Emma Payton spent a whole evening thinking about what she'd done that afternoon with her friend's 23-year-old son. She'd expected it to feel wonderful, and it had, but for reasons that had never occurred to her. All the planning had centred on how much fun it would to have his face between her legs thinking his unknowing mother was working in the same room. She'd sniggered at the thought of Lewis being stuck under her desk, unable to do anything except maybe try to make her lose control, and as enjoyable as that had been, it wasn't even close to being the best part.
What she'd enjoyed most of all, and the thing she couldn't stop thinking about, was how it must have been for Lewis. He'd spent over three hours unable to see anything in the darkness under her desk with his head up her skirt, unable to hear whenever she'd squeezed her thighs around his ears, and completely unable to move any part of his body from the neck down. And that meant he'd experienced almost total sensory deprivation except for the aroma and taste of her aroused state.
She smirked with satisfaction at having resisted the temptation to shuffle her chair just a little further forwards, especially as his mother had left just after they'd both eaten lunch, and considered managing to prioritise the effect she was having on Lewis over the need to feel his tongue one of her finest achievements.
And then after four hours of quiet contemplation, her feelings of satisfaction turned to erotic arousal, and whatever self-control had been present that afternoon simply didn't exist. Emma Payton slid a hand inside the pair of shiny white panties she'd been wearing for most of the day, and within a minute was moaning in ecstasy at the thought of his pretty face going down there many more times.
Lewis Carter spent most of the same evening having similar thoughts to those of his mother's friend, but in his case there was empathy for some guilty feelings he only assumed she had from having him squashed under her desk when his mother returned from lunch unexpectedly early, and misguided sympathy for the frustrations she must have felt. It quite simply didn't cross his mind that she'd kept him squeezed into the small space under her desk for close to three hours because it turned her on instead of surrendering to the expert explorations of his tongue, the controlled slow nibbling of his teeth, and the sucking of his lips.
And later that evening, at almost exactly the same time as Emma Payton started to finger herself, Lewis's intense memories of the scent and taste of an aroused woman twice his age drove him so close to splurting in his pants that he had to undress at speed and practically sprint into the shower before he made a mess.
Three hours later, Lewis was lying in bed trying to think of anything except his mother's friends when his phone beeped. It was a text from Mrs P which read simply "We've been talking about you. Go for a run tomorrow at ten."
He spent all night trying, but failing to sleep, and trying, but failing to decide who the "we" might be, or what they wanted. All he knew for sure was that Mrs P had sent him a text, and although he had no idea why, his desire to put his face between her flabby, cellulite-mottled thighs was more intense than anything he'd felt for years.
Lewis Carter waited for his needless alarm to go off at nine the next morning, showered twice, spent what he knew was a completely pointless thirty minutes deciding what to wear, struggled to eat two slices of toast, said goodbye to his mother, left the house at exactly ten am, and started to jog slowly downhill just because he didn't want to get sweat on the seats of what he hoped would be Mrs P's car.
He'd only just got out of sight of his parents' house, when Emma Payton pulled along him with the passenger window already down, and said :"Get in". Lewis obediently sat down, closed the door, clicked the safety belt in place as the window closed, and tried to regulate his breathing as she accelerated towards the main road out of town.
Emma Payton had settled into cruise control when she finally turned her head ever-so-slightly towards Lewis and said, "I had a few thoughts about you last night, so we went out and discussed it over wine. We couldn't decide if you really are scared of some pervy pictures getting out, especially as Claire and Rachel were insistent that you liked posing for them. We wondered if you get excited at having secret.... um.... relations with women who are married to violent men, or if it's simply that you like being wanted and get a kick from how much we like you doing something that our husbands don't do any more, not without us having to something distasteful in return anyway. We've got very different opinions on what we ought to do, but we have agreed on one thing. We're not stopping anytime soon, and not only does having your pretty face between our legs make us all feel thirty years younger, you really are very very good at what you do when you're down there."
