Hairywoman88

The skies above Ludington Street had a fuzzy brightness as the sun sought to penetrate the clouds, but there was still a crust of snow along the curbs. I was passing one of the earnest-looking brick buildings that housed apartments plus a few shops on the ground floor, taking in the sights, getting acclimated to my new home.

I had recently moved to Escanaba on the Upper Peninsula (or "U.P.", as the native "Yoopers" prefer to call it.) It had been over two decades since my last visit to the U.P., under very different circumstances. In those days I was in the music business, traveling to Marquette from time to time to perform at the night spots there which cater to the teeming crowds of summer tourists. Now I was in a much different line of work, editing trade publications for an organization which was inexplicably based in this little community.

It was Monday of my third week in town, and I was wandering around the rustic city center on my lunch hour. Impulsively, I walked into a local coffee shop. This was no Starbucks - the names of the beverages were less grandiose, and the decor less impersonal. There was a nautical motif, relics of ships that I suppose must have sailed Lake Michigan at one time or another. I ordered an espresso, and I didn't need to go to a holding area to receive it. The very same clerk who took my order, a placid blond gal with apple cheeks and an old-school apron, made the espresso and handed it to me. I thanked her and turned to walk to my table, and almost ran into Hannah.

Hannah had changed a bit in more than 20 years. She was heavier, which was fine with me, and wore glasses now. Instead of wearing her dark hair long, she had it in a short bob. She was dressed conservatively, which was the most dramatic change in her appearance. When I used to see her in clubs where I was performing, her attire was always on the provocative side, showing lots of thigh and cleavage. In those days I was married, and Hannah was my secret indiscretion.

She gave me a deer-in-the-headlights look for an instant, then quickly regained her composure. "Why hello, Andre, it's been a long time," she said. "What are you doing in Escanaba?"

"I just moved here. I'm working for SportsTech."

Her face was impassive, but as I studied it I thought I recognized a familiar tension in her jaw, and slightly unfocussed look in her eyes. Perhaps she was remembering those glorious marathon sessions in motel rooms in Marquette.

As if to warn me, she announced, "I'm married now, and I'm working. And I'm on the city council." That was a warning, too, that she was a respectable woman and I must behave myself. It was accompanied by a quick, prim smile of pride at her achievement.

"I'm impressed!" I said with a smile. She looked uncomfortable for a split second, then nodded and said, "Great to see you again." She hesitated for a moment before turning to join a group of women at a table nearby. During that moment she looked up and met my eyes, and I thought I saw that old smolder, although I couldn't be certain.

I drank my espresso alone, then made my way back to my little cubbyhole office and my computers. I busied myself with work for the next few days, but I kept remembering my relationship with Hannah back in the day, and how I watched her on the dance floor in her short skirts and diaphanous blouses, knotted about her midriff, her bra-less tits bouncing to the music. She would make eye contact with me frequently as I played, sending messages of molten lust. At the end of the night I would leave with my bandmates (they all knew I was married, and none suspected that I was cheating.) But the next morning I would check into a different motel bright and early, and Hannah would show up around 9 AM with fire in her eyes.

Thursday night I was cleaning up the kitchen in my little rented townhouse when those images welled up in my memory again, and I found myself climbing the stairs to my bedroom where I took off all my clothes and lay on my bed. As I tickled the underside of my engorged cock, I thought of those Sunday mornings, but instead of the image of the youthful nubile Hannah, I substituted the mature Hannah. I imagined her with glasses, with bigger tits, softer and more responsive to gravity, more ample thighs, and a sexual appetite seasoned with many more years of experimentation and the sort of hunger that strikes women in their 40s and 50s. I imagined the mature Hannah doing all the things we used to do, as well as some new, surprising things, and soon I was spurting semen all over my belly, chest and face.

The next day I returned to the coffee shop, but Hannah was nowhere to be seen. Over the next few weeks, I stopped in there frequently, but fruitlessly.

One night we were in the early hours of a blizzard. The town was largely shut down and very peaceful, with big snowflakes tumbling down in a steady stream. I could hear the soft crunch of my shoes in the snow as I walked across the parking lot to one of those big box stores to buy some groceries and a sweater. The place was almost empty. just a few employees going about their business with a faraway look in their eyes. I went to the clothing section first, passing through the women's clothing on the way to the men's, and suddenly there she was, holding some blouses on hangers. We both stopped in our tracks, and neither of us spoke. As I met Hannah's gaze, I got the distinct impression that she had been thinking about old times, just as I had been. But she didn't smile or speak.

She looked confused for a moment. I imagine that I did, too. Then she turned and began to carry her blouses toward one of the dressing rooms. She stopped after a few strides and turned to look at me. Her face was blank, but her gaze was intense. Then she continued to walk. I paused for a moment, then followed.

She entered a dressing room and closed the door. There was no one near us in the store. I walked up to her dressing room with my heart pounding, and tried the door. It was unlocked, and I went in and closed it behind me.

I turned to her, and she was silently facing me. She was wearing a classy gray suit, with a knee-length skirt. She reached out her hand. I extended my hand in return - for some odd reason, I thought she wanted to shake hands. But instead, she seized my wrist and brought it up under her skirt, placing my palm against her thigh. It was slick with her juices.

I looked up and met her eyes. She stared back, and bit her lip as my hand slowly moved up to her panties, which were a soggy mess. I moaned and her eyes widened. I began to massage her clit through the fabric - after twenty years, I still remembered how she likes it. I gave her just enough pressure to be provocative, not enough to satisfy her - making little circles around it, then moving from side to side, grazing it. She kept her eyes locked on mine.

Hannah leaned back against the wall and spread her thighs to give me more access, and I began to massage her clit a bit more aggressively. She stayed silent but her nostrils were flaring and her eyes were rolling up. Suddenly her body went rigid and she inhaled loudly, and her panties became much wetter. She held herself still for a long time, except for her thighs which were trembling. Then she slowly relaxed her muscles. We were staring into each other's eyes as she came. There was no kissing or caressing, just my hand on her crotch.

Finally Hannah dropped her gaze, and I followed it. She gathered up her skirt until it was bunched around her waist, and then slowly pulled her sodden panties down her thighs, making sure that I was watching. Her thighs were thick and supple, just the way I had imagined them. But as she pulled her panties down, she exposed a full growth of hair around her swollen pussy. This was a surprise. She had always shaved when she was young. Her full bush looked so hot, and I moaned again, causing her to smile for the first time.

She pulled the panties down, slowly and provocatively, then wiped them on my face and stuffed them in my mouth. Abruptly, she let her skirt fall, darted out the door and disappeared. I put the panties into my pocket, then hurried home to my bed and put them back in my mouth as I made myself cum.

For a solid month after that I regularly visited both the coffee shop and the big box store, hoping to encounter Hannah again. I knew that she was on the city council and that I could have tried to reach her there, but my feeling was that she would be upset with me, that any naughtiness must be kept entirely separate from her professional or family life. Thinking back to the days when the shoe was on the other foot, when I was the married one, that's the way I would have wanted it. So, I accepted my frustration and masturbated - a lot. The image of Hannah's hairy cunt, nestled between her thick thighs under that conservative dark gray skirt, haunted me and made my cock hard at awkward moments during the day, so that I would have to hurry to find a private place and take care of it.

Finally, in late March, my persistence paid off. I was sitting in the coffee shop, right under what appeared to be the weather-beaten figurehead from the bow of an antique sailing ship, when she appeared at my table. "Good afternoon, Andre," she said, as she took a ballpoint pen from her purse and wrote something on the napkin that sat next to my coffee. Then she smiled and told me to have a nice day, and walked out of the shop.

I picked up the napkin. It said only "hairywoman88" with the name of a popular messaging app. I took a moment to find the app and install it on my phone. I wasn't sure what to expect, but her choice of usernames got my hopes up. I registered an account under "HungryAndre7" and sent her a message saying simply, "hello."

I checked the app frequently and received a response the following day. It was a photo of Hannah's hand on her cunt, with her luscious clit protruding between her fingers. Her hair traveled up her belly almost to her navel, and crept down her thighs as well. I was in my office when I discovered her message, and I rushed to the bathroom where I stroked my cock until I came explosively. After I caught my breath, I took a few minutes to clean my cum off the wall, and then I considered my next move.

Hannah was not revealing much about her new life, her job, and her marriage. Was this because she was worried that I would stalk her? Or did she find it more erotic to have our interactions be exclusively sexual? I was curious about her life, but I liked the sexual stuff and I didn't want to jeopardize it. How should I respond to her photo message?

I thought about it during the following day, and when I got home that evening, I went upstairs and got naked. I reclined on my bed and propped my phone up between my legs so that my cock, which by now was rock hard, dominated the frame, but my face was visible in the background. I took a moment to revisit the exciting image of Hannah playing with her hairy cunt, then turned on the video recorder and began to stroke.

I could see myself on the camera screen, and the idea that Hannah would also see me was very arousing. I gave in to the feeling, moaning more and more loudly as I stroked my cock. I was moving my hips, fucking the camera, each thrust causing my cock to fill the screen. Suddenly I felt my orgasm approaching, and I picked up the phone, holding it above myself to capture the jets of cum landing all over my neck and torso. I played back the video, watching my face contort as I came, then sent it to Hannah with the messaging app.

Within a minute, there was a response. "That is so good." I realized that we were both on live, and I carefully considered my next message. I sent, "Your photo inspired me." Another 30 seconds went by, and then another message appeared, this time with another photo. Hannah had apparently placed the phone on the floor with the camera facing up, and then squatted above it to display her cunt. Her lips were parted and I could see that she was very wet. I texted back, "OMG I'm hard again." Her response was simply, "Good." Then she logged off.

I waited. Perhaps I was misreading her, but she seemed to want to be in control as we played our little game.

Monday afternoon she sent me a video. At first there was just a view of wall with some furniture to the side. Then Hannah walked into the frame, visible from the neck down. She was wearing a very elegant navy blue suit. She removed her jacket, folded it, and placed it on a chair. Then she slowly unbuttoned her crisply starched white blouse, adding it to the jacket on the chair. She was wearing a fancy cream-colored lace bra. She put her hands behind her neck, revealing that her armpits, too, were quite hairy. Then she removed her bra.

Her tits were spectacular. They used to be good when she was young, but they were bigger now, softer, and had a mysterious quality that I could could only describe as brazenly naughty. Her nipples were big and erect, sticking out a half inch or so, and her areolas were 3 or 4 inches wide. She advanced toward the camera so that her tits filled the screen.

Her fingers of one hand then came into view. They were coated in a thick, messy, transparent fluid that could only be pussy juice. She slowly painted one nipple, then the hand disappeared and reappeared with a fresh supply for nipple number two. Then the video ended. I rushed to the bathroom to masturbate.

The following day, a new message: "Saturday night my family thinks I am going to an awards ceremony. Can you get a motel?" I texted back "yes". She replied, "I recommend the Bay Shore Suites. Can we agree that this is a one-time thing?" I answered, "Yes. What time?" She texted, "5:30 PM."

I reserved a room at the Bay Shore Suites, and checked in with the surly octogenarian Yooper who was working behind the counter, shortly before 5:00 on Saturday. This was no 5-star hotel. It was rather on the seedy side. Maybe Hannah was going for some nostalgia here, since some of our rendezvous spots in the old days were, frankly, dumps. Or it could be that this was a security measure, the idea being that she was unlikely to be recognized as she furtively joined me. Or, maybe just the sleaziness of it excited her.

I sent her a message with the room number, then took off my shoes and sat on the bed. At precisely 5:30 there was a soft rapping at the door. I opened it and Hannah entered. I wasn't sure whether I ought to embrace her, so I decided I would let her take the lead. She closed the door behind her then stood facing me, letting me admire her. She was dressed to the nines: fur coat, or high quality faux fur; a satiny black cocktail dress that clung to her curves; pendant earrings with red gemstones and a matching necklace; and high heels. Acknowledging my admiration, she smiled and took a seat in a chair which clearly didn't deserve her.

She opened her handbag and extracted a small flask of Bushmills. "How have you been, Andre?" she asked.

"Good," I replied. "I've been busy with work, but I'm starting to get used to this town."

"It takes some getting used to, but I've been here 15 years and it has become home for me." She paused. "Andre, let me explain something." She spotted the rather undignified plastic cups on the TV table and got up to fetch them. As she poured the whiskey, she continued. "I've got a great marriage and it's really important to me, but after 20 years, the sex is pretty much gone. And after I hit menopause, I had really bad hot flashes, and my doctor set me up with hormone pellets that they embed in my hip every three or four months. They work well, but they send my libido through the roof. I masturbate constantly." She smiled at me - she could tell I was aroused by this, and she decided to escalate.

"I love to masturbate at work, sometimes in the ladies' room, sometimes right at my desk. I go to the bathroom in restaurants and make myself cum. And I do it while I drive." She was watching my face, which must have been flushed with excitement. She handed me a cup and we both drank deeply.

"I feel so naughty, and I have to act so straight-laced and proper at my job. So I let my pubic hair grow, so I can feel like a wild woman under all those fancy suits." She looked me in the eye. "Do you like my hairy cunt?" I looked right back at her. "Love it."

Hannah finished her drink and rose from her chair to announce, "I want to give you a better look at it." I smiled at her expectantly. She gestured to a relatively clean section of the carpet and said, "Lie down over here." I followed her instruction. She hesitated for a moment, then walked to the closet and carefully hung her fur coat on a hanger. Then she turned on all the lights she could find until it was quite bright in the room, and walked over to me.

She towered above me in her high heels, which she planted on either side of my head. Then slowly, slowly, she lowered herself to a squat over my face, gathering her slinky black dress up on her thighs as she spread them to show me. She was wearing a garter belt to hold up her sheer black stockings, and crotchless panties made of black lace that looked terrific with her outfit. Her cunt was on display; it was bigger with thicker lips than I remembered, swollen and gaping, and the smell was so arousing! She must have spent the car ride over to the motel thinking about what we used to do, back in the day, or perhaps imagining what we were about to do. There was hair escaping everywhere around the panties. I could see her looking down at me, watching my reaction as her fingers wandered down to her clit.

I reached up and put my hands on her hips. I wanted to pull her closer but her balance on those high heels looked precarious. She was rubbing her clit slowly and beginning to moan in a low, guttural voice. I yearned to have her in my mouth, but it was so hot watching her masturbate, and we had plenty of time. Her hips were moving now, and I used my hands to steady her, because she was teetering a little on her heels. I remember thinking that wearing her fancy clothes while being naughty was probably a kink for her.

The whole area around Hannah's pussy was glistening with her juices, and her hair was matted and gooey. Below her busy fingers, a slender rope of her thick cunt juice was slowly descending toward my mouth, and I extended my tongue eagerly. Hannah saw this and moaned, her eyes closing for a moment. Then she opened them and began to speak. "Andre?"

"Yes?"

"I think I'm gonna cum. Do you want me to cum?"

Her dripping cunt juice was within reach of my tongue now, and I groaned as I slurped it, then replied, "Yes baby! Cum for me!"

She slowed but intensified the thrusting of her hips, and I held them tight when she began to tremble as the spasms of pleasure shook her. She cried out, much louder than I remembered from when we were young. When she had finished, I scrambled out from between her legs and stripped off my pants. She stood there watching, and then allowed me to push her against a wall, where I hoisted her dress up around her waist, put my hands under her ass to lift her, and shoved my desperately hard cock through the opening in her panties into the molten heaven of her hairy cunt.

We fucked like lovers, with a familiar intimacy that seemed as fresh as when we were young. Everything was so hot, the feel of her stockinged legs against my skin, her expensive perfume mixing with the hot smell of her gushing pussy, the dirty words of encouragement she was growling as she rolled her hips to meet my thrusts. She was driving me crazier and crazier, and I gasped, "Do you want me to cum?"

She gasped back, "I want you to cum in my mouth," and she wriggled out of my embrace to drop to her knees. She swallowed my cock right up to the hilt. The pleasure was incredible, and I groaned as I fucked her face, loving each stroke but knowing that my orgasm was very, very close. Suddenly I was crying out as she swallowed spurt after spurt of my semen like a famished woman, making ecstatic sounds of satisfaction.