Women I Should Have Fuced

A couple of missed opportunities for some really good sex. The opportunities were real, the fantasies are what could have been!

There will be more of these. ... ENJOY !

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Women I Should Have Fucked: Glinda

I could have fucked her. I didn't. She was, after all, my brother-in-law's wife. You know, " ... doing the right thing." All that kind of shit. So, I didn't fuck her.

My wife and her brother had taken all the kids to the pool, would be gone at least a couple of hours. Glinda was an artist, wanted to show me some of her work. We were on the couch, paintings spread out all over the coffee table. They were pretty good, not great, but pretty good. I told her, of course, that they were wonderful. "Some of these you can sale for money," I told her, lied.

She moved in a little closer against my right side; like a hot-date, you know, in one of those old bench-seat Pontiac's, before General Motors switched to consoles between the front seats. She put her left hand on my knee, reached all the way across my body, to the left end of the coffee table, picked up a new painting to take a look at. Her hand stayed on my knee. After a couple of minutes discussing that piece of art work, she repeated the process, retrieved yet another one. Her hand moved higher. My cock responded appropriately.

Tension in my body, I stretched both arms above my head, brought the right one down across the back of the couch. Glinda didn't move away. I dropped my arm onto her shoulders, stroked my fingers up and down her sleeveless arm. She reached for a third painting, leaned her body into mine. I moved a hand down to her closest tit; there was no bra, just the thin summer sun blouse.

Fantasy ...

"Go put on a dress, a sun dress," I told her. "No Panties."

Her eyes got big, she ran her tongue across her lower lip. She disappeared through the door, down the hall.

The dress, when Glinda reappeared, came to just above her knees; was cut straight across, just at the top of her tits, had one-half inch straps over the shoulders. She wasn't big in the tip department, but had an ass and legs that were to die for. I already knew that; had watched those hips in action when we, her husband, my wife and I, sometimes when out dancing. She had left her glasses somewhere in the back of the house.

I meet her half way across the room. She just walked straight into me, pushed her body against mine. I kissed her on the mouth, all the while pulling the sun dress up above her tits; bunched it up around her shoulders. She rolled her belly, her mound against my groin, my leg. I didn't touch her body; kissed her, held her around the shoulders, tight against me. She sucked on my upper lip, bite it.

I pulled my mouth away, "You are a sexy bitch," I said.

"Shut up and play with me," she said. "Fuck me."

I unbuttoned my jeans, pushed them down. Her hand was wrapped around my cock before it was even out in the open air.

"Oh, shit ... Mother fucker!" she said. "I heard you were hung like a horse."

"You heard what?" I asked, reached a hand down, slipped a finger into the crack of her ass. "Who told you?"

"That girl you married," she said. "She gets horny, she likes to talk ... likes to brag. Says she owns the best cock ever was in south Miss'sippi. Says she gets fucked better than the rest of us." She rolled her increasingly wet pussy on the leg I had between her knees.

I fell back onto the couch. "Put him in quick," Glenda said, two fingers spreading open her pussy; "... before they get back."

"I want to taste you first," I blurted; inserting a finger into an already wet cunt.

"We may not have time," she said. "Fuck me!"

She straddled my legs, a knee on either side of my hips, tits pushing against my chest. She sank down onto my turgid cock. I watched him disappear into her, behind the trimmed patch of hair that covered her mound. Her clit rubbed against my pelvic bone. She began fucking me; using her legs to lift herself almost off my cock, then the muscles of her ass to slam her pussy back down onto me.

"Lord help us all!" she moaned. (She was a Christian, went to church all the time. I don't think, however, that she was, at that moment, actually praying!) The whole of my cock disappeared into her pussy, the wet ran down over my balls, down the crack of my ass ... onto the couch cushions. "She's right. That wife of your is right. She does get fucked better than all the rest of us! ... I would just die if I had this cock around everyday; all the time."

The muscles deep inside her cunt contracted, squeezed me.

The dog came out from the back of the house, headed across the room and toward the door.

"They're coming!" she screamed, "the kids are back!"

"I'm cummin' too," I pushed hard against her clit, her pelvic bone ... shot a load deep into her cunt.

"Oh, oh ... " She lifted herself off my cock, reached and smeared the wet up and down her inner thighs, dropped the hem of the, until now bunched dress, back down to her knees.

As I disappeared down the hallway and into the bathroom I heard her greet the sound of kids entering the back door, "Did we have fun? ... Was the pool fun?!"

Sadly, that never happened. We studied painting after paint, my hand on her tit; she, from time to time, tracing her fingers along the length of my jeans covered cock. Neither of us ever addressed the "goings on". We just studied her paintings and pretended we weren't doing what we were doing.

A decade later I would have fucked her brains out: to hell with being my brother-in-laws wife.

Women I Should Have Fucked: Cheryl

Between the time I got out of the coaching business and went into the marble-granite industry, I did some remolding and renovation; mostly for friend, and friends of friends.

Cheryl called one night, I was already in bed. "Can you come by, look at a house I just bought. Mama says I need to re-do the kitchen and bath."

"Who?" I asked, trying to pull myself out of the Anton Meyer novel I was reading, figure out who "mama" was; who this was calling me.

"My mama," the voice said, "Martha ... lives down the street from you."

"Oh ... Martha. Cheryl?, this is Cheryl?"

Two days later I met her at an older, pre-WWII house; set back from the street, lots of oak trees. Cheryl was younger by somewhere between 15 and 20 years younger. Long blond hair that she usually did up into a "big" hair-do. Brick-shit-house of a body. Way too young for a 40 something old codger like me.

She was waiting in a rocking chair on the wide front porch. The pair of shorts almost feel off her hips, her standing up, moving to meet me at the top step. "You like my shorts?" she asked, pulling them back up to her waist. The mid-riff tee shirt came down past her really nice tits, but not as far as her belly button.

"They were my brother's," she said. "He left 'em last time he was home." US Coast Guard in gold letters was stamped across the right leg.

We checked the kitchen, made some notes about what she wanted done to the cabinets, the floor. Every time she moved, took a few steps, the space between the bottom of the tee shirt and the top of the Coast Guard short increased. She pulled them back up.

"The bath room," she said, "it needs a shower curtain."

"No problem," I told her, "we'll just put some hooks on the wall, get a rod."

"Well, it's a little more complicated than that. The tub is a cast iron "claw-foot". Doesn't fit against the wall on the back sides and the ends. The curtain has to go all the way around."

She didn't offer to 'lead-the-way', made a gesture with her hand for me to study the situation on my own.

The tub truly was a vintage claw-foot, probably weighed five-hundred pounds. I was oval shaped, didn't touch against the wall anywhere. A normal shower curtain would have turned the entire bathroom into a "shallow" lake; the spray hitting against the wall, running right down onto the floor.

The black silk and lace panties were draped over the towel rod, displayed against the a cream colored, really expensive, towel background. 'Cheekini' panties, cut high on the sides, designed to come up against the hip bones. I didn't pay much attention to the curtain-rod situation, only those black panties right there fount-and-center. 'Did Cheryl know that I would see those panties? ... Of course she knew!'

Studying, first, the exact location of the panties on the towel, I lifted them off, brought them to my face, inhaled deeply. They didn't reek of sex; instead gave off the faint odor of having been worn, had not been recently washed. I contemplated pushing them down into my jeans, wrapping them around my hardening cock. ... I didn't. Instead, carefully placed them back atop the cream colored towel. Black on cream.

Fantasy ..

"I like your panties," I said, walking back to where Cheryl waited in the living room.

I held them in the grip of my fist, brought them up to my nose, took a whiff. Her eyes held mine. She bite the knuckle of her right thumb between her front teeth, held up the shorts with the left hand.

"I bet those shorts would fall down if you let go," I told hold her.

"They might," she said.

"Let go," I said. "I wanna see which I like best. These, or the ones you've got on."

"Oh, I'm not wearing any now," she said. "Sometimes I don't wear any."

"I wanna see," I said. "Let go."

They sagged against her hip bones when she let go, didn't fall all the way off. "They might need some help," she said. She pulled the waist band out in the front, stretched the elastic; looked down as if studying the open space between her belly and the fabric. She looked back at me. "They might need some help," she repeated.

Closing the two steps between us I hooked a thumb inside the leg, right where it said US Coast Guard; tugged downward. Cheryl pushed down on the opposite side. Tanned belly skin appeared, fraction-of-an-inch, by fraction-of-an-inch; then soft blond curls of pubic hair.

I tucked the black panties in the waist band of my jeans, reached under the cut-off tee shirt, found a nipple with my thumb and forefinger. She sucked in a mouth load of air, made a strange sound in her throat. Light shown from between her legs now, the shorts below their juncture with her body. She worked her legs and ass side to side, caused the Coast Guard to drop down to her knees, then to her ankles. She stepped out of the fabric puddle; first one foot, then the other.

I backed up a step. I wanted to look at her: brick-shit-house of a body, standing there barefoot, naked at the waist and hips, naked at pussy level, ass level ... just a mid-riff tee shirt covering her tits.

"Touch me," she said; "I can't wait."

She lifted one foot, rested it on the rod of dining room chair. I reached my hand between her legs, the heel of my hand on the blond-hair covered mount, middle finger touching her ass hole.

She leaned against me. "You've got a hand full of my pussy," she said. At that point I hadn't even kissed her.

"I do, don't I," I said.

The heat of her pussy against the palm of my hand, I moved a finger against the pucker of her ass. Her hands were at my waist: un-buckling, un-buttoning, un-zipping.

"Your cock," she said, "I think you have a nice cock. ... I've been watching your hands. Guys with long fingers always have nice cocks. Did you know that?"

"I did know that," I said. "Where have you been watching my hands?" I asked.

"At church, you dummy. I sit behind you at church." She pushed down the front of my jeans. "Oh!! You don't have on skivvies. I pictured you a skivvy kind of guy."

"Sometimes I don't wear any," I said.

"You do!" she said. "I knew you would have a nice cock!" She wrapper her hand around it. She touched the end of it with the tip of a finger; touched the finger to her mouth, tasting the first drop of clear pre-cum. "Oh, god! I can't wait. Put him in me now. Oh, sweet Jesus."

"I want to play with you first," I said. "Want to taste you."

"No," she said. She dragged me, almost, into the bedroom. "later, you can do that later. Right now you have to fuck me ... I have to fuck you."

She pushed me down onto the mattress; it on the floor, the bed not even set up yet. She straddled me, opened up the lips of her pussy with one hand, guided my cock into her with the other. She eased herself down onto me, all the while making noises in the back of her throat.

Once completely impaled on my cock she eased her body up and then back down again. "Alright, cowboy," she said, (in those days, I always wore cowboy boots to church) "I'm gonna fuck you now."

She rode me like a woman possessed. My only job was to hold on to her ass, her tits (still underneath the tee shirt) ... to provide a hard cock. She took advantage of me: I didn't mind! In time she orgasmed, screamed, attracted the attention of passers-by on the street. She collapsed onto my chest, kissed me. ( FINALLY! )

Still hard, I told her, "My turn now."

"Give me a minute," she said. She pulled the tee shirt over her head, tossed it aside. She lay down, tits hard against me, nuzzled her face in the space between my shoulders and neck ... kissed me.

Sadly, that never happened.

I left the said bathroom with my notebook, measurements, and some drawing, went into the dining room.

"We can do that," I told Cheryl. "I'll have to make a template, get a machine shop to make us an oval shaped curtain rod and the necessary braces. It'll take a couple of weeks."

Neither of us mentioned the panties; she, from time to time, pulled up the waist band of her US Coast Guard shorts. I came and went over the next couple of weeks. She never wore those shorts again, never wore the mid-riff tee shirt again. I saw her from time to time. She always had a new and shinny boyfriend.

I fucked her a decade later. It wasn't the same. I was back in town for a long weekend. We went out, had a really nice dinner, some expensive wine (she, white ... me, red). Back at her house, in her bed (the same bed, now set up and decorated with piles of pillows) I slowly devised her of her little black dress and cut-above-the-hip-bone panties. I played with her body (as fine a body as I ever played with) for (as I now recall) hours.

Sadly, the evening out-lived my cock. When I finally did fuck her, he (my cock) didn't want to stay hard anymore. I wasn't as young as I had been that decade earlier.