“Umm, good”, moaned Cindy, my neighbor from across the street. She was lying on her back with her legs spread. My head was between her thighs while my thumbs were pulling her pussy lips apart. The sweet nectar gushing from her overflowing pussy was like medicine to a sick man.
Her legs were over my shoulders, her heels beating a tattoo on my back. Between my flicking her clit, sucking it, and fucking her pussy with my tongue, she was writhing like she was in pain. I knew she suffered from back injuries from a car accident. Somehow though, that didn’t seem like pain. Especially since she was gripping my head as though she wanted to pull it into her vagina. She was begging me not to stop. As though I had planned to.
As I lapped at her juicy pussy, my mind thought back to how this situation had happened. We were one of the first black families on this block. Cindy and her husband lived across the street. Shortly after we moved in, her husband died. My wife and I would speak whenever we saw her. After her sons moved out, we would check on her periodically because of her back. Mostly, we would wave in passing.
During the late spring, summer, and early fall, I would see her working on her yard. She would wear shorts that came to mid thigh. Sometimes she had a blouse on, sometimes she had on a tight jersey. She was what some would call a buxom woman. She was built pretty much like I liked them. Her legs were very pale but very nicely shaped. She was a tall woman for her age. She is 58 as of this writing, the same age as I. Close to five foot 10 inches tall. Close to 165, maybe 170 pounds. Very well built.
Then my wife got sick and after a lingering illness, she too passed. Cindy came along with others to express her condolences. As she got ready to leave, she hugged me, pressing those sweet breasts into my chest. She told me, “If you need anything, just call.” I told her I would. Little did I know.
You know how it is after a death in a family. Before the funeral, there is bustle everywhere. After the funeral, there is nothing but quiet and impending loneliness. After everyone left, I finished straightening up the place. I decided that I would continue with my indoor nudist activities so I got undressed and hung up my clothes.
While pondering what to do next, I decided to make a sign that would announce to whomever rang the doorbell that a nudist lived here so if nudity shocked you, don’t ring the bell. Several days after putting the sign up, the bell rang. I knew to be careful because of the numerous kids in the neighborhood who do all the fundraising stuff.
Imagine my surprise when I looked and saw Cindy. I opened the door and I told her to come on in. She stepped in and asked me how I was coping. I told her okay, good times and sad times. Then she asked me about the nudism. I told her I enjoyed being nude. It had nothing to do with sex, I just liked the feeling of being nude. She asked what would I do if she got undressed? I told her nothing unless she wanted something to happen. I told her that many households were clothing optional, parents and children. That many times, visitors knew that getting nude was almost mandatory in many homes.
So she started undressing. I kept a stack of towels for my nude visitors, of which she was the first, to sit on. I went and got her one as she undressed. She asked me to unfasten her bra. At that point, I figured something was up. I had been married a long time and knew that women could fasten and unfasten a bra easily enough. So I unfastened her bra. Her back was as pale as her legs. And just as smooth as a baby’s ass. I rubbed her back while sliding her bra straps over her shoulders. Then she turned to face me placing her bra on a chair.
