Today was the day I had been dreaming of for weeks, today was the day that I was to actually meet Kirsty: we had made love many times spiritually but tonight would be different, we would be lovers physically and I was already dribbling with anticipation. Actually this was quite a problem, I had had much to prepare before Kirsty arrived and I kept having to break off to squeeze my thighs together and rotate my pelvis in an effort to ward of my increasing feelings of frustration, an emotion manifesting itself as a gooey sensation in my groin. I dared not touch myself and I so badly needed to but I was saving myself for Kirsty. I wanted her to feel my raw desire when we excited one another for the very first time and I wanted her to share the full extent of my joy when she granted me release.
Never had I dared to imagine this could happen but then circumstances change. Well hubby wanted to take the kids camping and I flatly refused to go with them; I've been camping with him once before, I was cold, I was damp, I was dirty, I was smelly and I told him then, 'never again, ever'. He announced 'we', that is the family, were going anyway with or without me and that was that, and my little sweet traitors ceased the main chance and backed him up: I was miffed and, in a fit of pique, invited Kirsty to join me for the weekend. When she accepted, well it was than that I really did begin to wonder what expressing my love of another woman would feel like. I was not simply bi-curious anymore, I knew that only too well, just lacking any experience what-so-ever of another woman. I was a little bit scared and a lot apprehensive.
Kirsty, well she plainly knew what she was about; our hot messages exchanged during long evenings of mutual masturbation had proven that and I quickly succumbed to temptation and curiosity. Kirsty? Kirsty had been my online lover for months, We had met through a site devoted to an odd mixture of erotic storytelling and sexually explicit on-line messaging; sometimes very sexually explicit. Literotica.com if you are wondering. After all the fantastic orgasms we had shared together I knew in my heart that I wanted Kirsty and wanted her badly.
As I drove to the local railway station to meet her I ran over my preparations for the thousandth time, I so wanted everything to be perfect. I was so wet and my little heart was hammering. Our online love making, initially sweet and sensuous had progressed by degrees to the more outrageous as my, and probably also her, confidence had grown. Once acquainted, and providing that all went well, we had decided to explore how some of our increasingly lurid fantasies would work out in reality. I were to lead and she to follow, a simple extension of the pattern that seemed to have established itself during our on-line loving anyway. Perhaps foolishly, Kirsty had agreed to place herself in my hands from the instant she arrived until the second she departed. It was foolish of her because she knew that I could be creative and daring in my own quiet way and that I had a joy of sexual teasing; she was going to be so randy when I was done with her. Moreover, she seemed only capable enjoying one orgasm at a time and this was a mould I hoped to break, I wanted her to experience the wonder of orgasm following orgasm and revel in the deep satisfaction that ensued after.
I digress; I meant to describe my preparations. Kirsty loved cake, well she said she did. I hoped that were still true. I had baked a lemon drizzle cake, a carrot cake and a huge all chocolate sponge. Why all chocolate? Well now: the sponge was flavoured with chocolate, the cream was chocolate cream and the icing was chocolate icing, the only escape from chocolate was a layer of black cherry jam somewhere in it; my schokoladenwäldertorte a sickly sweet nod to its more famous relative, the fabulous schwarzwälder kirschtorte. Then there was coffee, and tea of course; I forgot to mention we were not going to use the whole of the house but hide ourselves away in the play area that I had transformed the cellar into. It was snug and cosy, it was quiet and private and somewhere we would not be disturbed.
The cellar was actually self contained, there was the vast play area which I has spent all day re-arranging. The toys and trappings of the children were now stacked up neatly in boxes, in the garage and the wooden floor was covered in rugs and the giant floor cushions the children used to take their naps on when they were small. In a corner was a large brass bed that usually lain dismantled, under our bed. Two comfortable chairs, one armed the other not lay against one wall. The cupboards were bare, well apart from my meagre collection of sex-toys, some towels and a few other bits and bobs I had gathered together. Finally I had managed to muster five quite large mirrors that were placed around strategically, I love to watch myself masturbate and hoped that Kirsty was of a similar mind. She certainly liked to watch and could always recommend an arousing video when ever called upon to do so.
The play area was not the only room in the cellar, there was a small kitchen: a sink, a fridge-freezer, a small hob and a microwave, one that baked and grilled and did just about anything and everything else that a cooking box could. In addition, there was a bathroom, well except that there was no bath in it. There was a small partition to keep the toilet itself separate and a small wash basin in the opposite corner, otherwise the bathroom was one huge shower. What possessed me to have it built it I do not know. I thought the kids would find it fun, and so they did, but the amount of water and electricity it consumed was simply outrageous. They were only allowed 'the big shower' on high days and holidays, otherwise just one of the many jets was actually turned on. Thus, if well stocked with provisions, the cellar was truly self contained and once Kirsty and I fastened the door behind us there was no reason for us to re-emerge until it was time for her to go.
My last tasks had been to re-stock the fridge, the freezer and the larder for two grow-ups. They were crammed with delicacies. Some of these were distinctly adult: a dozen oysters, smoked salmon, quail eggs, olives, exotic cheeses, Parma ham, giant prawns. Other goodies were childish: ice cream, six different flavours thereof, jellies, blancmanges, bags of Haribo, liquorice all-sorts, dolly mixtures. Finally there were the prosaic but nutritionally sound items: baked beans in tomato sauce, eggs, potatoes, bread, butter, jam. Yes, for almost a whole three days nothing needed to disturb or worry us, except possibly the urgency of our needs and the darkness of our own desires.
Kirsty was easy to spot as she alighted from her train, true she was a year or so older than in her photo but she had retained the soft round face, the cute little nose and thick sultry lips I had gazed upon so often. She was so bold to share her face with me on-line, a thing I would never dare to do, especially not with hubby in the job he was. The black shoulder length hair and dark brown eyes that I had so looked forwards to seeing were there, just as in the picture and the rather serious pout she had in the pose was replaced by a cheerful smile. As her other, rather saucier, photo had indicated her breasts were definitely larger than mine, and mine were a not an ungenerous handful. I found myself lusting over them immediately, I had a strong urge to bury my head between them and kiss them. The truth was, a strong desire to kiss all of her had already overwhelmed me. I calmed myself, soon enough I whispered to myself, soon enough and I could and would have all of her whilst she helped herself to all of me.
Who did Kirsty see? She was met by a woman rather older than she, not her mother but clearly never to be mistaken for a girl again, an older sister perhaps? A woman with rather short plain, many would say mousy, hair, merry twinkling eyes, more grey than blue but rather thin lips that endowed her with a slightly sever aspect. Her figure was a little overweight but not by much, a pear rather than an apple and whilst not tall, she was of above average in height. It was their dress that contrasted most. The more matronly of the pair, me, was wearing a simple woollen knee length skirt in a rather toneless brown, a brown woolly cardigan that looked and was home made, hand knitted if you asked me, and an ivory, pure silk, blouse that had cost every bit as much as its appearance suggested. Her friend or kid sister, Kirsty of course, was dressed in a jacket, jeans and a simple top, and was lugging a shapeless bag.
