Sweet T and Biscuits

This story has a precursor, Love sweet T.

*

Tracy, my new found and rather older lover was, I discovered rapidly, not simply a tease but one who enjoyed it. Each morning as Tracy said, "good morning" she slipped me a sealed envelope before walking down the platform to chat with her friend. I tore the first on open immediately. It read,

Dearest Sweetest David.

I am so looking forwards to you driving your hot rod in and out of my garage once more. You've missed a treat today, silly me I forgot to put any panties on. I remembered to roll my sheer black stockings up my legs and I did not forget my red suspenders, they have eight straps altogether and look just a little bit kinky. Then I got so distracted thinking of you whilst I fingered my hot wet slit that I had to rush and I simply forgot to put my little black lacy pants on. Now my bare botty will be wobbling about under my skirt all day long and I picked a shorter skirt than usual, to please you. I pray no one in the office notices.

Hope you are looking forwards to Sunday afternoon too.

Love Sweet T.

P.S. I hope no one is reading this over you shoulder.

I spun around in a panic but no one was there. I did, however, resolve to read any more notes from Tracy somewhere a little less public.

Wednesday's note was similar to Tuesdays, except that she told me how she had enjoyed a very long and satisfying session lying on the bed with one hand between her legs the other at her nipples pretending it was me; she describe the whole affair in the most minute of detail too.

Thursday's note was totally different. It was simply a Polaroid photo of her in an arm chair with her legs spread wide apart sitting there stark naked. I opened it at work and almost choked on my coffee. I spluttered so much that people came running and I had to hide the damn thing in a file rather rapidly.

Friday's note was curious, it read,

Dear little funny honey bunny-wunny David.

I hope you don't want to spend too much time rabbiting on Sunday, I want you exploring my burrow just as soon as you can. Despite the seasonal chill it's been very hot down there this week and it needs a good hosing out.

With that in mind you are forbidden to play with you little squirty toy because I want all your juices well and truly primed to pump on Sunday afternoon. In plain English no more wanking until I have had the pleasure of fondling your stiff shaft whilst I work my full red lips over that swollen purple helmet atop, making you wheeze with anticipation.

I cannot give you a note on Saturday so tomorrow you are to read all three of my little missives in sequence whilst you study my photograph, at least four times over. Each time you must think about what we are going to do to one another on Sunday afternoon, and every time you must come up with a different idea. Counting the seconds until I see you at two o'clock on Sunday. Be prompt.

Love Sweet T.

P.S. make plans for Sunday night too.

P.P.S. and think of something quick for Monday morning.

That week had crawled along, Saturday had been a torture but at last it was noon on Sunday and time to get ready. That day I took far more care over my appearance, which was ironic because we were going to undress one another just as soon as was polite and possibly sooner than that. With this in mind I: had a bath, washed my hair, had a shave and brushed my teeth, the latter twice over, all immediately before I dressed. The trouble came in the bath, with all that soap and a really stiff penis that was both positively screaming for attention and which had to be scrupulously clean; well I had to be very careful how I washed it amplifying my desires still further. I selected: freshly laundered blue Aertex cotton briefs which at least kept my erection pressed against my belly, plain black worsted wool trousers that sadly did little to hide my stiffened state, a pale blue pure cotton shirt and a black Barathea jacket; the reality was that it was my old school blazer but it still looked exceptionally smart and definitely not unfashionable, another miracle performed by our local dry cleaners. I stuck with the black leather brogue shoes, shined once more to perfection as my father had taught me to - I had resented his patient care and persistence bitterly at the time but I was truly grateful now - naturally I polished them before I took my bath.

I topped the whole assembly off with that Liberty print tie tied in a Double Windsor, it matched and indicated a certain

je ne sais quoi

; in fact, to this day, I don't know what message I was trying to send out with that particular choice of costume, it was indisputably very mixed up but absolutely screamed 'I'm really trying very hard indeed'. With hindsight, whatever it were, the message was an accurate one. Above all else I was desperate to impress Tracy.

That second Sunday Tracy trumped me, utterly blew may pathetic attempts at mature sophistication clear away. I was to discover that she was very good at that. 'Ding-dong ding-dong,' chimed her most classic of suburban bells, two o'clock on the dot. She opened the door on a security chain and peered through the gap cautiously. "Thank God. It is you, David! I'll just be a tick." Through the frosted glass I could see some kind of frenetic activity occurring and, as it dampened, she unclipped the chain and held the door open for me to squeeze through whilst she hid behind it.

It was not surprising that Tracy was behaving so oddly because, as she closed the door behind me she revealed that she was already stark naked. Oh! such well rounded breasts proudly holding their dark pink areolae and distended red teats aloft as if on parade. Such luscious buttocks, well rounded soft and sensual, little dimples just above the thighs and I noticed a small round brown mole half way down the left cheek almost hidden in the cleft of her bottom. Her faint blond down so obviously failing in its duty to conceal the pouting lips of her sex. And of course, best of all, that radiant smile that had first melted my heart and stiffened other places, directed at me like the beam of a spotlight. Tracy certainly knew how to grab the undivided attention of a man's penis; the only reason that mine was not fully erect was because in its haste to inflate it had not only managed to tangle itself up in my underpants but to achieve this in a manner that was actually painful.

"Gosh," I exhaled, practically speechless with shock and also trying desperately not to wince as I wriggled and writhed in an attempt to untangle myself. Tracy's smile turned into a quickly suppressed giggle. At that instant she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, even though she was at least forty and I just twenty five; she was a true mature beauty with a curvaceous, rather than fat, and very sexy body.

I had imagined all manner of polite dissemination with this voluptuous creature, rehearsed a couple of all too cheesy openings and rejected them as too

gauche

. Then decided that I would just have to look cool, in truth I knew that before anything actually happened older, wiser and far far naughtier Tracy would take control but I had never even considered anything quite so bold and direct as this. To hide my confusion I removed my shoes; I remembered that Tracy had a thing about that.

"I thought I'd save us some time but then I realised we had loads. of it. So, I decided that for the first two hours I would only permit you to look. As a consequence you are absolutely banned from touching me before four o'clock," her grin was one of the most evil things I had seen in a long time, Carroll's Cheshire cat would have been consumed with jealousy.

"OK, I agree to your terms but under a single proviso, when you sit you have to keep your knees and thighs well apart."

"Naughty," Tracy replied, nodding her affirmation enthusiastically with obvious approval, and she headed for the kitchen to make some tea, her naked buttocks wobbling sexily, the two orbs rubbed gently against one another as she walked. "Go on through to the lounge," she called over her shoulder, "you look like someone who needs a moment to themselves to sort out their wedding tackle. I blushed - I really hated how simple she found it to extract a blush from me - had I really made it that obvious that she had entangled my manhood with my briefs so very uncomfortably?

Once were settled in the front room she began to tease. "I've been experimenting, watch! When I hook a leg over one arm of the chair, if I really stretch," and she gave a little grunt of effort, "I can just hook my other leg over the other arm." Of course this left her sex totally exposed presenting a perfect view of the full length of her crinkly lips, some of the crack of her bottom and, rudest of all, offering a glimpse of her tight little bum hole. What's more her fine blond down did nothing to occlude this lascivious display. "Now I thought you could get your own biscuit today," and instead of biting into her ginger snap she delicately parted the lips of her sex, displaying briefly the deep pink within, and allowed them to close upon it and as consequence hold it suspended along her crack. "Come and get it and remember no touching! In fact, to make it even more interesting for you, when you take your ginger snap you're only allowed to use your teeth." She really knew how to pile the pressure on.

In order to demonstrate that I had understood my place I crawled across to her upon all fours, trying to exhibit the spirit of a playful puppy rather than that of an obedient dog. I knelt before her and carefully shuffled forwards on my knees, twisting my head so I could bite down gently on the edge of the round biscuit. Of course I had a splendid close up view of her pussy which was already quite moist and issuing that distinctive odour of sensuous feminine carnality. Tracy certainly knew how to tease an already desperate man. Whilst we drank our tea she adopted a range of extravagant poses every one of which, true to her pledge, left her sitting with her legs spread akimbo.

She poured second cups. This involved an inordinate amount of standing up and keeping her legs straight, forcing her to bend forwards to reach the low coffee table. In its turn this meant that she had to lean forwards causing her ample breasts to dangle down and sway hypnotically. Tracy is the most dreadful tease, at one point she 'carelessly' allowed the tight red teat of one of her nipples to dip itself in the milk jug. When she stood up a large drop of milk dangled from its tip. "Don't you just wish you were allowed to come over and suckle on that, babykins?"

Her poses became ever more wanton, when she placed her hands on her knees and then kept opening and closing her legs my poor tool throbbed so much that I was seriously worried that I might actually come. But Tracey was no where near done with me yet. She still had a whole routine to go through. A performance that commenced with her kneeling on the seat with her back to me. Now she really was showing off her delightful bum; I remembered the end of our first night together, how intensely arousing I had discovered watching myself shafting her doggy style to be. At that point I really had trouble in controlling myself, I felt my balls lift and my seed gather. How I wanted to spear her from the rear, to slip my aching cock between her lips and thrust it down her silky smooth purse. I could already hear it slurp and gurgle as I slid in and out.

Tracy rounded off her little display by sitting facing me once more and then rolling back in the seat, raising her legs until she could grab her own ankles and then spreading her legs as far apart as she could manage. Posed like she offered me the perfect view of the full length of her intimate gash, from her clitoral hood already only half covering her little bud, all the way down her long slit to the top of her bottom. Even then she was not quite finished with me, she released her ankles reached round her thighs and pulled her sex and buttocks apart, just as wide as she could. True, this left nothing to the imagination but to a man already tortured with lust it was an unbelievably sexy and very desirable sight. Tracy's clitoris was reddened and prominent, her lips swollen and slick with juices, you could even see the little mound that I knew she must pee from. Her private tunnel, a darker pink than the surrounding flesh, a pink which descended to an welcoming darkness was open and inviting.

"Crawl across little puppy," she cooed, "take a closer look, perhaps have a sniff, tell me if everything is sweet."

"You're killing me," I protested as I scurried across her pale Berber carpet. "Don't you want me to lick that sexy slit?"

"Oh yes, I most certainly do but not yet. I want to see you suffer, I want to revel in your agony; I'm surprised that your tongue isn't lolling between you jaws, your expression says it ought to be. Now how much would you like to ream that deep dark shaft of mine with that engorged bore of yours?" Her crude allusion set my penis all atwitch again.

As I came closer I could see just how moist Tracy was already. Glistening white cream was pooling between the smooth and unexpectedly shiny walls of that most intimate of tunnels, skeins of mucus criss-crossing its entrance. When she sat up I knew that puddle of moisture would ooze out, dribbling languorously down her perineum and clinging to the crinkles of her anus. That too was on full display, puckered and crimpled; again a darker pink than its surrounds, a pink that in places almost tended to purple. The mole I had noticed earlier was revealed to be one of a pair, its partner lying right in the centre of her buttocks. Her pussy reeked of impending sex and her anus had no odour at all.

"Shall I tell you a naughty little secret?" she whispered, "but you have to promise not to be too mean with it."

"You can tell me your secret but I will promise you no such thing. It sounds to me as if it were a delicious secret that should be exploited to its maximum potential."

"I'll regret this later, you're going to make me wish that I had never told you, I just know that you will, but alright. First you must lick and suck my pussy until the juices dribble copiously down the crack of my sex and I am all but coming. Then if you lick that little strip of flesh between the two holes it drives me crazy. It's unbearably pleasurable but does not quite bring me to a climax."

"I'll try it today," I chuckled, "it can be my revenge for all your wicked teasing and taunting and I'll be just as mean as I possibly can be. "Imagine pretty sweet T, pretend that right at this moment I am licking it: up and down, up and down, over and over again," she closed her eyes and a strange smile played over her lips. "Now, imagine I break off and swirl my tongue around that pretty little clit of yours, just once, and then resume licking that strip."

She shuddered and her sex pulsed making bubbles of its own outpourings. "You wouldn't!"

"I would. Not once but over and over again."

For a second time she shuddered, "Oh my God David, you're such a nice young man you really would not be so mean to an old woman."

"Oh but I would to one who's so worldly wise she deserves it and I am going to, later you will beg me to shaft you, plead with me to saddle you up and ride you long and hard and you'd better invent some new swear words too. Because, once I do break off from tormenting your sweet sex and pound you mercilessly you'll realise that 'fuck' and 'cunt' are no longer sufficient for your needs."

"You're a mean pig," she sighed quietly, her breathing ragged with anticipation. Her upper chest and neck flushed, her pussy emitted a series of tiny but distinct 'phupts' and 'parps', her little puckered anus began to twitch gently. "Oh my God," she cried. "Oh," she wailed out in frustration, possibly even anger. To my immense glee I realised that she had just failed to achieve an orgasm. She was just as randy as I and perhaps, at that instant, the more desperate of us two.

She rolled forwards, sat up and waved a figure in admonishment, "oh no buster. You have to wait and," spoken mournfully, "sadly, so must I. To pass the time we had better do something a bit less stimulating but just as exciting. We'll write a naughty story together:" Well wherever do you imagine that this script came from? We migrated to her dining room and she unearthed pen and foolscap paper from the bottom drawer of her huge dark walnut sideboard.

I sat and commenced to relate the days activities thus far, writing them laboriously in long hand and, at Tracy's insistence, double spaced; she peered over my shoulder, her pendulous bosoms not quite brushing against it. At this juncture I discovered a whole new side to Tracy. When we talked, or even simply sat in silence, we were completely relaxed and wholly at ease with one another, cosy and warm. I think that, that sense of mutual empathy was what had attracted us to one another initially. When we made love she was pure carnivore: sometimes the ravenous aggressor dragging down prey, otherwise, the tender mother nurturing her dependants. She was certainly intent on educating, or more likely perverting, this particular cub into her own devious pursuits and practices. When I wrote she transformed into a pedantic, nitpicking tyrant.

"It's an 's' not a 'z', dolt; we are writing in English. We are not writing in North American, nor Australian, nor the dialect of some other former colony; we are employing our own Queen's English! Don't you understand the most simple of things. For God's sakes where's your grammar? Phut!" spat out contemptuously, making her nipples jiggle deliciously. "You claim to have attended a Grammar school, did they actually teach you any grammar? A full list is preceded by a full colon and every item in the list made distinct by a comma, you are quite hopeless." She stalked around the table her buttocks swaying provocatively and then stabbed a finger at the script, "what ever are these dash thingies all about?" said very accusingly

"Please miss..."

"It's not miss. It's misses; misses Stern."

'A likely story,' thought I, but I did get the point; I had seen her post and there she was Tracy Billington, Ms. Tracy N. Billington. Yet sensitive to the context I responded with an obedient, "yes Mrs. Stern. Please Mrs. Stern, dashes are used extensively by many of our literary giants: Hardy, Austin and Charlotte Bronte all used them. In 'a dance to the music of time,' mister Powell uses them like parenthesis and they look so much more elegant. Mr Huxley uses them throughout 'Grey Eminence' to similar effect, Mr. Priestley employs them extensively. In 'the turn of the screw' Mr. James appears to have been addicted to them."

"And you aspire to such literary brilliance?"

"Yes Mrs. Stern, I won't achieve it but even you cannot prevent me aspiring!"

She smirked, openly, "true and yes," she shook a shoulder making her breasts wobble and bobble one another, resonantly.

Then I remembered that she was a legal secretary and realised that she might be slightly obsessive about conveying meaning precisely. But over and above these corrections she occasionally removed, but in the main added, commas and semi-colons. This I found odd at first because, full stops aside, I knew that punctuation is normally eschewed in legal documents. "Please Mrs. Stern, why all these commas?"

"Because, you raving ignoramus, whilst some may find they disrupt the flow a little, for the more discerning they permit the addition of a subtlety of meaning that would, otherwise, prove impossible. Nuance you numbskull, nuance."

I acted crushed, "sorry Mrs. Stern."

"You ought to be and you will be." English had never been such fun but then my English masters, Messrs Green and Ellis, would not have looked so tempting if they had pranced about in the nude; repugnant in fact. Mrs. Stern chided me for every little mistake and every time found some new insult to hurl at me, dumb clod, incredible imbecile, birdbrained twit, nitwit. But at the end of each outburst she marched around the table, head held high causing her fleshy parts to dance dimple and quiver in ways that kept my manhood as stiff as a poker. This did not help my concentration at all.