POW MIA
- 2 years ago
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Pow Wow At The Park free porn video
It was Sunday. I had decided to go for a walk over at the park just down the street from me. Another gray winter’s day and yet, warm, amazingly warm for the time of year.
It was not a large park. About eight miles of bike trail if you did rode from end to the other end and back again. There were three segments to the park with the segment nearest to my house being a rookery that had its own little parking lot. I don't know why I did what I did now looking back on it. For there sat a lonely white Chevy Impala parked in that little lot. I had passed a few people walking their dogs and c***dren over in the other two sections of the park having walked the entire length of the park and back again. It was as I headed back home that noticed the white Impala having a single occupant. It was a she. A raven haired woman sitting alone in her car. As I passed, she turned to look at me. She smiled. It wasn’t one of those passing, polite smiles. It was an invitation smile.
Normally it wouldn’t have registered till much later that it had been an invitation. So I’m not exactly sure as to why I stopped at her bumper and walked back to stand at her driver side window —but I'm glad I did.
She rolled down her window enough for me to hear her speak. But the window also remained high enough that it would have been all but impossible for me to reach in and touch her. She just smiled at me and mouthed the words, “Do you like what you see?”
I would say somewhere in her linage she had American Indian in her blood line —and definitely not .012 percent. I guess her to be mid to late 40’s. Thick, black hair that was long enough to cover the cleavage I desperately longed to see. She had an interesting face of which I found attractive in its own right. I knew, if given the opportunity, she had a mouth that I would want to kiss -repeatedly.
The woman wore a black, short sleeved, scoop neck blouse complete with more than adequate bulging bosom. Beneath she wore a short gray, canvas like material skirt that rose high enough on her marvelously thick thighs. There was very little imagination was required to know for a fact that she wore nothing else beneath that skirt.
I fumbled at a reply. “Ummm, ya. I mean, YES! Lovely. What’s not to like?”
She smiled further as she leaned slightly forward before brushing her hair back across her shoulders and reseating herself back in her seat. The curtains had been pulled back for me to freely observe her native brown breasts. The sight of them drew breath from me. She didn’t have to ask a second time.
“You like!” she teased.
Though not tremendously large, her breasts were ample with only the slightest hint of blue veining. They were enveloped in a black lace bra with pinkish foam lining. The pink foam became clearly evident as she lifted each breast out separately from their socket before folding the cups in half and resting her breasts on top. What a lovely dance it was. And, indeed, there was that luxurious blue vein marbling along with dark brown aureoles and nice quarter inch nipples.
I have to confess, I have been a breast man all my life. From earliest c***dhood memory when coloring a buxom t****ze artist in my birthday coloring book all the while hiding behind my bed to later in my teenage year and stolen TRUE DETECTIVE magazines from the gas station next door which laid hidden beneath my mattress. Today, however, reality surpassed all my previous fantasies.
“Would you like to touch them?” she inquired as she lowered her window a few of inches more.
I looked back up and about the park. The lot was small but open on three sides. The drive to the park from the road offered little warning if another patron were to arrive. Nor was there any cover from the trail that encircled the lot before disappearing back behind the small office building. From all directions it would be all too easy observed and divined as to what exactly what was going on. But life had reached that point where I didn’t care anymore. How long had it been since I observed exposed female flesh let alone had the offer to touch it? How many opportunities did I imagine ever being afforded to me again? I knew better than to pass this up.
Without verbally answering her, I reached in through the window. Not having overly long arms, I had to press my face against the roof of her car in order to caress her left breast. It was warm and oh so soft. It was neither firm nor floppy. As little Miss Riding Hood would say, it was just right. And not being able to observe it as I massaged, squeezed, weighed, skied down and back up across its smooth skin, I could sense her excitement. Her nipple became taut as I coursed my fingers repeatedly across it before catching it and tugging it outward.
The whine of the electric window sounded once again as she lower it fully allowing me to step back a bit before reaching in further to capture the larger of the two breasts. Certainly it was more than a mouthful, indeed, more than a handful. She sighed and gave a brief moaning before lowering the back of her seat.
I would have remained totally content and fulfilled to have just enjoyed the touching and caressing of her breasts if she hadn’t laid back in her seat. For in the doing of that, the hem of her skirt rose up to such a degree as to reveal a partially shaved womanhood. “Pinch yourself,” I said to myself.
Looking up at her, she had closed her eyes. In the giving of herself to me, she raised her right leg and rested her shoeless heel on the center console. There was no further need of words. No further need of invitation. No further need to imagine.
Had c***dren had ever slid out of her pocket full of miracles, I wondered? I could not tell. But it was obvious that she was excited at the exhibition of her womanhood to me. Glistening wet, her lovely feminine lips yet remained sealed closed. Something would have to be done about that.
Leaning further in, I raised her left breast and sucked on the continuing to lengthen nipple. My hand fell away to skate down her motherly torso to finally arrive cupping her thigh before sliding back up between her legs.
Starting beneath her tucked lips, my finger wiggled its way into her warm, wet womb, separating those luxurious lips as it slid up across her clit. She flinched and moaned again, widening her offering. Whom ever she was and why she ever offered herself to me, it will forever remain a mystery. Yet there she was and she was willing in complete submission to my touch.
Though at such a late point in life, my experiences with women has been, sadly, relatively rare. That said, however, I have had enough encounters know what I like and I liked this woman; for her legs began quivering as her body movements ebb and flowed in her seat. She moaned loudly as her hand placed itself on top of mine and whispered, “Right there. Keep doing that -right there.”
All too quickly, a winter’s worth of snow avalanched out of its crevasse as her torso twisted and turned and her hips violently shot up and her legs squeezed my hand hard before releasing it as it tumbled back down into the seat and began a long state of convulsing. Her mouth shivered and quivered and hissed as it drew in breath. Her shoulders shook from side to side before turning away from me as she curled into a fetal position.
I raised back up and turned and surveyed the area. No one had seen. No one had observed. No one could give a witness. I became light headed and questioned if I was awake or asleep.
“Thank you,” the weakened feminine voice eventually sounded as her hand reached for the door handle. The familiar whine of the electric motor raised the window to almost closing as she sat back up, tucked one breast after the other back in their stalls before straightening her skirt and starting the car.
I wondered if it had all been a joke. Was I merely a convenient tool to be used then discarded? And if so, so what? I too had taken pleasure from it. But the vanity, the brevity of it left me starving for more.
She then turned to look up at me with this wonderful, shy smile that told me she was truly thankful. Perhaps it was the quizzical look on my face that cocked her head to one side as if to ask, “What’s wrong?” I answered, “Will I ever see you again?” She smiled and mouthed the words, “Maybe” as she slipped the car in reverse and then slowly pulled out of the lot and back on to the highway, disappearing from site.
I suppose most men would have reveled in such a chance encounter and gone happily on their way. But I’m not most men. To come so close to encountering my own buxom t****ze artist only to have her disappear without much chance, actually, truth be told, no chance of ever meeting again. It mocked me. It mocked me because it had given me but tiny spoonful of a full course meal laid out in front of me. Oh how I wanted to have enjoyed every morsel of her banquet.
Slowly, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets, I headed back to the house where only a frigid wasteland awaited me. Oh but the dreams that would come that night. With that I would have to be satisfied. C’est la vie!
It was not a large park. About eight miles of bike trail if you did rode from end to the other end and back again. There were three segments to the park with the segment nearest to my house being a rookery that had its own little parking lot. I don't know why I did what I did now looking back on it. For there sat a lonely white Chevy Impala parked in that little lot. I had passed a few people walking their dogs and c***dren over in the other two sections of the park having walked the entire length of the park and back again. It was as I headed back home that noticed the white Impala having a single occupant. It was a she. A raven haired woman sitting alone in her car. As I passed, she turned to look at me. She smiled. It wasn’t one of those passing, polite smiles. It was an invitation smile.
Normally it wouldn’t have registered till much later that it had been an invitation. So I’m not exactly sure as to why I stopped at her bumper and walked back to stand at her driver side window —but I'm glad I did.
She rolled down her window enough for me to hear her speak. But the window also remained high enough that it would have been all but impossible for me to reach in and touch her. She just smiled at me and mouthed the words, “Do you like what you see?”
I would say somewhere in her linage she had American Indian in her blood line —and definitely not .012 percent. I guess her to be mid to late 40’s. Thick, black hair that was long enough to cover the cleavage I desperately longed to see. She had an interesting face of which I found attractive in its own right. I knew, if given the opportunity, she had a mouth that I would want to kiss -repeatedly.
The woman wore a black, short sleeved, scoop neck blouse complete with more than adequate bulging bosom. Beneath she wore a short gray, canvas like material skirt that rose high enough on her marvelously thick thighs. There was very little imagination was required to know for a fact that she wore nothing else beneath that skirt.
I fumbled at a reply. “Ummm, ya. I mean, YES! Lovely. What’s not to like?”
She smiled further as she leaned slightly forward before brushing her hair back across her shoulders and reseating herself back in her seat. The curtains had been pulled back for me to freely observe her native brown breasts. The sight of them drew breath from me. She didn’t have to ask a second time.
“You like!” she teased.
Though not tremendously large, her breasts were ample with only the slightest hint of blue veining. They were enveloped in a black lace bra with pinkish foam lining. The pink foam became clearly evident as she lifted each breast out separately from their socket before folding the cups in half and resting her breasts on top. What a lovely dance it was. And, indeed, there was that luxurious blue vein marbling along with dark brown aureoles and nice quarter inch nipples.
I have to confess, I have been a breast man all my life. From earliest c***dhood memory when coloring a buxom t****ze artist in my birthday coloring book all the while hiding behind my bed to later in my teenage year and stolen TRUE DETECTIVE magazines from the gas station next door which laid hidden beneath my mattress. Today, however, reality surpassed all my previous fantasies.
“Would you like to touch them?” she inquired as she lowered her window a few of inches more.
I looked back up and about the park. The lot was small but open on three sides. The drive to the park from the road offered little warning if another patron were to arrive. Nor was there any cover from the trail that encircled the lot before disappearing back behind the small office building. From all directions it would be all too easy observed and divined as to what exactly what was going on. But life had reached that point where I didn’t care anymore. How long had it been since I observed exposed female flesh let alone had the offer to touch it? How many opportunities did I imagine ever being afforded to me again? I knew better than to pass this up.
Without verbally answering her, I reached in through the window. Not having overly long arms, I had to press my face against the roof of her car in order to caress her left breast. It was warm and oh so soft. It was neither firm nor floppy. As little Miss Riding Hood would say, it was just right. And not being able to observe it as I massaged, squeezed, weighed, skied down and back up across its smooth skin, I could sense her excitement. Her nipple became taut as I coursed my fingers repeatedly across it before catching it and tugging it outward.
The whine of the electric window sounded once again as she lower it fully allowing me to step back a bit before reaching in further to capture the larger of the two breasts. Certainly it was more than a mouthful, indeed, more than a handful. She sighed and gave a brief moaning before lowering the back of her seat.
I would have remained totally content and fulfilled to have just enjoyed the touching and caressing of her breasts if she hadn’t laid back in her seat. For in the doing of that, the hem of her skirt rose up to such a degree as to reveal a partially shaved womanhood. “Pinch yourself,” I said to myself.
Looking up at her, she had closed her eyes. In the giving of herself to me, she raised her right leg and rested her shoeless heel on the center console. There was no further need of words. No further need of invitation. No further need to imagine.
Had c***dren had ever slid out of her pocket full of miracles, I wondered? I could not tell. But it was obvious that she was excited at the exhibition of her womanhood to me. Glistening wet, her lovely feminine lips yet remained sealed closed. Something would have to be done about that.
Leaning further in, I raised her left breast and sucked on the continuing to lengthen nipple. My hand fell away to skate down her motherly torso to finally arrive cupping her thigh before sliding back up between her legs.
Starting beneath her tucked lips, my finger wiggled its way into her warm, wet womb, separating those luxurious lips as it slid up across her clit. She flinched and moaned again, widening her offering. Whom ever she was and why she ever offered herself to me, it will forever remain a mystery. Yet there she was and she was willing in complete submission to my touch.
Though at such a late point in life, my experiences with women has been, sadly, relatively rare. That said, however, I have had enough encounters know what I like and I liked this woman; for her legs began quivering as her body movements ebb and flowed in her seat. She moaned loudly as her hand placed itself on top of mine and whispered, “Right there. Keep doing that -right there.”
All too quickly, a winter’s worth of snow avalanched out of its crevasse as her torso twisted and turned and her hips violently shot up and her legs squeezed my hand hard before releasing it as it tumbled back down into the seat and began a long state of convulsing. Her mouth shivered and quivered and hissed as it drew in breath. Her shoulders shook from side to side before turning away from me as she curled into a fetal position.
I raised back up and turned and surveyed the area. No one had seen. No one had observed. No one could give a witness. I became light headed and questioned if I was awake or asleep.
“Thank you,” the weakened feminine voice eventually sounded as her hand reached for the door handle. The familiar whine of the electric motor raised the window to almost closing as she sat back up, tucked one breast after the other back in their stalls before straightening her skirt and starting the car.
I wondered if it had all been a joke. Was I merely a convenient tool to be used then discarded? And if so, so what? I too had taken pleasure from it. But the vanity, the brevity of it left me starving for more.
She then turned to look up at me with this wonderful, shy smile that told me she was truly thankful. Perhaps it was the quizzical look on my face that cocked her head to one side as if to ask, “What’s wrong?” I answered, “Will I ever see you again?” She smiled and mouthed the words, “Maybe” as she slipped the car in reverse and then slowly pulled out of the lot and back on to the highway, disappearing from site.
I suppose most men would have reveled in such a chance encounter and gone happily on their way. But I’m not most men. To come so close to encountering my own buxom t****ze artist only to have her disappear without much chance, actually, truth be told, no chance of ever meeting again. It mocked me. It mocked me because it had given me but tiny spoonful of a full course meal laid out in front of me. Oh how I wanted to have enjoyed every morsel of her banquet.
Slowly, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets, I headed back to the house where only a frigid wasteland awaited me. Oh but the dreams that would come that night. With that I would have to be satisfied. C’est la vie!
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