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The Story of M
M was a college professor. We met one day when I was shopping. I saw this big woman in her mid-30s, wearing a wheat-and-silk ensemble, very bureau, striding slowly behind a shopping cart in the fruit and vegetable section of this big downtown supermarket. It was early afternoon, and I had come in for a bottled shake they carried. Her eyes met mine briefly. She wore large dark-rimmed glasses, and had straight, glossy mahogany hair in a long pageboy that came to her shoulders. I looked away. I found her at first glance imposing.
She walked off to the melons and bananas section, and I glanced after her. An athlete, aging, now successfully in the professions, so I thought. Something about her was, well, authoritative. I caught her glancing my way again and fixing her earring. I could swear her earrings were electronic and beamed signals at me. I caught a glimpse of reddish gold—she liked to dress well. I liked the crisp way the cuffs of her light-custard blouse extended past the sleeves of her wheat-colored jacket, revealing soft, big hands with gold rings.
I nodded, smiled, and picked out a red delicious apple to add to my lunch. The walk to the cooler took me directly through her line of sight, and she smiled at me and the apple. That was the moment when my sensor went off, and I said "Hi." She said "Hi," and stood behind the melons with her hands on a big one.
"Those look good," I said.
She looked down at herself and laughed. Neither of us dared repeat the faux pas: Your melons look good. Or, you have some nice looking melons there. When people flirt, it doesn't matter what they say. What matters is how they say it—their tone, their body language. I made some dumb remark about an apple keeping the doctor away. Maybe subliminally I had already known I would be talking with her and needing a prop. I'll skip the conversation, summarizing thus:
She taught History classes on certain mornings and evenings at the U, and was on her way home to prepare lunch for her teenage children, a boy and girl of high school age. I told her I was on my lunch break (true; I was employed selling watches at a jewelry store in the mall); that I was a graduate student (partly true, since I planned eventually to complete my Master's); and that I liked History (true; I read voluminously). She lowered those heavy glasses down her nose a trifle and asked me with a trace of supercilious amusement (as a test) "Have you had a chance to consider the similarity of our current national leader with Louis Napoleon?"
"You must mean during the Second Empire, as Napoleon III."
"Very astute. I meant from his contested election as President of the Republic in 1848 on the strength of conservative rural voters, versus the more progressive urban voters who hated him."
"Right, and then he declared the Republic finis in 1852, and made himself Emperor of the Second Empire. He made a total mess of things, in the end declaring war on the Germans, getting defeated in a matter of weeks, and actually being captured while sitting in his tent."
"Bravo. You should major in History."
"Thank you. Actually he was dying of cancer, and maybe he was committing suicide by Kaiser."
"An interesting hypothesis." Her cell phone warbled. "Excuse me." She spoke with someone, grew agitated, looked right and left and threw her arm up as she folded the phone away. "My son. He called to inform me that he is going to a friend's house, and my daughter is at cheerleading practice. Then why am I here trying to put a meal together."
"Because you are a mother."
"Thank you. Someone acknowledges my secret life."
"If you'd like, we could have coffee and a little lunch."
She looked at me thoughtfully. "I—"
"Sorry, I don't mean to seem pushy. I thought we could talk some more about Napoleon over a pair of Napoleons."
"Oh, the pastry," she said. "You have a good sense of humor." She looked down at her cart, which had a few things in it. "I guess I won't need to finish shopping then." She bit her tongue. "I can't just leave the cart, and I'm too lazy to put these things back. Oh hell, why don't you come home and I'll fix you lunch? Lunch for two, would that suit you?"
"If I'm not intruding."
"Not at all. I'm a single mother, and you look like you need a good meal."
There it was again—the gauntness thing, which apparently made me look sickly and needy, while also making me look very attractive. I ducked into a corner and cellphoned the store, saying I was having a personal emergency and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. The owner informed me it was my third absence in two weeks, and I should either come in or not bother ever returning. I said okay, which he took to mean I was coming back to his blasted store, and asked to be transferred to the bookkeeper. I asked the lady what address she had on file, and she read it to me. I said: "That's correct. You can send my check there." That's what it meant to be 23, in my shoes, caroming among the bumpers of life without a care in the world. I had a hot meal, a nice looking lady professor, and a ride home. What more could a guy ask for?
M was actually a very good looking woman. She needed the glasses to teach, and to select melons, but not to drive. When she took the glasses off, I saw a handsome, lightly tanned woman who (I found out) had played tennis, volleyball, and soccer during her undergraduate years. She was entirely of German extraction from the Midwest. "I moved here to escape Small Town Syndrome."
"What's that?"
"STS? You'd have to experience it. Remember what you said about the rural folks voting for Napoleon? They would vote for a horse thief if he promised them fundamentalism, the death penalty, and no more weird looking people of other skin tones allowed in town."
"I'm glad we think alike," I said. "You don't have to tell me any more about STS."
"Sorry, I don't want to spoil your lunch." She had blue eyes, a strong jaw and chin, a Romanesque nose, and an articulate mouth with wide, sort of thin lips that, if I didn't already know her better, one would expect to frown easily. Not that she didn't frown in her political outspokenness, but she knew how to turn it off. It came in waves—the sense that she was an imposing woman, this Doctor or Professor M. I was comfortable with her, sensing that she was a soft touch inside. She said: "In case you are wondering, I am divorced. There is no Mr. M."
"I'm sorry to hear it." I was not sorry. I was glad. It made everything so much simpler. I looked at her and noticed that those intelligent blue eyes, under that high forehead, were making rapid calculations. I let her work it all out. We drove down a street of very imposing houses. Apparently professors lived quite well. "My ex is a surgeon," she said. "Am I reading your mind?"
"Quite." I grinned.
She took me into this air conditioned suburban villa in which everything gleamed and was new, except certain things that had been purchased as antiques like the carved Chinese ivory on the marble mantelpiece, or the cracked wooden window shades from Old Mexico that now served as wall ornaments. She fixed a light lunch—tuna salad on toast, accompanied by a tossed salad and iced tea. We talked, and got along quite well. As we got more cozy, at one point we impulsively started holding hands. "I hope you don't feel somehow—?"
"Oh no," I said. "I feel as if I have known you for years." I brought her hand to my mouth and kissed it. She smiled. "That's very gentlemanly." She cleaned up. "The silence sometimes bothers me. I feel empty nest syndrome coming on."
"Oh no, first STS, and now ENS."
"I'm just a psychological crater."
"You must have started young."
"Yes. My older one is 16, and I had him when I was 19. My ex and I ran away and got married during college. It was a dumb thing to do, but we stayed in love for quite a long time, and we both love our kids. He left me for a younger woman, but he provides well for us."
"Sounds rather classic," I said. I was sitting at a kitchen island, sipping my iced tea as she quickly and efficiently cleaned up. "Want to go in the hot tub?"
"Sure."
"Sit and rest for a bit. Let lunch settle. I'll go get some towels and trunks. Okay?" I wondered what her kids would say if they walked in. She seemed to read my mind again. "I have students over all the time, so nobody is going to raise an eyebrow."
I sat and watched the news for some time, until she came from the dark nether regions of the house carrying a basket with towels and keys and swim trunks in it. She said: "These are for you. They should fit." I put them on in the bathroom. Her ex had been more solid in the waist, and I had to cinch the drawstring tighter. "You look great in those," she said as I emerged.
At the back door, she reached into a shadowy alcove high up and took down a key ring with a brass plate two inches long, and several small brass keys on it. I followed her out the door, past their large pool, around a corner, through a neighbor's yard, and into a third yard beyond. There was another pool, big as hers. Same layout. "My girl friend, who is also divorced, lives here. We swapped keys long ago, and promised to keep it secret from our kids. Nobody will surprise us, because she and her kids are out of town."
M and I dove into the pool and swam around. The sun shone hard on the glittering water, and we were shielded by woven rattan fence covers all around. I began to appreciate M better now that she was practically nude except for a dark blue bikini that left little to the imagination.
She was, as I have said, an imposing, big, athletic woman. If there was much fat on her, it didn't show. She had early wrinkles around the eyes and mouth because of too much sun exposure—but nothing too drastic yet. She was as tall as I, and had shapely but heavy legs and a thicker waist from long-ago child bearing and perhaps a few quarts of ice cream to many. Or Napoleons. She was voluptuous and busty. As we played in the water, she felt chilly and slippery. We splashed around until we go a little tired and chilly. By now, we were touching each other lightly and innocently—I carried her down the length of the pool, with the water making her buoyant.
She squealed and held her nose as the water got deeper and we sank into its greenish depths. I ran across the pool floor in big bounding leaps, and just made it to the wall before we had to surface and cling together gasping. There, she kissed me. "I hope you understand," she whispered. She put her arms around my neck and held her face close to mine. "I am on the go a lot and this afternoon is a tiny niche of time I could carve out for myself. I think you are a sweet guy, and I would like to see you again. I want to make the most of this afternoon." She ran out of words and, mortified, lowered her head so her forehead rested on my chest and I couldn't see her face.
I put my finger under her chin and gently lifted. Her eyes rose hopefully and gazed into mine. "I understand, and I look forward to dating you a bit. Look, it's a little backwards, but can I take you to a movie this week?"
"You mean it?" She wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck.
"Absolutely. We keep it light and see where it goes, okay?"
"I like that." She pecked at my lips, my cheeks, my forehead with her lips. "I was worried that you might expect too much, too fast."
I shook my head. "I believe in lots of breathing room."
"That's really nice." She pulled my head closer and met my lips with a French kiss. This was the unveiling, the first contact, the opening of the first door. It was a wonderful moment of acceptance and trust. I really enjoyed standing there, as we were, with this magnificent woman wrapped around me. It was a moment for me, privately, that culminated a little hope that had stirred in me, maybe as early as when I picked that apple to tempt her with, so to speak. I had an apple and she had melons.
She had this amplitude about her. As I held her big thighs in my hands, caressed her full waist, and just brushed the edges of her heavy breasts, I thought to myself—this woman is a trophy. I know it sounds silly that a poor young student would think such thoughts, but she truly was a prize. Her ex had married her as an inexperienced young beauty, and now I held her as a magnificent, matured, sophisticated woman. She had awed me and intimidated me from the first, and I was still overwhelmed by her whole enchilada—her looks, her self-assurance, her brilliance, her success in life. I was not intimidated by her intellect—I enjoyed it. Had she overwhelmed me in that department, I would have written it off as a teacher/student thing. She had every right to be smarter than I. Actually, I didn't care.
"Let's warm up in the hot tub," she suggested after ten minutes of hungry, delighted French kissing and petting. She led me out of the pool and into a small side building enclosed in frosted glass. The glass was steamed up, and the air smelled of pool chlorine. She explained: "They circulate pool water through here, but heat it on the way in." We sat on the edge of the sunken, pool-like four seat Jacuzzi for a while, resuming our kissing and petting.
She had us climb in and relax in the warm water. After about ten minutes, the tub shut off automatically as it was supposed to. We showered, still wearing our bathing suits. M managed to be modest and hide behind the shower curtain to peel her wet trunks off and get into a long, plain jeans dress and T-shirt that she'd brought in the basket. "I'm sorry I forgot to bring your clothes," she said. "Do you mind wearing a towel?" She handed me an enormous, fluffy white terry towel that I put on somewhat like a toga. M led me into the house. Same prosperous interior, expensive décor, tasteful colors and textures and objects.
We stopped in the kitchen. "I'm going to fix us margaritas, if that's okay with you," she said. Margaritas were fine with me. As she fussed at her neighbor's counters, moving from sink to fridge and back and forth, I could stand the temptation no longer and embraced her from behind. "That feels so nice," she said. "I'm glad you are a mellow kind of guy. I was going to say mellow lover, but we aren't quite there yet, are we?"
"We are getting close," I said as I hugged her. I enjoyed the softness of her back with its swimmer's lard on the shoulder blades. I enjoyed the fullness of her ravaged stomach that jutted out slightly into my hands.
"I was afraid you would think I am too old for you." She paused in her busy activities and leaned on the dark marble counter top near the sink as if finally slowing down with her life and waiting for me to take control.
"No. I think you are a trophy wife. You were beautiful as a young girl when he married you, and you are still breathtaking." I held her from behind, feeling her big buttocks against my hardness. She stood facing away from me with her hands on the counter and looked over her shoulder.
"Thank you for saying that. I imagine you say things like that to all the girls you seduce, Peter."
"I only speak the truth from my heart."
"You make me feel very sexy, and that is really nice."
"Tell me what sexy means to you." "Honestly?" She looked scared.
"Honestly."
She swallowed hard, then started in a husky and raspy voice. She gained courage and conviction as she spoke. "I move around all the time. It's rare for me to stand still like this. When I'm moving around fixing lunches or teaching students, I sometimes daydream a little. Especially in class, when it's hot, and I'm looking at some exceptionally handsome young studs. I get horny, Peter. Is that bad?"
"No."
"Is it bad that I don't date much and don't have time to get involved with someone nice?"
"It's not bad, M. It's good that you have these thoughts."
"Sometimes, I just have this silly stray daydream that someone, a handsome guy like yourself, is waiting for me at home. Or he is looking up my dress. He—" She dropped her forehead on her folded hands in that mortified attitude again.
"Let me help you finish that daydream," I said.
Recovering her poise, she confessed: "It's a fantasy about being played with under my dress by someone standing behind me while I go about my business as if nothing were going on. Maybe it's someone lying behind the podium as I give my lecture, and that someone is looking up my dress. I'm not wearing any underpanties, and he is fascinated by my labia and starts playing with them."
I stroked her and murmured, continuing her train of thought: "You are teaching your class, or you are moving around in your kitchen, and you aren't wearing any underwear. For some reason today, you forgot to put on underpants. But people never do anything by accident. You were thinking that some guy, like me, would notice how beautiful and sexy you look."
She moaned slightly as I embraced her, as I moved my hands up and cupped her breasts. She put her hands over mine and rubbed her breasts with my hands. They were full, firm breasts still hidden from me. They were big but in proportion, not exaggerated melons. These were real industrial working tits that had suckled two robust children. This woman was German and a professor and a big one at that. I could feel her huge nipples now. My dick pressed against the back of her jeans dress as I felt those nipple plums turn into prunes between my fingers. "Keep saying these things to me," she said.
"You dream of having someone behind you, fingering you under your dress. That's what you hoped for when you came to the lecture hall without underwear." I reached under her dress, so that the heavy denim material gathered on my forearm, and explored upward. My hands encountered the hams of her thighs, and my fingers explored further until they found the dry fault line between her legs. "The problem now," I whispered into her ear as I leaned my chin by her neck, "is that you have forgotten how to really turn on. You have this guy who is fingering your pussy, but your pussy is all dry." She whimpered, and I diddled the dry pussy top with my fingertips. "You have a lot of wet pussy juice in there, but we need to wake your pussy up. Your pussy is asleep down there because nobody has paid any attention to it in such a long time. Do you not play with it at all?"
She reached with one arm over her shoulder and spread her hand against the back of my head. She leaned her head back so that we were cheek to cheek. She said: "Oh yes, I do when I am not too tired." Her voice got that tremulous fantasy tone to it, which assured me she was getting turned on.
"Will you show me later?"
"Oh yes, I will gladly show you."
"Maybe we can do it together."
"Oh yes, we can do it together."
"For now, though, darling, I want us to focus on how you are getting horny under this wonderful dress. That's the fantasy we are doing right now. You are in a kitchen, making margaritas, and someone is fucking your cunt from underneath, right under your dress."
"I find it so hard to believe," she cried.
I lifted her dress, dropped my towel, and slid my cock up into that pussy of hers. It wasn't dry anymore. When my head touched those dry labia, those lips sprouted wetness and grew slippery in a second. My erect cock slipped up into that glorious hole of hers. I had not planned to move this quickly, but she was an emergency in progress. Lights and sirens. Fucking a big woman like this was sweet. Your cock slid into this warm, wet cave. There were two ways of looking at it. She was big, and her cunt was a little loose, but she had meaty thighs that could crush my cock into a tight tube.
"Are you inside of me?"
"Oh yes, but not for long, baby. I just wanted to show you how hot I am for you."
"Oh God." She almost cried, I think, as she gripped the counter again.
I didn't want to shoot yet, so I backed out. I sent my fingers up there instead. By now, she was a dripping mess. I could insert four fingers sideways halfway up her snatch. "Make the margaritas," I said. She started to protest, but I told her: "Baby, this is your fantasy. Someone is finger-fucking your wonderful pussy while you are going about your business. Make the margaritas." So she obediently went about the normal motions of making these drinks, while wearing her jeans dress, and having my fingers up her cunt. I felt a bit like a puppet master. "This is good for you," I said. "This is going to reinforce in your mind that getting fucked is a wonderful thing. In all of your duties and obligations, you have no doubt forgotten the pleasure of having a man enjoy your body."
She moved about as best she could, throwing ice in the mixer, pouring tequila, cutting up limes. All the while, I had one or more fingers up her hole. She surprised me by saying through gritted teeth: "I'm going to come soon."
I felt the flutters in her cunt. "Then come, baby, do it all over my hand."
"It may be wet."
"Are you going to ejaculate, baby?"
"Oh Peter, do you know about that? I would be so mortified if you didn't."
"I know all about it, M. I want you to feel free and cut loose."
"Then you understand?"
"Yes, M. Let it go." Female ejaculation, which relatively few women know they can do, consists of releasing juice from an organ inside the front of the vagina. In some women it's a foamy froth. In others it is a spray of clear liquid. If it's yellow it is not ejaculate, but urine—she gets so excited she loses her bladder, and squirts pee in your face. M knew what was coming.
As she moved around the kitchen with my hand between her heavy buttocks, she grew aroused to a resounding climax. I felt her begin shuddering and quaking as she struggled with her margarita procedure. She laughed uproariously: "This would really be so much easier without the good fucking sex, but don't stop now." Then her eyes rolled up and fluttered. I was diddling M's long slit fast, when she started to shudder and tremble. Her pussy stiffened and tightened around my fingers as she started to come.
All at once, she sprayed—I felt her clear, warm ejaculate on my hand. I lifted her dress so that her solid thighs and buttocks were visible. She leaned forward over the counter, thus raising her behind, to oblige me with an easier look. I saw that her softness had closed up on itself, but the wiggly line where her lips met was soaked with a whitish, foaming liquid. I had seen this foaming in a girl I knew, who didn't understand why her cunt produced foam when she was aroused. It was part of her ejaculate, I was sure.
"You like what you see?" she asked.
"It is beautiful. High art. This is what should hang in art galleries. There would be no more wars. People would beat their swords into plowshares as they beat their meat."
She giggled. "With your humor I could easily flip and start thinking I look silly like this."
"Oh no," I said fervently, "I am just about to start licking you."
As I licked her, she murmured her own self-arousal, while massaging her breasts. In fact, as I shifted position at one point, I saw that she had opened the top of her dress and pulled both breasts forward so that they rested on her forearm while she sucked them by turns. She murmured: "You did it for me, Peter, you made my fantasy come true about being played with under my dress by someone under me or behind me while I went about my business as if nothing were going on."
I turned my attentions back to her big ass, slapping it gently and rubbing it, admiring its creases and curves, and then licking open her lips to taste and smell the juice. The edges still smelled cleanly of chlorine and salt. I licked until I noticed that her clitoral hood was spreading, and the pink bud was pushing its way forward. I gave it a few licks to see how sensitive my love partner was, and she squirmed and gave a tiny animal cry of discomfort.
So I eased up and ran the tip of my tongue around and around the 'little girl' and that made the big girl groan with growing satisfaction. She started leaking tiny suds again, and I wasn't sure if this come was new or still in her from a short while ago. Or maybe she had been continually pumping this stuff out from the pores in her tunnel.
"Come into me, baby," she said over her back. "Come with me. I'm coming again. I think this is going to be the big one. Please, baby, please, put it in."
Her legs were long, her ass high, and I had to hook a little wooden footstool over and stand on it. She was foaming as I pushed my head into that slick tunnel. I grabbed her glorious hips, just under her thick, hanging belly, and pulled her against me. I slammed her bouncing fleshy behind against my hard thighs so that the kitchen filled with slapping and slamming noises. Her cunt gurgled and popped as my cock-head formed and broke a vacuum in her tunnel several times. It sounded also like a fish breaking the surface of its pond, coming up for food or just to look around in curiosity. M was moaning continuously now and unable to lean over and suck her nipples. Her cries rose in pitch, and she pleaded with me to hit her harder, though I was at the height of my strength and didn't want to bruise her. Slamming steadily like that, we headed for orgasm together. She let out the first of a deep, throaty yells, "oh!" or "aw!" and hearing her pushed me over he edge. I shouted, and my shout propelled her to shout more vehemently. For the next minute or two, we filled the kitchen not only with the slamming of our flesh, but also with those interlocking shouts as we were each overcome by our own passion and the other's. My penis and testicles were soaked as her ejaculate gushed out.
She rested belly down on the counter with her naked tits and nipples crushed between her arms and face. I breathlessly clung to her as long as I could, until my beaten and exhausted member slipped out of her and sat shriveled on top of my scrotum like a little howitzer. Bending down to give each of her buttocks at least a dozen kisses, I watched her cunt dribble a combination of my come and her come. I watched the flow alternate with a yellow trickle, and opened her labia for a look. Sure enough. "Honey," I said, "you are dribbling piss on the floor." I looked down at the soaked footstool and the puddle gathering around my feet on the linoleum tiles. "It's not a lot, but there is a puddle growing here." She had become so overwhelmed that she'd also lost control of her pee-sphincter.
"I don't care," she gasped. "I'll mop it up before we leave." So saying, as she continued to lean over the counter top, her hole gooshed. A yellow arc appeared in the air, and the floor splattered merrily. "It's sterile," she gasped, "so it's not doing any harm. I just don't care right now. When I'm done, will you put your dick in me just once more."
"Sure." I stepped up and rubbed myself stiff again. As I did so, she squirted a few times. I didn't care enough to get out of the way. I felt the warmth of her golden shower on my belly and groin, then running down my legs and over my feet. It wasn't a bad feeling, and the frankness and honesty of that action made my fish erect again as it jumped upstream into her waiting cleft. We rested like that for a good ten or fifteen minutes before leaving the scene.
She wanted to get into high gear, clean the floor, lock the house, all that busy stuff, but I convinced her to give herself one more hour of rest on this wonderful day of freedom. So we went back to the shower, rinsed, and lay on the warm, moist Jacuzzi room floor. While the green water near us steamed and bubbled, we nestled together and kissed. We both fell asleep for a while. Languidly, I got on top of her and kissed her when I woke. My dick found her hole and crawled in without hand-help. I enjoyed feeling the cushion of her stomach under my body. When we rolled over and she straddled me with me still inside her, she closed her eyes and visibly enjoyed the feel of me under her. It was I who whispered in her ear: "Please, let's do this again."
"As often as you want," she said and surprised me by jamming her tongue in my ear and reaming it while breathing hard. She switched positions and started licking, gobbling, hungrily nibbling at my dick and balls. She crawled down and sucked on my ball sac. She pushed under it and licked my asshole. She pushed my thigh out of the way so she could get her face in between the cheeks of my ass. I felt her tongue mauling my sphincter as she tongue-fucked my asshole.
With one hand she rubbed my nipples as she reamed me. Her butt was next to me, and I worked my fingers into her asshole. She uttered a mouthful-little cry of passion as I got her sphincter to relax and played in there.
All this happened with total spontaneity. I held her big muscular strong ass with both hands, as I shifted around and plunged my rod into her asshole. Getting in took a moment's paused, and I had to spit into it several times to get a lube in there as the gate opened for my ram. She held herself open, rubbed herself, slapped her buttocks, all to relax the muscles so nothing would tear.
Once I was in, she moved the focus to her cunt. She rubbed a finger along each side of her clit while I gently ass-fucked her until I could feel the tremors growing, then the bucking as she started to be overcome, and finally the all-out collapse as she fell forward in her orgasm letting me finish until I got my whang all the way in, up to the root, and then squirted her anus full of come. We would have many passionate moments together in days and weeks to come (no pun intended).
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