B J Jones the Story of My LifeChapter 446
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Maumee free porn video
Does everyone catergorize their memories? I do.
The woman’s voice possessed a musical timbre, easy on my ears, sweet, and very pleasant to listen to. This was my first impression. I would thus forever categorize her, if I learned nothing more about her.
“Will there be anything else?”, she smiles as she sacks my purchase and rings up the sale. Her slender fingers repeatedly touch my palm as she deliberately, slowly, lingeringly, counts each coin, my change, into my hand. Withdrawing her hand, her finger tips boldly rake my palm and fingers with a caress, after giving me the final coin.
I grin at the unsubtle invitation of her flirtatious touch. She grins back with her eyes and her lips, both. Nice smile, good teeth! New categories of memories filed for the future, if there is any future.
“I could use a good read. Have you any paperback novels in English?”. We are speaking Spanish.
“Too much free time on your hands? Or are you a voracious reader?” she impudently asks.
How to answer her and not encourage more personal questions? I feel kindly toward her, and not put off by her forwardness. But then, neither am I loitering about, or actively seeking female companionship. Not adverse to the idea though, but I entered the store with a different purpose and am not just aimlessly wandering about. Taking stock of my preferences in this moment, I am fairly certain I am not very interested in flirting with her. A deeper assessment of my internal capricious agenda, leads to a surprise discovery, that I am reluctant to leave. Besides, I remind myself, she hasn’t answered my question about available books for sale. I do want something to read, and it’s why I’m here...
“I make the time to enjoy reading. Could you please direct me?”
“I’ll be VERY happy to show you.” She smiles charmingly, not at all dismayed at my brusque dismissal of her intrusive overture. and she moves from behind the counter, and walks down the aisle.
She looks back at me, over her shoulder and crinkles her eyes in amusement. I am caught watching her shapely ass sway as she walks before me. She struts now, exaggerating the swing of her hips. She is still looking at me, unfortunately not looking where she is going. She stumbles and falls, tripping over a heavy unopened carton in the middle of the floor in the aisle.
“Damn it, shit”
She is head down, bottoms up, hands out in front, and knees elevated on top of the cardboard box. Her full, midcalf length skirt, has flipped up over her head, and her backside is on display, up to her armpits.
Immediately sprinting to her aid, I call to her, “Are you hurt?”, while my eyes register everything in exquisite detail. My brain is recording; click, click, click; like strobed still-photo memory shots of all my eyes see.
I see very well, and can remember vividly. Most people are surprisingly unobservant. I’m a professional observer.
Photography isn’t a hobby with me. Seems to me, a redundant and expensive hobby. I am a trained expert observer. My eyes are my camera.
Who cares? Proud of my talents and skills, and my career, They made me a good income as a ship’s watch officer. I am always on watch and analyze everything! Until I retired, it was my career and livelihood. What is the most important instrument on a ship’s bridge? The eyes of the navigator! Now I sail where-ever I want, on my own boat. My skills are used for my own pleasures.
In regards to relating this story, my observation skills enable me to accurately describe everything in minutiae. The mental slide-show inside my head, is as crisp as when I recorded it. I choose to share it with you here.
“How can I help you?” Meant, I intended the question. where on your body can I put my hands and not violate your dignity?
“Please, just help me up.” Meant, I interpreted, if concerned for her dignity, assist her out of this undignified pose.
I pulled her skirt down over her bottom, and hauling on her shoulders, got her kneeling upright. Offering her my arm, as though I were escorting her to dinner, she anxiously clutched it fiercely against her breasts, and stood up.
“Thank you” She thanked me.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m embarrassed” She blushed.
“That looked like a prety bad fall”
“No, I feel I’m alright. Nothing broken. Only bruises to my pride.” She smiles, a silent plea for self editing, censoring my recent memory.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“I do feel a little unsteady”
“Do you think you can walk”
“Do you want to carry me?” Suggestive suggestion.
“I can if required.”
“No, I’m too heavy” She isn’t fat or particularly large boned, nor is she petit ... Is she fishing for a compliment regarding her very attractive curvacious figure?
“You aren’t heavy, but if you want to try walking yourself?”
“Can you hold on to my arm?” She’s suggesting more intimacy?
“Hold on to my arm, then.” I counter.
“Better put your arm around me.” She wants intimacy, just as I guessed.
“Where can I take you?”
“The office in back.” A secluded place. Is she attempting seduction?
We slowly move to the rear of the shop. Clinging tightly, her soft tittles press firmly against my arm, as she clutches my arm to her bosom. She wants to sit on the sofa, not the desk chair. We sit down together since reclaiming my arm requires more resolve than I feel...
“Are you okay? Can I find someone to assist you?”
“There is no-one else here.” Alone, we need not fear interruptions, she wants me to know.
“You are alone?”
“No, you’re here.” Obvious and again hints at intimacy.
“The shop is unattended. Shall I lock it up for you, just until your boss arrives?”
“My boss?” She smiles enigmatically.
“Aren’t you going to notify your employer, or supervisor to send someone over? To help? Or relieve you?”
“No, there’s no-one. I have no employees. I’m the owner.” Interesting.
“Maybe I should lock the shop for you?”
“Yes, but don’t leave me.” Desperation?
“Isn’t it a bit awkward to drag you all the way to the front and back again?” I deliberately pretend to misunderstand.
“I’ll stay here.” Doe eyed, she entreats me with intense liquid eyes...
“I think that’s wise. So, then I’ll need to leave you for just a few minutes, in order I can lock up the shop. Okay? You’ll be okay?”
“Come back to me.” Desperation.
Seldom have I heard such desperation and never, in such a sweet voice. I took the keys from her desk and secured the shop. Upon returning, I knelt by the sofa, keeping myself out of reach of clutches.
“Do you think you might need medical attention?”
“I need attention. Are you medically trained?” That’s a loaded invitation if I ever heard one!
“Do you have a personal physician? Perhaps you should call?”
“I don’t need an actual doctor.” She wants me to play doctor instead!
“Can I get you anything? A drink from the shop, or an aspirin or something? Anything?”
“You are such a gentleman and I wish you weren’t” She laments.
“Thank you. You are such a flirt.”
“I need you, just you.” She wants sex in a bad way! Am I reading her correctly or fantasizing? Now why would I be fantasizing about her?
Silence. Recall that cerebral slide-show talent I mentioned I have? I’ve kept that out of my thoughts, I knew it would be a distraction. My initial assessment while recording these memories was, “Titillating”. I’d even go so far as to say, categorized as, HOT!
Big Deal, I saw her panties. Saw her plump mound in her panties. So anybody else who happened to be there would see. But I see more.
I saw plump shapely thighs, with smooth, unwrinkled skin, not marred by cellulite or varicose veins. I saw hairy legs. WHOA, not sexy! Oh no, normally not attractive but on her, yes they were! She wasn’t THAT hairy, not coarse dark curly hairy, not hairy like many men’s legs. She was fuzzy, downy, above her knees.
Actually, one of the first things I noticed about her, besides the sweetness of her voice, was a fine downy furze along her jaw bone, just beneath her ears, just tiny fine light brown or blond hairs. Imagine the peach-fuzz on a young girls Mons, These hairs were just a tiny bit longer and a shade or two darker blond. I call it a furze. Kissable. Silky looking. Caress-able, Noteworthy. YUMMY! This same delicate furze was also on her upper thighs, though only high up, where never expected to be publicly seen. My seeing it seemed, to me, an incredibly intimate memory. In fact, the memory gave me an erection. She was not bashful about noticing, and stared at my tented crotch.
I liked her sleek look. She looked healthy. Not athletic, but fit.
Not fat nor saggy nor bony. All of her between shoes to panties and up to bra strap had been visible. Yet her ribs weren’t. Her bra strap wasn’t pinched into her flesh, either. Rode on the surface, without fleshy overhangs. Firm fleshed, would describe her. No hour glass figure, or antebellum 13 inch waist. This woman’s physique suggested she enjoyed a good meal often. She was neither fat nor anorexic. Just a bit thick in the middle maybe. Assessing the evidence suggested, a gal who enjoyed life. Knew how, what was important, enjoyed it, and not ashamed of it.
Her gorgeous ass was, next to her lovely voice, her best feature. In great shape. A walker’s ass. The gluts muscular yet lovely cushions. She was sleek, I repeat that claim! The only definition, or lines to speak of, were the tucked in creases where her butt cheeks met the back of her curvy thighs.
Those creases gave her ass a soft look. In our conversation, I found out, she loved to walk. Surprised, it’s the same with me.
Her panties were delicate lace, French cut, and looked expensive.
Enabled me to gauge her butt and thighs so very accurately. And the most interesting thing about her panties, besides the plumpness of her pudenda, was ... I’m not fantasizing, seriously, they were wet!
Not just a little wet either! The lady’s panty was SOAKING WET! And it wasn’t pee, either.
A little bit of her bare pussy lips had been exposed. Sparsely furzed, just like her jaw line and thighs! They were thick and meaty and protruded a tiny bit into the leg holes, either side of her panty crotch. They were shiny wet, and a short nearby expanse of inner thigh was glossy with her juices, too! The panty crotch was darkly wet and made nearly transparent with the wetness. French cut panties don’t have that heavy gusset in the crotch. They’re intended to be translucent even when dry. Wet? Hell, I could almost see into her. I mentioned she had a plump pudenda? It filled her pantie to overflowing and you could call her pussy meaty. It’s a myth that all twats are pink inside. In fact most aren’t. Most are brown inside and I’ve seen plenty ... This lady had the interior color you’d expect fresh ground round to be. Raw meat!
I could describe her some more but why bother. I have photo sharp memories, but I will add this. When I took hold of her shoulders to haul her upright, her bones felt delicate. Fine boned, well fed, healthy.
When I was with her in the office, she told me, “I need you, just you.”.
There’s only a couple ways to interpret that. and when you calculate into the equation she was sorry I was a gentleman?
Figuring her out gets simple enough, even someone as slow as I can.
Kneeling is uncomfortable, so I sit, perched on the edge of the couch. My legs are bent almost in a sprinters crouch on the starting blocks. I am prepared to escape if she becomes overly aggressive. She reaches for my hand and takes it. I let her hold my relaxed hand but I don’t hold her hand. Seemed too cold hearted to jerk away from her.
“You can’t know what you do to me.” it was almost a whisper. I’m pretty sure what I can do to you, and I probably will. I’m a big fan of pussy. Originally I attributed to some sort of Nurse Nancy Romance she might have been reading prior to my entering her shop, her wet panties. Now, I believe it’s because she’s just incredibly horny!
Is it really possible MY presence actually got the lady so lubed up?
She is holding, I assume, a hanky when I’d returned. Now she presses her hanky into my hand she holds. My reluctant, shy, reticent hand.
“I want you to have them”, the wet lace is in my hand ... had she been weeping? ... cold SLIMEY lacy ... she closes my fingers on them, “They’re yours.”
“Damn” I think. If I toss them at the wall, they’ll stick there!
In my hand are her panties and they aren’t just wet, they are SNOTTY. Viscous! I’m not the only one who thinks so. She holds up her hand before my eyes and makes the victory ‘Vee’ sign with two fingers, opening and closing her fingers. Elastic strands of her mucous bridge between, hang in a centenary arc between the open fingers.
Nadene
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