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2004-07-30T08:03:00.000-07:00

A View of the Lake

by KatherineT
katherinetearthlink
Complete archive and personal page at:
~KatherineT/

You know what it's like in the morning after one of those funky
parties, the dawn light coming in through the windows to show the
stains on the cracked walls, the assorted crap scattered on the
wooden floor, a fat butch sleeping with her mouth open, the girl
beside her with torn nylons and a face smeared with mascara and
lipstick, maybe a dozen other women lying around like rag dolls
in a junkyard, big and small, fat and thin, one femme lying on
her belly with her skirt pulled up to expose her ass. All the rag
dolls.

And I'm one of the rag dolls. I want to go home. I don't want to
go home. I want to be out of here and I don't want to be out of
here. I don't know which is reality, the world outside the grimy
windows or the collection of rag dolls in this huge room that I
was told was once a sweatshop brassiere factory. But maybe that's
just a story, some dyke fantasy about tits and bras.

I came here with someone, but I have no idea where she is. Maybe
she went home. Maybe she flushed herself down the toilet. I'm
thinking about getting up and finding a bathroom, when I feel an
arm sliding over my waist. I turn my head and look. I don't know
her. She has brown hair, high cheekbones, a wide mouth, and brown
eyes that stare at me as though she can see all the dark corners
in my head.

"You slept a long time," she says, her voice husky, as if it's
midnight and she's ready to get into my pants.

But it's not midnight, it's six o'clock in the morning, my mouth
feels wasted, and I have a slight headache after too much red
wine last night. Red wine always wrecks my head; one of the
problems of my life is that I love red wine and it always wrecks
my head.

So I sigh and try to appear nonchalant. Should I push her arm
away from my body? "Did I really sleep a long time?"

"Three hours," she says, her voice still husky.

Maybe it's her natural voice and she's not putting it on. But
then she does have her arm on me, which I suppose means she's
interested in more than a discussion about whether it's better to
sleep a long time or a short time.

"I guess I needed the sleep," I say. She has a gorgeous butch
face, no makeup at all, hair sleek and short, and those dark eyes
still so familiar with the inside of my head.

"I'm sorry if I tired you out," she says.

Now I'm listening hard, trying to remember. But I don't remember
her, nothing at all. So what went on last night or just a few
hours ago?

"Tired me out? What does that mean?"

When I turn my head to look at her, she smiles at me. Perfect
white teeth. What does she do, walk around all day with
brightener strips on her teeth? The way she's looking at me, I
think I know what she means.

And she says: "You don't remember?"

"Nothing at all."

Her arm moves on my belly. "That's delicious."

I'm annoyed. "Maybe to you, but I don't know what you're talking
about."

"Come home with me," she says.

"Why should I?"

"If you come home with me, I'll make breakfast for us and we'll
talk about last night. Or we'll talk about the weather. Or the
lake. Or whatever you want to talk about."

"Promise?"

"Of course."

"What sort of breakfast?"

"Eggs, bacon, toast, jelly. And the best espresso in town."

My stomach grumbles. What the hell. A few minutes later she's
holding my hand as she leads me out of the rag doll room.

She's past forty and she says her name is Fran. She drives a
black Corvette, which of course impresses me, since what I drive
is a tenyearold Toyota with a severely bent fender and a heater
that doesn't always work.

"We'll be at my apartment in no time," she says.

As if to encourage me not to fly away.

She knows how to handle the Corvette. After a few minutes, I
slump into the bucket seat, close my eyes and think about
breakfast.

Then I feel her hand patting my thigh. "Are you hungry?" she
says.

"I'm starved."

She pulls her hand away. "Good, so am I."

I want to tell her that I have a redwine headache, but instead I
remain quiet. I look at her. She wears black. A black Corvette
and black clothes. Tight black sweater that shows a large bust,
and tight black jeans that show a full ass. I have nothing to
complain about. She's my type. I don't know what we did last
night, but she's my type. A butch with curves. And breakfast is
in the offing. I close my eyes again.

On Lake Shore Drive, we pull into a basement hirise garage. She
parks the Corvette and we ride an elevator to the twentieth floor
and a sprawling apartment with floortoceiling windows and a
view of the sun rising over the lake.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says. "I'll get breakfast
started."

"Could I possibly have a shower here? I need it."

"Sure, honey, come with me." She leads me into a large bathroom.
"It's all yours. I'll get you a robe."

A robe? Am I here to stay? She turns and walks out, closes the
bathroom door and I'm alone.

I want the shower. Maybe a hot shower will help my headache. And
a hot shower will get me clean in case I need to be clean later
on. I know there will be a later on. She did not bring me here to
chat about the weather while we have breakfast. I know all about
that. I do know all about it.

So I strip and climb into the shower, and it does help my
headache, and it gets me clean and I'm happy. It's Sunday
morning, and I can relax, have a tasty breakfast and see what
happens with this butch with curves. I still don't know what I
did with her last night, but last night is a fading memory and
I'm certainly better off here than yawning on the floor with the
other rag dolls.

When I finish the shower and step out onto the bathroom rug, I
find an aqua silk robe waiting for me on the commode, and sitting
squarely on top of the silk robe a pair of cute highheeled
mules.

Cute, indeed. She wants me femmed up. I know all about that too.
I do know all about it. I dry myself, use some of the cologne I
find on a shelf, then open my little purse and start making up my
face. Fifteen minutes later the high heels I'm wearing are
clicking on the parquet floor as I make my way down the hall to
the dining room. Now I'm starved, really needing some breakfast.
And I'm getting turned on because I'm thinking this Sunday
morning may turn out to be interesting.

In the dining room, I find Fran in a short chenille robe and
barefooted, fresh from a shower in another bathroom. She looks
good, not a sign of fatigue from the night before. I enjoy
looking at her.

Fran is not pushy. She does not push me one way or the other. We
have a lovely breakfast and delicious coffee. My belly is full
and I'm happy, content, glowing. Of course it doesn't take long,
not more than ten minutes after breakfast, when we're at the
enormous window looking at the lake, that she slides her arm
around my waist and then drops her hand to squeeze my ass.

She says, "Don't you remember last night?"

"No, what happened?"

"You made love to me and you were very good."

I don't miss the meaning; I'm blushing. "All right, I'll take
your word for it."

She laughs and kisses my ear. "I think you're bluffing."

"About what?"

"About not remembering. I think you remember everything."

Then she turns me and she kisses my mouth, first a tender kiss
and then with more fervor. Now it's a real kiss, my mouth open,
her tongue sliding over and between my teeth. She gets her
fingers in me, one finger, two fingers, three fingers, I'm
stretched wide open, probed and fucked by her hand. She knows
how, all right. Some curvy butch this is.

She pulls away and she asks me what sort of work I do. When I
tell her I work part time as a catalog model for one of the
department store chains, she smiles. "Oh, I adore models," she
says. Then she adds: "Show me."

Show her what? When I look doubtful, she urges me to remove the
robe I'm wearing (her robe) and show her my body.

Of course now I'm turning on to a maximum and I don't mind at
all. It's not as if I expected another outcome. Showing my body
is always the general result. I was not provided the lovely silk
robe for any reason but to remove it. So I untie the robe and
remove it, casually drop it on a chair and stand in the morning
sunlight as she looks at me.

She looks, she asks me to turn, she asks me to walk a bit in the
high heels. She evidently likes to look. I wouldn't mind looking
at her, wouldn't mind seeing those big tits in the open, but for
the moment her robe remains tied.

She tells me she has clothes in her shop that would be perfect
for me. What shop? I learn she owns a boutique on Oak Street. She
mentions the name. I know it. We're talking real money here;
we're talking about Oak Street and not some dinky suburban dress
shop.

She's had enough looking and she moves in and kisses me again.
This time I'm naked and her hands are all over me, stroking,
pinching, fingers probing, palms patting my ass. Am I to be
cooked in a pot? I manage to get a hand on one of her breasts and
I squeeze it. She laughs and kisses my mouth again. "Come on,
baby, go down on me. I love what you did to me last night." She
pulls away, unties the robe and drops it.

She does a turn to show me everything. She says, "Not bad, am I?
Not bad for fortysix."

Not bad at all. She's twenty years older than me, easily old
enough to be my mother, except my mother, who still lives in a
house in Dubuque with a flag on the porch, would have a heart
attack if she ever saw this.

Hello, Mother. If you're reading this, don't pretend you don't
know me.

Fran wants me. She thrusts her hips at me, offering herself. I'd
rather suck her big breasts, but instead I kneel on the parquet
floor and I suck her cunt. She puts one foot on a chair to make
it easier for me. She hunches at my mouth, fucking my face. Oak
Street fucking the girl from Dubuque. It doesn't matter, I like
it. This is me. Out of one corner of my eye I can see the lake
through the enormous window. Miles of blue water and a clear sky.
The view is breathtaking.

End

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2004-07-28T13:51:00.000-07:00

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2004-07-25T11:55:00.000-07:00

Author: Thinking Horndog
Title: Second Best
Part: 105
Universe: Second Best
Summary: A full-length novel that follows several young couples and their
families through the period immediately preceding their Senior Prom.
Keywords: MF

Keywords for full story: F-solo, Ff-inc, MF Ffm MF mf oral anal bd D/s Mg-
inc Fm-inc mm mmf rom MF-reluc
Chapter 105
New Ellen

When Paul Michaels came up to bed after watching the news, Ellen was
in bed, reading, wearing a shortie nightgown he didn't remember having seen.
She looked up, diffident, "I thought you might want to..."

"Ummm," Paul gathered his wits. "Good guess..." What happened to the
flannel number? Maybe she's serious... Paul shucked out of his clothes,
hanging them in the closet; stumbling around after she cut the lights was a
great way to get sore shins. For Ellen, sex was something done in the
dark... Paul left his shorts on as a sop to Ellen's modesty and crawled
into bed, then shucked the damned things. Paul didn't like getting bound up
in clothing in bed. He'd been wearing PJ's for years to keep Ellen happy,
but... He slid the shorts out from under the covers, dropping them on the
floor. If this thing was really going to fly, they'd be in the way...

Ellen gathered her courage and reached for the light, and Paul
grumbled to himself, 'One day, I'm gonna see her naked...' But the light
didn't STAY off - Ellen clicked the 3-way through the 'off' position and
back onto 'low'. Then she flipped back the covers!

Paul's sigh died - largely because he stopped breathing. Ellen lay
there, propped against the headboard with her knees up - basically, the same
position she'd been reading in. But the position - and the translucence of
the nightie - made it clear that she wasn't wearing panties...

"The, um, girls said you might appreciate being able to see," Ellen
mumbled. "Do you, um, want the top off?"

"If it's not a problem for you, please!" Paul replied.

"I have all kinds of problems - that I've got to work through."
Ellen's voice was shaky, but she grabbed the nightie at the hem and lifted
it over her head. "I'm not ready to look yet, though..."

"...So I guess a blow job is out of the question?" Paul quipped.

Ellen's fear-filled eyes opened and locked on Paul's. "I-I'll get
there, I promise! But I'm trying to handle a lot of new stuff, now, and..."

"Whoa, I apologize!" Paul interrupted, reaching out to rub her side,
"You're working hard, and I'm impressed! It was only a joke..."

"Well," Ellen declared, somewhat mollified, "I'll STILL get there; the
girls say it's a mainstream practice, and I shouldn't act like a fool about
it." Her eyes had again closed. "They also said that it would probably
help us both if I let you touch me... down there..."

"Really?" Paul wasn't surprised at the content of the suggestion, but
he WAS surprised that Ellen was making it. "I'm developing more respect for
the girls by the minute! Why don't you scoot down so you're a bit more
ready..."

Ellen slid down to lie flat, her head still propped by the two pillows
she had been using as a backrest to a position that, had she opened her eyes
would grant her a full field of view through the valley of her breasts,
across the flat plane of her stomach, to whatever events were unfolding at
her pubic mound. But her eyes were still closed... Paul watched her slide
down, savoring the jiggles as her breasts went from the generally conical
(allowing for gravity) shape they maintained when she was upright to the
flattened, fat mounds that characterized her supine position. Paul's hands
and lips were familiar with those mounds, but Ellen's modesty made viewing
them under anything resembling decent lighting a rare treat. But the knees
remained up, and the legs spread, which from Paul's location actually
impeded his view. He realized, however, that if he moved, he would have an
unparalleled opportunity, so he shifted positions toward the foot of the
bed.

"The girls said," Ellen rambled on, nervously, "that if I let you do
that, I'd get more aroused, and you'd be happier, and that I'd probably get
wetter, which would make it better when you..." Ellen ran out of words -
she'd rambled to the point of having to come up with a word for intercourse,
and frankly didn't have an acceptable one.

"Man!" Paul exclaimed reverently from a position basically between
her knees. Ellen opened one eye and beheld her husband gazing in wonder at
something that, frankly, he'd never before seen. Paul had wormed his way to
a position along the foot of the bed that allowed him to curve his upper
body into the gap between Ellen's upright knees, and he was mentally
photographing every detail of her exposed crotch.

"I see the girls were right, again!" Ellen observed, nervously. Paul
merely nodded, rapt. Nerves caused her to provide more filler, "Still, in
case it doesn't work, I got some K-Y. The girls suggested it, although
Merry said she really didn't think it would be necessary, ultimately. She
said once you got going..." Paul's eyes flickered to the tube on the table
when hers did, but he had other ideas...

Ellen's eyes snapped shut, and she stiffened, trying not to flinch as
she detected Paul reaching out, but his touch was gentle as he laid his
forefinger along the left lip of her exposed pussy. The mere act of drawing
it gently down along the outside from the vicinity of her clitoris to her
perineum caused the loose, thin lips to retract, revealing a coral pink
valley between. Paul moved up a bit for a closer look, and repeated the
action on the other side.

Ellen's closed eyes and her focused attention led her to believe that
she could feel every hair that his finger drifted past, let alone the gentle
touch in an area whose sensitivity she'd never really appreciated before.
Paul reached out again, this time dragging his finger along the clitoral
hood from it's base at the top of her mound to the endpoint, where the loose
folds extended beyond the suddenly insistently active bundle of nerves.
Ellen hissed in a quick breath between her teeth and grabbed handfuls of
sheet as the sensation flashed from the contact point across her body,
lifting the hairs on her arms as gooseflesh appeared there.

"Are you okay" Paul asked, concerned.

"Uh huh!" Ellen forced out past constricted lungs. She was wound up
tight, awaiting the next shockwave.

"Did it hurt?" Paul insisted.

"UH UH!" Ellen's negation was firm, even if its emotional freighting
was unclear.

Paul repeated the action, and Ellen, less surprised at the contact,
could better appreciate the pleasure involved. It felt REALLY good, like
the better times when she and Paul were... Ellen frowned; she really HAD to
come up with a name for it... At the same time, she felt a wave of moisture
flow, top down, along her vagina, as if it was breaking into a sweat.

Paul detected a pulse of the tiny vaginal opening, but couldn't decide
whether it was independent of the action of his finger, or a direct effect
of the pressure. He shrugged to himself - did it matter? He wet a finger
and dragged it upward along the exposed strip of pink flesh from the base
past the opening of her vagina (did it flex a bit, trying to capture the
finger?), spreading the folds of the clitoral hood, and finally brushing the
exposed portion of the little pink nub. The first thing he discovered was
that he'd probably wasted his time wetting the finger; there was plenty of
smooth, slightly oily lubricant pooled at the bottom of Ellen's slit. But
more interesting was Ellen's galvanized reaction to the ball of Paul's
finger dragging gently over her clit!

"Aaaaahh!" she exclaimed, eyes popping open, arms waving, hands
finally settling for handfuls of sheet. Ellen's open knees tried to cross
over Paul's shoulders, and her pussy PULSED, there was no doubt of it! Paul
looked up across the plain of Ellen's belly to see her chin and distended
nostrils (she'd thrown her head back) between stiff nipples sitting atop
tightly crinkled aureolae. "Too intense! Can't stand it!"

"But you like it, don't you?" Paul murmured, smiling.

"Yessss!" Ellen hissed. "Just... Easy!"

Paul nodded (not that Ellen could see it - she was staring sightlessly
at the ceiling) and began sliding his left forefinger alongside the clitoral
hood. Waves of pleasure suffused Ellen's senses. She closed her eyes,
rolling her head to the side. "I think its working," Paul ruminated. He
wet his right forefinger, and placed it against Ellen's vaginal opening,
which dilated to accept it. He slid the tip in, and the tunnel accepted it
to the second knuckle, comfortably, the flesh damp, slick, and supple. Paul
rotated his hand and replaced the finger in the vicinity of Ellen's clitoris
with his thumb, which he emplaced directly on the clitoral hood and began to
rotate it, using the inserted finger as a base. Ellen, awash in the
sensations, began to rotate her hips. Paul was nonplussed. "Ellen?"

Ellen whined in her throat, and her head flashed from left to right.
"Uhhhh?"

"Are you okay?"

"Mmm fine - kinda... sh-shaky. F-feel really..." Apparently, Ellen
lost her train of thought at that point.

Paul grinned. Time to up the ante... He slid forward, between the
splayed thighs and blew warm breath over her pubic mound.

Ellen's eyes popped open. "Wh-what?"

Paul brought up his left hand and used his thumbs to spread and
retract the clitoral hood from Ellen's already larger and stiffer clit, and
lowered his lips over it.

"AAAAAAAAHH!" Ellen screamed, and her legs flew straight out. "Too
much! Too much!"

Paul smiled, backing off. He couldn't remember having this much fun,
ever! He released his thumbs, but drove back in, drubbing Ellen's now
partially shielded clitoris with his tongue. Ellen's legs dropped back to a
position over Paul's back, squeezing rhythmically as she strove to lift her
hips to Paul's mouth. Paul pumped his embedded finger in the now soaking
depths of Ellen's vagina, going deep into the warm, wet channel, while he
continued to lap at Ellen's quivering clitoris.

Ellen began to pant, head slashing back and forth on the pillow, hands
beating and grasping at the sheets. They settled in Paul's hair, where it
was soon apparent that Ellen couldn't decide whether to pull him away, or
crush him to her. She began breathing loudly through her nose, a closed
mouth pant underscored by the whines coming from deep in her throat. She
began to shake - everywhere! The whine became shrill, Ellen stiffened, and
her back arched - and Paul felt her vagina began pulsing rhythmically,
signaling the onset of her orgasm!

Ellen was awash. She had no arm, no legs - certainly, she had no idea
what she might be doing with them! Her entire attention was focused upon
the waves of incredible pleasure originating from her womanhood. She barely
held onto consciousness while the waves cascaded over her. After a timeless
period, Ellen started seeing again, and found her legs wrapped around her
husband's back and her hands tangled in his hair. She released Paul's head,
smoothing his rumpled hair. "Oh, God!" she gasped, "What did you do?"

"I think maybe I tapped the inner Ellen!" Paul chuckled.

"Ummm, yeah," Ellen focused still fuzzy eyes, "But we're not done yet.
I - I think we need to... fuck... now."

"You sure?" Paul asked. "That was a lot of fun - I can pass for
tonight..."

"No, I wanna," Ellen's voice was still thick. "Things been good thus
far..."

"Well," Paul replied, "It isn't as if I'm not ready..." He moved up
over Ellen, trying to settle into a position.

"Oh! Sorry!" Ellen lifted and spread weak knees. "Um, can I cross
'em over your back?"

"Well, okay..." Paul murmured dubiously.

"Ummm, the girls said..." Ellen began earnestly.

"Oh, well, that's different!" Paul chuckled, leaning down to kiss
Ellen soundly. "The girls apparently know what they're talking about. You
need any more prep?"

"No, I should be fine..." Ellen grinned back. "'M still a lil'
loopy..."

"This is a little different," Paul observed, kneeling up. "I don't
have to lay on you..."

"Uh huh," Ellen elaborated, "Like a push-up. You're s'posed to be
able to go deeper..."

Paul knelt up and rubbed the head of his engorged cock along Ellen's
labia. "It's a lot easier to hit," he observed. "Of course, I can see
it..."

"Mmmmm, feels good! C'mon!" Ellen prodded.

Paul positioned himself, and prepared for the usual troublesome entry
- but Ellen's vagina flowered open and engulf the head in a soft, buttery
grip. Paul marveled, backed off a bit, and slipped in a bit more - only it
went so well that a bit more was three inches! "Mmmm, nice!" Ellen
enthused. Paul, more of his cock enclosed in warm, wet vagina than he ever
remembered having, could only agree. He backed off again, and slid
forward...and slid forward... and buried his cock to the hilt, his pubic
bone banging into Ellen's clit.

"Oh, wow!" Two sets of wide eyes met over the mutual exclamation.
Ellen was thoroughly shocked! First Paul had provided what she had come to
consider 'normal' penetration, then he had backed off and suddenly, places
she didn't know she HAD were full of cock... And then he did it AGAIN, and
she was totally full! To top it all off, just as she was realizing just how
far he was going to get, BONK! His pubic bone hit her smack on the clit,
and she got this incredible flash! Paul, despite a successful terror
campaign based on the idea that he could replace Ellen with little effort
and the visual experience of a few porn flicks, was just as surprised; he
had had basically one sexual partner since high school - Ellen. He was no
more ready for the discovery of Ellen's buttery depths than Ellen was his
real length! Paul instinctively withdrew until just his glans was inserted,
then smoothly socketed his cock in Ellen's more than ready vagina a second
time. Ellen had just enough time to miss it before Paul's cock slid into
her depths again, the smooth rod parting her vaginal folds. And again,
there was that flash at the end as his pubic bone crushed against her
clitoris. Ellen began to think muzzily that this was going to be VERY
good...

But Paul wasn't prepared for the waves of sensation that Ellen's
depths were imparting, and surprise and over-stimulation took their toll.
Withdrawal from that second stroke was the last straw; Paul lost all control
as the urgent demands of his orgasm overwhelmed him. Ellen felt him stiffen
as he inhaled hugely, then SLAM! He buried his cock in her vagina as if her
were going to come out the other side! And Ellen felt a series of
sensations she had never before felt: Paul's cock seemed to swell to half-
again it's already huge (in her experience) size (It was really only a bit
over six and a half inches) and then it pulsed! And Ellen FELT a gout of
sperm hit the back wall of her sheath. Paul, totally mindless at this
point, withdrew just a bit then again buried his cock to the hilt, crushing
himself against her, and again Ellen felt the mighty pulse and the impact of
the jet of his seed as it impacted!

Paul withdrew one more time and rocked forward, burying his cock for
the third and final time, pushing, grinding, crushing his pubic mound
against hers as he instinctively attempted to get as much of himself inside
that source of heavenly sensations as he could get, his over-stimulated cock
continuing to pulse as he held it there, buried, in Ellen's unresisting
body.

And, indeed, Ellen was actually assisting the effort, as the
combination of new sensations triggered a small orgasm - not a big one like
Paul's efforts at tonguing her had given her, but an entirely satisfactory
little pop, nonetheless - her crossed legs pulling him tighter against her
as his crushing attack on her clit and his pulsating cock triggered shock
waves in her vaginal sheath.

Paul came to himself as his supply of available semen began to
dwindle, releasing the unrelenting pressure that he had been applying to
Ellen's spare frame. "I'm sorry, Hon - I couldn't hold it and I got carried
away..."

"No, no it was fine! Good!" Paul took in Ellen's dancing eyes and
the flush across her face and chest, evidence of her own recent release, as
she asserted somewhat breathlessly, "The best ever!" She pulled his
momentarily spent form to her and rubbed his back reveling in the addition
it gave to her new catalog of sensations.

"It's supposed to last longer," Paul grumbled sleepily, nibbling at
her ear.

"Next time," she purred.