Slave To Seenu
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It All Depends On How You See It free porn video
‘Of course men see sex everywhere.’
‘That’s because there’s sex in everything.’
‘No way. It’s just ’cos you’re a man.’
‘It’s true, it’s a primal urge, you can’t get away from
it.’ Joe drained his glass and refilled us both. We were
having another one of our Sunday evening pub
conversations. They could be about anything: Saddam
Hussein; whether God is a woman, but we usually got
round to sex at some point.
‘That’s rubbish. There are some things in life which
just aren’t sexy.’ I tasted the sharp alcohol on my tongue
giving myself time to get my argument honed.
‘Like?’
‘Like things you hate, things you can’t stand. Things
you find repulsive. They’re just not sexy.’
‘Ok, give me an example.’
‘Work, I hate it. I never ever feel sexy at work. I’m
surrounded by grey suits talking money.’
‘Right Vanessa, I’ll look on that as my first challenge.’
I sort of forgot about the conversation after that. When
Joe and I had been at uni we used to sit up till the early
hours with these dopey off the wall debates. Now, still
mates even though we were tied to work and paying rent
on our flats, we were reluctant to grow up. After a bottle
of chilled white any old tosh seems worth talking about
and our Sunday-night specials had become a sort of endof-
the-week ritual. The next day when the alcoholic haze
has worn off you’re shot back into the real world with a
shudder.
I work in the world’s unsexiest building. There isn’t a
curve or a sensuous line in it. It’s all uncompromising
angles, strip-lighting and magnolia patterned with dirty
fingerprints. I feel like a white mouse in an experiment
designed to see how long one sentient being can spend in a
box without turning magnolia herself.
At least it was Monday, 5.45 p.m., nearly my time to
escape. I shrugged into my jacket and put my handbag on
the filing cabinet below the mirror to put on some lippy.
As I was poised, gloss in hand I noticed the window
cleaner behind me in the mirror. Funny time of day to be
turning up, I thought, but then windows can be cleaned
any time.
Now normally I don’t go for big muscles but I guess
that’s because I never see them close up. I only see them
baby-oiled in those horrid weight-lifter mags that make
guys look like they’ve got mumps of the chest. But these,
even from a distance, I could see were not oiled and were
delightfully real, gift-wrapped in a white t-shirt. And they
were coming this way. He sauntered across the rapidly
emptying car park with a ladder under one arm and a cloth
d****d over his shoulder like a cape slung over a military
man. In the other hand he held a bucket slopping with
soapy water. And he was looking at me. I kept my back
turned ’cos it’s easier to stare with your mouth open when
you’re spying on someone in a mirror.
He came over to my ground floor window and stood
with his legs apart, grounding himself. Lifting the ladder
aside he leant it out of the way against the wall. I stared
mesmerized at the strength in his forearms and the way
carrying all that weight made his chest expand. Slowly he
tucked the cloth in his belt, pulling his jeans down a
couple of inches. I now had a ringside view of the line of
blond hairs snaking down from his navel to his crotch, like
a road sign indicating a one-way street. For some reason,
I’d become all fidgety, moving from one high-heeled foot
to another. I closed my mouth and gulped. I was going to
miss my train. Did I care? Nooooo way.
I really wanted to turn round, to drink in the full force
of him but maybe if I had, it would have broken the spell.
I could see well enough as he leant down, dipped his
sponge in the bucket, and slapped it against the window.
Round and round he rubbed, the soapy water dripping
down his upheld arm and soaking those hefty shoulders.
As he moved his arm right and left, his hips swayed in
time, grinding the zip of his jeans against the window
ledge. Through the thin cotton t-shirt, the dripping water
revealed cheeky man-nipples. Then the water crept down
to the soaking bulge between his legs. It barely hid a cock
which looked as if it was ready to burst under the denim.
A wet patch spreading down to his thighs and the halflidded
look of his eyes made him look like a man almost
ready to come.
I imagined myself, turning around. For a second I could
see us both immobile. Then, I pictured one of his
eyebrows raising a fraction, his lips quirking into the
essence of a smile. In my mind, he issued me with a
challenge.
I dreamt I walked over to the window, swung my
swivel chair and placed myself in it facing him squarely.
My heart was thumping as I imagined easing my tight
navy blue skirt up to my bum till I was sitting on the hem.
In my mind’s eye I took first one, then the other
stockinged foot and hitched it onto the window sill giving
him an eyeful of lacy stocking top and thigh.
As if he could read my mind, the real man impatiently
ripped open the top button of his jeans and yanked down
the zip, liberating a cock which sprang out proudly at right
angles to me. Stunned at this blatant display, I dropped my
lipstick and turned around. He really was the most
delectable piece of manhood to cross my path lately. If he
was ready to do the business, I thought I’d give him a bit
of a hand. I sat opposite him, parting my lips and putting
my middle finger in my mouth, watching his eyes follow
me as I eased open the top of my knickers and slid my
finger inside my waiting cunny. At the sight of my
dampening panties he dipped one hand into the soapy
water using its moistness to lubricate his dick. Looking
soapy and filthy and clean all at once, I could see him
sliding his hand rhythmically up and down. His arm
muscles tensed, standing out like a relief map of the
Pyrenees as he gained momentum. His jutting hips bucked
in time. There are few things more erotic than looking at
the concentration on a man’s face as he approaches
eruption. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and I
smiled with triumph as he pulled frantically while his cock
shot hot salty come onto the window in a sputtering
fountain jet.
Seeing the thick essence trickle down the window sent
my hormones into overdrive and I was just settling down
to finish myself off when my mobile rang. It plummeted
me into reality as sharply as if the fire alarm had sounded.
What the hell was I doing pleasuring myself in front of a
total stranger when the guard could come round the corner
any minute? Shock made my legs straighten, shooting my
roller-coastered chair backwards where I narrowly
managed to save myself by grabbing the desk.
‘What?’ I yelled down the phone, standing on
trembling legs.
‘Joe here. You sound flustered.’ I could tell he was
smiling. Then light began to dawn.
‘You bastard, you set this up, didn’t you?’
Itching with frustration, I looked at my window cleaner
zipping up his jeans and running a squeegee down the
glass. He wiped away all that lovely come and my plans
for the evening with it.
‘I think I win round one. You see work can be sexy.
Was he any good?’
‘Good, he was fucking brilliant. Although his
cleaning’s crap. He’s left the window all streaky.’
‘That’s ’cos he’s a builder. You don’t think he got
muscles like that nancying about with a sponge do you?
He’s a good friend. I do all his computer set-ups for him
so he owed me a favour.’
‘You have got to give me his number.’
‘Do you want the mobile or the home one? The home
one he shares with his wife and three k**s, that is.’ Joe
laughed, somewhat cruelly I thought, ‘that guy is so
unavailable.’
My ‘window cleaner’ at this point waved a cheery
farewell, stepped into his white van and disappeared like
my fantasies in a puff of smelly exhaust.
I had to admit Joe had proved his point. Sulkily I said,
‘you made me miss my train.’
‘Sorry sweets. Trains are like men though. There’ll be
another along later.’
‘You still haven’t won your bet. Not everywhere is
sexy. Work was too easy, it closes and there are places to
lurk. I’ll bet you can’t make a 24-hour supermarket sexy.
Those places are hell on earth and there’s nowhere to hide
from screaming k**s and old ladies.’
‘Good challenge,’ mused Joe. ‘I need a couple of days’
planning time. Go Wednesday evening and I’ll prove my
point.’
Of course, I was on tenterhooks till then. I was in
danger of admitting Joe had been right. After his escapade
at work I was tortured every time I called the photocopier
man with thoughts that he might be some hunk about to go
down on me in the photocopier room. I cursed Joe for
turning me into a sort of sex-obsessed tart.
Tuesday was a nightmare. I couldn’t wait to get off the
train and dash into my local Tesco, and that’s a first! As I
wandered round looking at the zombie-like shoppers I
found myself peering in corners and even surreptitiously
pushing doors marked ‘no entry’ in a feeble attempt to
guess what Joe had in store for me. Like Pandora,
desperate to open the box, I prowled around unable to
leave. I swear I was stalked by a store detective I was
acting so suspiciously; I bought a bottle of Chianti to calm
my nerves and legged it home.
On Wednesday morning I was so keyed up, I found
myself spending far too long in the shower, playing with
that nice fine jet of water. I had my eyes closed and my
head back when the doorbell went. Hell, all thoughts of
window cleaners faded as I tramped, soaking wet and pink
from an unfulfilled orgasm to find the postman with a
special delivery package. Sitting on the bed, I tore it open
to find a walkman with a tape inside and a note from Joe.
‘If you listen to this before you get to the supermarket
this evening I’ll know. All bets are off and I win.’ The
swine. How was I meant to spend a whole day doing what
I was told? I took the walkman to work and could almost
feel it burning through my handbag. Every time I sat in a
meeting where I wasn’t expected to speak I found my
mind wandering to that rotten tape. I sat there, feeling the
pressure of not being able to satisfy myself mount. At one
point I was massaging my neck when u*********sly my
hand wandered down, over the light silk blouse I was
wearing, to settle over my breast where I found my nipple
had hardened like a pebble. When I caught one of the
partners eyeing me up as if he could read my thoughts, my
cheeks turned puce and I was forced into a mock coughing
fit to try and make out I had been nursing a poor ailing
chest rather than feeling myself up. One thing you could
certainly say of my old friend Joe, he knew how to build
up the tension in a girl.
At last I was in the supermarket. As soon as I got
through the barrier I plugged in the earpieces and listened.
There was a bit of Barry White and then a snatch of Donna
Summer. Huh, cheesy. If Joe thought that was going to
make this seething palace of consumer greed sexy he was
way off the mark. Then came Joe’s voice. Deep and
sensual, I had never heard him talk like that. Instantly I
felt arousal drifting up my thighs and settling somewhere
in the pit of my stomach. Joe’s voice sounded as if he was
lying down and was very, very relaxed.
‘Okay Vanessa,’ he said, ‘I’m in your head now so let’s
just forget about all those people rushing around. They’re
in the real world. You and I are going somewhere much
sexier than that. First, I want you to grab a basket and start
walking upstairs to the underwear section. Obvious I know
but it’s a great place to start. I’ve timed this perfectly so
we should be exactly in sync, even bearing in mind those
ridiculously tight little office skirts and clicky heels you
love to wear.’ As I walked along hearing his instructions, I
listened to my heels and smiled. I never even knew he’d
noticed.
‘Right, you should be there about now. Look along the
rails, to the left, and you will see a perfect coffee-coloured
lace two-piece. There’s something about skin tone
underwear that does it for me. It sort of shows everything
and yet it doesn’t, don’t you think?’ I fingered the lace, it
was a beautiful set, right at the upper end of their ‘finest’
range. Joe’s voice carried on. ‘I’d guess you were a 36D,
am I right?’ He was. ‘Well, this time just get yourself a C
cup. This is underwear for playing in and a little tightness
restricting those full globes of yours will make for a better
game.’ My stomach did a flip. I’d always been a bit fed up
with my breasts. They were heavy and I had to sort of
clinch them to stop them clanging when I ran. ‘Full
globes’ made them sound celebrated. I longed to run my
hands over them with pride but, hey, I was surrounded by
strangers and I could do without being arrested.
‘Now you need some cooling down,’ came Joe’s
breathy tones. He sounded to me like he could do with a
bit of cooling down too. ‘Go back downstairs, turn right
and make for the cold cabinet. Right over in the corner,
you’ll see the cans of whipped cream. Don’t you just love
cream? It’s sweet and silky and those little nozzles on the
can are so useful. Take the can in your hands and just
imagine what it would be like to be lying naked on a bed,
face down with your eyes closed. I’ll bet you’ve got one
hell of a neat arse. I’ll bet it’s just the sort of arse that cries
out to have that little nozzle placed in it and squirted. I can
almost hear that cream collecting around your tight little
bud, and oozing out of the top of your legs. Sticky, drippy
cream, it just calls out for a finger to be dipped into it and
rubbed up and down inside those glorious bum cheeks.
Can you feel it Vanessa?’
There was five seconds silence where I almost
collapsed onto the floor, my arse was quivering like a
samba dancer’s. There was a guy standing next to me
examining butter. Quite frankly, if he’d come up, pushed
me over the cabinet and shagged me senseless I’d have got
down on both knees and given him a blow job as a prize. I
was that horny. I wasn’t sure how much of this I could
take. I found I was staring at the guy like an idiot. I
grabbed a can of cream and darted round the corner,
getting some relief by standing next to the cold chicken
legs.
‘Now, the next stop is aisle 13. Unlucky for some, but
not for us.’ With extreme difficulty I made my way there
and ended up in front of crystallized ginger and icing
sugar. The cake making aisle. It was in danger of making
me think of my mother. Noooooo!
I stood and concentrated hard on Joe. His voice was
faster now, panting. ‘Just take a look along the centre of
the aisle, and you’ll see glace cherries. Gorgeous aren’t
they? Round and red, glistening cherries. The best thing to
do with those little babies is to lay on your back on the bed
and have them, one by one, pushed inside you. Boy do
those little sweeties pop in easily. Trouble is, once they’re
there, you need to get them out. The best thing is for
someone to kneel down and put their tongue inside that
juicy little gash. The first ones almost pop out, the next
ones require a good long suck and the last ones need a
seriously hard fingering.’ With memories of the cream still
fresh in my mind, I couldn’t take it any longer. I was
creaming so hard myself I was worried I might make a
puddle on the floor. The swine, he’d won again. I spent a
sleepless night masturbating like a woman possessed. But
I wasn’t going to give up that easily.
I phoned Joe the next morning when I’d recovered a
bit. ‘It wasn’t fair. The sex was more in my head,’ and
yours, I thought, ‘than in the supermarket. You’ve got to
give me one more chance.’
‘OK, because we’re old friends I give you just one
more chance. But I guarantee there isn’t a place on this
earth you can find that isn’t sexy. And if I win this one,
fair and square, I claim my prize.’
‘If you win this one you’ll deserve a prize.’
‘Ok my lady, so lay down the challenge. What is it?’
‘An old people’s home. Now I’ve got nothing against
old people, I’m planning on being an oldie myself one
day. But that must be the most unsexy place in the
universe. All that boiled cabbage and chamber pots, I can’t
even bring myself to think about it.’
‘Oh, I can,’ said Joe with an inflection in his voice
which made me think that he was already hatching a plan
in that ever-fertile brain. ‘Can you do Saturday evening?’
‘Saturday evening it is.’ I said.
‘I’ll pick you up at 10.00pm.’
The guy was incorrigible. He’d really got into this
challenge thing. I’d never seen him as particularly
competitive but here he was, pulling out all the stops, just
to make a point. Men, they never cease to amaze me.
The days seemed to drag by as my anticipation
mounted. When Saturday came, I was ready two hours
before we were to go. This was better than going on a
date.
As we sat in the car together I was acutely aware of
how close we were to touching every time Joe changed
gear. I could feel my knee twitch as his hand came closer,
as if our bodies were magnetized. It was madness, he’d
almost proved his point, that every situation could be
sexually charged. Maybe though, this would be his
Waterloo. In a way it would be a relief because then I
could get back to normal. In another way, it would be sad
because life would go back to the dull old, same old
routine that days used to have.
We drew up at one of those big houses on the outskirts
of town that used to be family houses but had been turned
into a home for old people. In some places the evening’s
just beginning at 10.00pm but, here, it was as quiet as a
library after closing time.
‘This way,’ said Joe reaching for my hand and bringing
me round the back of the house. In his other hand he held
a small bag. It was dark and I clung on to him trying not to
lose my footing, but enjoying, for the first time ever, the
warmth of his hand.
‘People will think we’re breaking in.’
‘No way,’ he whispered, ‘we’ve got an invitation.’ He
pushed French doors which yielded easily and in the
corner sitting in a chair was an old man. He smiled
without saying a word. ‘This is Gordon,’ said Joe, shaking
the man’s hand. ‘He’s a friend of my dad’s. It’s his
birthday today, poor old sod. I usually just send him a card
but he is eighty today so we sort of agreed he deserved
something a little more. He doesn’t hear too well, and he
can barely walk, but he was a real goer in his time.
Nowadays he just likes to watch.’
My ears pricked up. ‘Watch what?’
Joe thrust the bag he was holding into my hands. I
peered inside. ‘Please, put that on.’ His voice had become
low, it sounded a little like it had on the tape. I hesitated,
but only for a second. Standing behind the old man, I said
to Joe, ‘turn away, don’t want either of you peeking.’
Inside was a nurses’ uniform. I immediately guessed the
scenario. Poor old guy, surrounded by nurses and never
the chance to get an eyeful. I suddenly warmed to my role
as I squeezed into my uniform.
‘Now Gordon,’ I came to stand in front of him, ‘I bet
you’re a very bad patient, always knocking things on the
floor.’
His eyes twinkled as he studied the thin blue material
and my mountainous breasts bursting out of the top.
Normally I wouldn’t have been able to carry this through
but after Joe’s torment of me over the past week I felt so
rampant, I needed to display myself. I deliberately turned
around and bent down, keeping my legs straight. I was
only too aware that he was getting a view of shapely legs,
stockinged with hold-ups that revealed chunky thighs. My
thong like a little red bootlace was a joke on such a huge
round arse. The old guy gave a gurgle of satisfaction and I
heard him say, ‘Go on boy, I can’t get there but you can.’
To my dismay I felt Joe, my old mate, kneeling on the
floor behind me and running his hands up my stockinged
thighs. I let out a squeak, but he was remorseless as I felt
my clit swell to bursting point. Joe, decent caring chap that
he is, moved me around so I could see the old guy get his
kicks. Joe buried his face in my arse cheeks and breathed
in as if he was savouring fine wine then I saw the old man
smile as I felt Joe pull my thong aside and drive his tongue
up to suck at my exposed fanny-lips. Still bending down
and with a burning throbbing clit poking out, Joe
massaged my arse cheeks while he poked his tongue into
my hole. Then, darling boy, he moved my legs apart and,
while he worked with his tongue on the bud of my arse, he
pushed a long sensuous finger into my cunny. I was
already dripping wet with juices which he lapped up
greedily. Swirling his finger round and round it was too
much for me and I came in one shuddering gasp.
Gordon was asleep by the time we left. Joe had done
the decent thing, and fucked me from behind over the bed.
Having a stranger look on just about drove me senseless.
That was ten years ago. Joe won his bet and got his
prize. I never realized he’d fancied me for so long. We’re
still living together now and I still love him. After all,
haven’t I just proved he’s kind to old people and likes
doing the supermarket shop? And with Joe, sex is
everywhere, and still mind-blowing. Oh, and Gordon.
Poor old Gordon’s pushing up the daisies but apparently
he died with a smile on his face.
‘That’s because there’s sex in everything.’
‘No way. It’s just ’cos you’re a man.’
‘It’s true, it’s a primal urge, you can’t get away from
it.’ Joe drained his glass and refilled us both. We were
having another one of our Sunday evening pub
conversations. They could be about anything: Saddam
Hussein; whether God is a woman, but we usually got
round to sex at some point.
‘That’s rubbish. There are some things in life which
just aren’t sexy.’ I tasted the sharp alcohol on my tongue
giving myself time to get my argument honed.
‘Like?’
‘Like things you hate, things you can’t stand. Things
you find repulsive. They’re just not sexy.’
‘Ok, give me an example.’
‘Work, I hate it. I never ever feel sexy at work. I’m
surrounded by grey suits talking money.’
‘Right Vanessa, I’ll look on that as my first challenge.’
I sort of forgot about the conversation after that. When
Joe and I had been at uni we used to sit up till the early
hours with these dopey off the wall debates. Now, still
mates even though we were tied to work and paying rent
on our flats, we were reluctant to grow up. After a bottle
of chilled white any old tosh seems worth talking about
and our Sunday-night specials had become a sort of endof-
the-week ritual. The next day when the alcoholic haze
has worn off you’re shot back into the real world with a
shudder.
I work in the world’s unsexiest building. There isn’t a
curve or a sensuous line in it. It’s all uncompromising
angles, strip-lighting and magnolia patterned with dirty
fingerprints. I feel like a white mouse in an experiment
designed to see how long one sentient being can spend in a
box without turning magnolia herself.
At least it was Monday, 5.45 p.m., nearly my time to
escape. I shrugged into my jacket and put my handbag on
the filing cabinet below the mirror to put on some lippy.
As I was poised, gloss in hand I noticed the window
cleaner behind me in the mirror. Funny time of day to be
turning up, I thought, but then windows can be cleaned
any time.
Now normally I don’t go for big muscles but I guess
that’s because I never see them close up. I only see them
baby-oiled in those horrid weight-lifter mags that make
guys look like they’ve got mumps of the chest. But these,
even from a distance, I could see were not oiled and were
delightfully real, gift-wrapped in a white t-shirt. And they
were coming this way. He sauntered across the rapidly
emptying car park with a ladder under one arm and a cloth
d****d over his shoulder like a cape slung over a military
man. In the other hand he held a bucket slopping with
soapy water. And he was looking at me. I kept my back
turned ’cos it’s easier to stare with your mouth open when
you’re spying on someone in a mirror.
He came over to my ground floor window and stood
with his legs apart, grounding himself. Lifting the ladder
aside he leant it out of the way against the wall. I stared
mesmerized at the strength in his forearms and the way
carrying all that weight made his chest expand. Slowly he
tucked the cloth in his belt, pulling his jeans down a
couple of inches. I now had a ringside view of the line of
blond hairs snaking down from his navel to his crotch, like
a road sign indicating a one-way street. For some reason,
I’d become all fidgety, moving from one high-heeled foot
to another. I closed my mouth and gulped. I was going to
miss my train. Did I care? Nooooo way.
I really wanted to turn round, to drink in the full force
of him but maybe if I had, it would have broken the spell.
I could see well enough as he leant down, dipped his
sponge in the bucket, and slapped it against the window.
Round and round he rubbed, the soapy water dripping
down his upheld arm and soaking those hefty shoulders.
As he moved his arm right and left, his hips swayed in
time, grinding the zip of his jeans against the window
ledge. Through the thin cotton t-shirt, the dripping water
revealed cheeky man-nipples. Then the water crept down
to the soaking bulge between his legs. It barely hid a cock
which looked as if it was ready to burst under the denim.
A wet patch spreading down to his thighs and the halflidded
look of his eyes made him look like a man almost
ready to come.
I imagined myself, turning around. For a second I could
see us both immobile. Then, I pictured one of his
eyebrows raising a fraction, his lips quirking into the
essence of a smile. In my mind, he issued me with a
challenge.
I dreamt I walked over to the window, swung my
swivel chair and placed myself in it facing him squarely.
My heart was thumping as I imagined easing my tight
navy blue skirt up to my bum till I was sitting on the hem.
In my mind’s eye I took first one, then the other
stockinged foot and hitched it onto the window sill giving
him an eyeful of lacy stocking top and thigh.
As if he could read my mind, the real man impatiently
ripped open the top button of his jeans and yanked down
the zip, liberating a cock which sprang out proudly at right
angles to me. Stunned at this blatant display, I dropped my
lipstick and turned around. He really was the most
delectable piece of manhood to cross my path lately. If he
was ready to do the business, I thought I’d give him a bit
of a hand. I sat opposite him, parting my lips and putting
my middle finger in my mouth, watching his eyes follow
me as I eased open the top of my knickers and slid my
finger inside my waiting cunny. At the sight of my
dampening panties he dipped one hand into the soapy
water using its moistness to lubricate his dick. Looking
soapy and filthy and clean all at once, I could see him
sliding his hand rhythmically up and down. His arm
muscles tensed, standing out like a relief map of the
Pyrenees as he gained momentum. His jutting hips bucked
in time. There are few things more erotic than looking at
the concentration on a man’s face as he approaches
eruption. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and I
smiled with triumph as he pulled frantically while his cock
shot hot salty come onto the window in a sputtering
fountain jet.
Seeing the thick essence trickle down the window sent
my hormones into overdrive and I was just settling down
to finish myself off when my mobile rang. It plummeted
me into reality as sharply as if the fire alarm had sounded.
What the hell was I doing pleasuring myself in front of a
total stranger when the guard could come round the corner
any minute? Shock made my legs straighten, shooting my
roller-coastered chair backwards where I narrowly
managed to save myself by grabbing the desk.
‘What?’ I yelled down the phone, standing on
trembling legs.
‘Joe here. You sound flustered.’ I could tell he was
smiling. Then light began to dawn.
‘You bastard, you set this up, didn’t you?’
Itching with frustration, I looked at my window cleaner
zipping up his jeans and running a squeegee down the
glass. He wiped away all that lovely come and my plans
for the evening with it.
‘I think I win round one. You see work can be sexy.
Was he any good?’
‘Good, he was fucking brilliant. Although his
cleaning’s crap. He’s left the window all streaky.’
‘That’s ’cos he’s a builder. You don’t think he got
muscles like that nancying about with a sponge do you?
He’s a good friend. I do all his computer set-ups for him
so he owed me a favour.’
‘You have got to give me his number.’
‘Do you want the mobile or the home one? The home
one he shares with his wife and three k**s, that is.’ Joe
laughed, somewhat cruelly I thought, ‘that guy is so
unavailable.’
My ‘window cleaner’ at this point waved a cheery
farewell, stepped into his white van and disappeared like
my fantasies in a puff of smelly exhaust.
I had to admit Joe had proved his point. Sulkily I said,
‘you made me miss my train.’
‘Sorry sweets. Trains are like men though. There’ll be
another along later.’
‘You still haven’t won your bet. Not everywhere is
sexy. Work was too easy, it closes and there are places to
lurk. I’ll bet you can’t make a 24-hour supermarket sexy.
Those places are hell on earth and there’s nowhere to hide
from screaming k**s and old ladies.’
‘Good challenge,’ mused Joe. ‘I need a couple of days’
planning time. Go Wednesday evening and I’ll prove my
point.’
Of course, I was on tenterhooks till then. I was in
danger of admitting Joe had been right. After his escapade
at work I was tortured every time I called the photocopier
man with thoughts that he might be some hunk about to go
down on me in the photocopier room. I cursed Joe for
turning me into a sort of sex-obsessed tart.
Tuesday was a nightmare. I couldn’t wait to get off the
train and dash into my local Tesco, and that’s a first! As I
wandered round looking at the zombie-like shoppers I
found myself peering in corners and even surreptitiously
pushing doors marked ‘no entry’ in a feeble attempt to
guess what Joe had in store for me. Like Pandora,
desperate to open the box, I prowled around unable to
leave. I swear I was stalked by a store detective I was
acting so suspiciously; I bought a bottle of Chianti to calm
my nerves and legged it home.
On Wednesday morning I was so keyed up, I found
myself spending far too long in the shower, playing with
that nice fine jet of water. I had my eyes closed and my
head back when the doorbell went. Hell, all thoughts of
window cleaners faded as I tramped, soaking wet and pink
from an unfulfilled orgasm to find the postman with a
special delivery package. Sitting on the bed, I tore it open
to find a walkman with a tape inside and a note from Joe.
‘If you listen to this before you get to the supermarket
this evening I’ll know. All bets are off and I win.’ The
swine. How was I meant to spend a whole day doing what
I was told? I took the walkman to work and could almost
feel it burning through my handbag. Every time I sat in a
meeting where I wasn’t expected to speak I found my
mind wandering to that rotten tape. I sat there, feeling the
pressure of not being able to satisfy myself mount. At one
point I was massaging my neck when u*********sly my
hand wandered down, over the light silk blouse I was
wearing, to settle over my breast where I found my nipple
had hardened like a pebble. When I caught one of the
partners eyeing me up as if he could read my thoughts, my
cheeks turned puce and I was forced into a mock coughing
fit to try and make out I had been nursing a poor ailing
chest rather than feeling myself up. One thing you could
certainly say of my old friend Joe, he knew how to build
up the tension in a girl.
At last I was in the supermarket. As soon as I got
through the barrier I plugged in the earpieces and listened.
There was a bit of Barry White and then a snatch of Donna
Summer. Huh, cheesy. If Joe thought that was going to
make this seething palace of consumer greed sexy he was
way off the mark. Then came Joe’s voice. Deep and
sensual, I had never heard him talk like that. Instantly I
felt arousal drifting up my thighs and settling somewhere
in the pit of my stomach. Joe’s voice sounded as if he was
lying down and was very, very relaxed.
‘Okay Vanessa,’ he said, ‘I’m in your head now so let’s
just forget about all those people rushing around. They’re
in the real world. You and I are going somewhere much
sexier than that. First, I want you to grab a basket and start
walking upstairs to the underwear section. Obvious I know
but it’s a great place to start. I’ve timed this perfectly so
we should be exactly in sync, even bearing in mind those
ridiculously tight little office skirts and clicky heels you
love to wear.’ As I walked along hearing his instructions, I
listened to my heels and smiled. I never even knew he’d
noticed.
‘Right, you should be there about now. Look along the
rails, to the left, and you will see a perfect coffee-coloured
lace two-piece. There’s something about skin tone
underwear that does it for me. It sort of shows everything
and yet it doesn’t, don’t you think?’ I fingered the lace, it
was a beautiful set, right at the upper end of their ‘finest’
range. Joe’s voice carried on. ‘I’d guess you were a 36D,
am I right?’ He was. ‘Well, this time just get yourself a C
cup. This is underwear for playing in and a little tightness
restricting those full globes of yours will make for a better
game.’ My stomach did a flip. I’d always been a bit fed up
with my breasts. They were heavy and I had to sort of
clinch them to stop them clanging when I ran. ‘Full
globes’ made them sound celebrated. I longed to run my
hands over them with pride but, hey, I was surrounded by
strangers and I could do without being arrested.
‘Now you need some cooling down,’ came Joe’s
breathy tones. He sounded to me like he could do with a
bit of cooling down too. ‘Go back downstairs, turn right
and make for the cold cabinet. Right over in the corner,
you’ll see the cans of whipped cream. Don’t you just love
cream? It’s sweet and silky and those little nozzles on the
can are so useful. Take the can in your hands and just
imagine what it would be like to be lying naked on a bed,
face down with your eyes closed. I’ll bet you’ve got one
hell of a neat arse. I’ll bet it’s just the sort of arse that cries
out to have that little nozzle placed in it and squirted. I can
almost hear that cream collecting around your tight little
bud, and oozing out of the top of your legs. Sticky, drippy
cream, it just calls out for a finger to be dipped into it and
rubbed up and down inside those glorious bum cheeks.
Can you feel it Vanessa?’
There was five seconds silence where I almost
collapsed onto the floor, my arse was quivering like a
samba dancer’s. There was a guy standing next to me
examining butter. Quite frankly, if he’d come up, pushed
me over the cabinet and shagged me senseless I’d have got
down on both knees and given him a blow job as a prize. I
was that horny. I wasn’t sure how much of this I could
take. I found I was staring at the guy like an idiot. I
grabbed a can of cream and darted round the corner,
getting some relief by standing next to the cold chicken
legs.
‘Now, the next stop is aisle 13. Unlucky for some, but
not for us.’ With extreme difficulty I made my way there
and ended up in front of crystallized ginger and icing
sugar. The cake making aisle. It was in danger of making
me think of my mother. Noooooo!
I stood and concentrated hard on Joe. His voice was
faster now, panting. ‘Just take a look along the centre of
the aisle, and you’ll see glace cherries. Gorgeous aren’t
they? Round and red, glistening cherries. The best thing to
do with those little babies is to lay on your back on the bed
and have them, one by one, pushed inside you. Boy do
those little sweeties pop in easily. Trouble is, once they’re
there, you need to get them out. The best thing is for
someone to kneel down and put their tongue inside that
juicy little gash. The first ones almost pop out, the next
ones require a good long suck and the last ones need a
seriously hard fingering.’ With memories of the cream still
fresh in my mind, I couldn’t take it any longer. I was
creaming so hard myself I was worried I might make a
puddle on the floor. The swine, he’d won again. I spent a
sleepless night masturbating like a woman possessed. But
I wasn’t going to give up that easily.
I phoned Joe the next morning when I’d recovered a
bit. ‘It wasn’t fair. The sex was more in my head,’ and
yours, I thought, ‘than in the supermarket. You’ve got to
give me one more chance.’
‘OK, because we’re old friends I give you just one
more chance. But I guarantee there isn’t a place on this
earth you can find that isn’t sexy. And if I win this one,
fair and square, I claim my prize.’
‘If you win this one you’ll deserve a prize.’
‘Ok my lady, so lay down the challenge. What is it?’
‘An old people’s home. Now I’ve got nothing against
old people, I’m planning on being an oldie myself one
day. But that must be the most unsexy place in the
universe. All that boiled cabbage and chamber pots, I can’t
even bring myself to think about it.’
‘Oh, I can,’ said Joe with an inflection in his voice
which made me think that he was already hatching a plan
in that ever-fertile brain. ‘Can you do Saturday evening?’
‘Saturday evening it is.’ I said.
‘I’ll pick you up at 10.00pm.’
The guy was incorrigible. He’d really got into this
challenge thing. I’d never seen him as particularly
competitive but here he was, pulling out all the stops, just
to make a point. Men, they never cease to amaze me.
The days seemed to drag by as my anticipation
mounted. When Saturday came, I was ready two hours
before we were to go. This was better than going on a
date.
As we sat in the car together I was acutely aware of
how close we were to touching every time Joe changed
gear. I could feel my knee twitch as his hand came closer,
as if our bodies were magnetized. It was madness, he’d
almost proved his point, that every situation could be
sexually charged. Maybe though, this would be his
Waterloo. In a way it would be a relief because then I
could get back to normal. In another way, it would be sad
because life would go back to the dull old, same old
routine that days used to have.
We drew up at one of those big houses on the outskirts
of town that used to be family houses but had been turned
into a home for old people. In some places the evening’s
just beginning at 10.00pm but, here, it was as quiet as a
library after closing time.
‘This way,’ said Joe reaching for my hand and bringing
me round the back of the house. In his other hand he held
a small bag. It was dark and I clung on to him trying not to
lose my footing, but enjoying, for the first time ever, the
warmth of his hand.
‘People will think we’re breaking in.’
‘No way,’ he whispered, ‘we’ve got an invitation.’ He
pushed French doors which yielded easily and in the
corner sitting in a chair was an old man. He smiled
without saying a word. ‘This is Gordon,’ said Joe, shaking
the man’s hand. ‘He’s a friend of my dad’s. It’s his
birthday today, poor old sod. I usually just send him a card
but he is eighty today so we sort of agreed he deserved
something a little more. He doesn’t hear too well, and he
can barely walk, but he was a real goer in his time.
Nowadays he just likes to watch.’
My ears pricked up. ‘Watch what?’
Joe thrust the bag he was holding into my hands. I
peered inside. ‘Please, put that on.’ His voice had become
low, it sounded a little like it had on the tape. I hesitated,
but only for a second. Standing behind the old man, I said
to Joe, ‘turn away, don’t want either of you peeking.’
Inside was a nurses’ uniform. I immediately guessed the
scenario. Poor old guy, surrounded by nurses and never
the chance to get an eyeful. I suddenly warmed to my role
as I squeezed into my uniform.
‘Now Gordon,’ I came to stand in front of him, ‘I bet
you’re a very bad patient, always knocking things on the
floor.’
His eyes twinkled as he studied the thin blue material
and my mountainous breasts bursting out of the top.
Normally I wouldn’t have been able to carry this through
but after Joe’s torment of me over the past week I felt so
rampant, I needed to display myself. I deliberately turned
around and bent down, keeping my legs straight. I was
only too aware that he was getting a view of shapely legs,
stockinged with hold-ups that revealed chunky thighs. My
thong like a little red bootlace was a joke on such a huge
round arse. The old guy gave a gurgle of satisfaction and I
heard him say, ‘Go on boy, I can’t get there but you can.’
To my dismay I felt Joe, my old mate, kneeling on the
floor behind me and running his hands up my stockinged
thighs. I let out a squeak, but he was remorseless as I felt
my clit swell to bursting point. Joe, decent caring chap that
he is, moved me around so I could see the old guy get his
kicks. Joe buried his face in my arse cheeks and breathed
in as if he was savouring fine wine then I saw the old man
smile as I felt Joe pull my thong aside and drive his tongue
up to suck at my exposed fanny-lips. Still bending down
and with a burning throbbing clit poking out, Joe
massaged my arse cheeks while he poked his tongue into
my hole. Then, darling boy, he moved my legs apart and,
while he worked with his tongue on the bud of my arse, he
pushed a long sensuous finger into my cunny. I was
already dripping wet with juices which he lapped up
greedily. Swirling his finger round and round it was too
much for me and I came in one shuddering gasp.
Gordon was asleep by the time we left. Joe had done
the decent thing, and fucked me from behind over the bed.
Having a stranger look on just about drove me senseless.
That was ten years ago. Joe won his bet and got his
prize. I never realized he’d fancied me for so long. We’re
still living together now and I still love him. After all,
haven’t I just proved he’s kind to old people and likes
doing the supermarket shop? And with Joe, sex is
everywhere, and still mind-blowing. Oh, and Gordon.
Poor old Gordon’s pushing up the daisies but apparently
he died with a smile on his face.
Angelica
- 10.09.2020
- 20
- 0
