrete floor and desperately fingering her slick tunnel, that had her standing next to the black stallion, holding his cock by a thin towel and exchanging depths-of-her-soul kisses with a paramour more than three decades younger than she.
