Ugly Sister
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The Ugly OneChapter 7 free porn video
I slowly drifted awake. The memories of my dreams played through my mind. Images of Tamara's nude body, Summer sucking my cock, even Angie in lingerie I'd never seen. I tried to sort through them, to pick and choose how to return to them. But the dreams did not return, not with the same vividness. I just lay there, wanting more.
The dreams haunted me the rest of the day. Particularly the one about Angie. I realized I had no idea how she'd look in lingerie. Angie had been impeccably dressed each time we'd been together, but it had all been loose fitting clothes. While she was by no means fat or stocky, she was also not skinny. She could be anything from trim and muscular to soft and plump under those clothes. I eventually realized I didn't care. I liked her. I was attracted to her smile, her eyes, and the way she tilted her head. I was sure I'd be attracted to the rest of her. After all, she seemed to be attracted to ugly old me.
The rest of my preparations for our date went smoothly. I was fully decked out, arms full, when I rang Angie's bell Saturday afternoon. I had my on best broad over-the-top grin when she opened the door. Angie saw me and started laughing.
"A Loden Huete?!?"
"I assume you mean the German hat and not the suit," I replied deadpan, covering my nerves.
She nodded.
"I had to set the mood. And speaking of which..." I held out the mixed bouquet in my right hand " ... for you."
Angie's laughter softened into a smile as she took the flowers. She glanced at the bottle nestled in my other arm. I turned the label so she could see.
"Not champagne, German beer. The best I could find." I said.
"Why beer?"
"You'll see," I replied, raising my eyebrows in an attempt to be mysterious.
Angie just chuckled and shook her head.
"You look great, by the way," I said.
Angie smiled above a little blush. She wore a dress cinched at the waist, though loose above and below it. It exposed just enough cleavage to be more than conservative, but definitely classy. She caught me looking and I shrugged and tried to look innocent—the kid caught in the cookie jar. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
She was still rolling her eyes as I held her car door for her a little later, the flowers and beer safely stashed in her house.
"I can't believe the hat," she said.
I grinned, though I was starting to wonder if I'd made a mistake.
"I already owned it," I replied. "I bought it a few years ago on a whim. I wasn't planning on wearing it where we're going."
"You do look good in that suit without it," she said.
I flushed a little.
"All my clothes are custom tailored," I replied, "I think clothes can do a lot for my appearance."
Angie nodded.
"At the shop," she stated, "we work hard to make sure the clothes flatter the woman, highlighting her good features and downplaying any problem areas. It's really nice when we can find an outfit she looks good in and is really happy with."
"Really? What things do you do? I mean, how do you know what will highlight or downplay someone's body?"
"You really want to hear about my job?" she asked.
"Sure."
"Wow. Most guys hear I'm in women's clothing and tune out," she said.
I gave a disdainful shrug but didn't say anything. The silence actually wasn't uncomfortable.
"So tell me," I urged after a bit.
And Angie did. I listened as best I could while driving and keeping my eyes on the road. She talked of their clientele, which apparently covered a wide range of women, but were predominantly older with figures that reflected their age. While they had several clients who were as trim as teenagers, the majority were "working on it"—exercising assiduously as they attempted to lose the pregnancy pounds or tighten up what gravity was doing its best to untighten. In the meantime, they wanted to look good and even be dazzling on occasion. From dazzling to drop dead sexy was just a few tailored stitches and attitude, Angie explained.
"Attitude?" I asked.
"Attitude," she affirmed. "If a woman feels sexy, she comes across as sexy. It doesn't matter if she's fifty or fifty pounds overweight."
"I don't know about that," I said. "Guys can be pretty shallow."
"True," she replied with some bitterness. "But just because a guy can't see it doesn't mean she's not sexy. Besides most of these women are dressing for their husbands who already think they're sexy. That's when it's really great--when a regular comes back from a "date" with her husband gushing about his reaction to her new outfit. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it makes it all worthwhile."
"Yeah," I replied. "I imagine so."
About that time, we arrived at the Denver Performing Arts Complex. As we waited in line to get into the parking garage, I glanced over. Angie was studiously thinking. I guessed she was trying to figure out which theatre in the complex we were going to and I decided to help her out.
"Since you like movies," I began, "I thought you might like a play that was based on a movie."
"Instead of the other way around?"
"Correct. And it obviously has something to do with Germany."
"'Cabaret'?" she asked.
"No, but it's still a musical." I started singing
"Springtime for Hitler and Germany
Winter for Poland and France."
"'The Producers'!" she shouted. Angie then started joyously laughing.
"That's right," I answered. "And afterwards, I know a great place to get pretzels, if you're interested."
"Oh my. Maybe," she replied. "Though that will be dinner time, and I don't think I want pretzels for dinner."
"I have other plans for dinner," I remarked.
"Oh ho! Are you going to tell me?"
"You'll see."
"Okay."
By then we'd found parking. A few minutes later we were in the theatre, about three quarters of the way back. It was the best seats I'd been able to find given my late plans and I was lucky to get them. The show hadn't sold out only because it was a matinee.
Angie didn't seem to care. She loved it. She giggled continuously during the scenes with the amorous little old ladies and whispered that it was hard to look at Alan Ruck and not think of his role in 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off'. We chatted during intermission about the cast and particular scenes and enthusiastically joined in the thunderous applause at the end of the show.
Afterwards, I led us out toward the street instead of the parking garage, telling Angie we needed to walk to our next destination. We wandered a few blocks over to the 16th Street pedestrian mall. We stopped a few feet from a pretzel vendor and I offered to get her one, but she declined, laughing. I then led her to the bar entrance to the Palomino. The upscale furnishings impressed her and there was enough of a crowd for it to be lively, but not noisy. I ordered us some German lagers and we sipped them, still talking about the show and then other musicals and plays. After we'd finished, I paid the tab and mentioned it was almost time for our dinner reservation.
"Where are we going?" Angie asked.
"Well, we were going to eat here, but a friend suggested that we'd enjoy Panzano much more," I answered.
Angie smiled. "I like Panzano. Their bread is to die for."
We walked the few blocks over and I found that the bread was indeed to die for. The entire meal was incredible, from the gnocchi to the wine. Angie's eyes began to glow toward the end of the evening, warm and friendly. I wanted to attribute it to the wine, but wasn't sure.
Her glow persisted as we headed out into the night. It had gotten much colder, leading Angie to put on gloves and fully button her coat. As we walked, she seemed to still be cold because she kept brushing up against me, walking close. Our hands lightly collided, the cloth of gloves muffling the contact. I wondered if I should take her hand.
Oh. She was making it easy.
My head started to pound and my breathing picked up. The next time her hand brushed by, I opened my fingers and slid her palm into mine. She squeezed my hand in response. We walked in silence, holding hands, for the next few blocks. We stopped on 16th Street when we saw one of the horse drawn carriages that routinely ply the mall. I knew the ride was supposed to be romantic and I was wondering if I should suggest it when Angie started pulling me forward. I bit my tongue and we headed back to the car.
When we got to Angie's, she invited me in.
"We have to try the beer you brought," she mused.
I rapidly nodded my head in response. She slipped into the kitchen to get glasses, leaving me sitting on her couch, feeling my nerves start to jangle and pound. I caught myself drumming my fingers on my thigh.
Relax, I told myself. Relax. This was no different than sitting on Tamara's couch.
Angie returned with the beer and I gratefully wrapped my fingers around the glass. Angie was holding hers expectantly in front of her. Oh, of course. I raised mine.
"Cheers!" I said.
Angie smiled and we clinked glasses, then took our first sips.
"My, this is good," Angie remarked.
"A friend recommended it," I replied.
"You have good friends."
"That I do."
I drank some more and thought about that. Maybe being just friends with Tamara would be pretty good after all. When I looked over, Angie had shifted position. She was sitting sideways on the couch, much closer to me than when she sat down. She leaned against the back of the couch, almost languorously.
"So," she began, "are you this romantic with all the women you've dated?"
"Um, well, I haven't dated much," I confessed.
"Really? I'm surprised."
I just shrugged my shoulders.
"Didn't your husband used to do things like this?"
"Mike? Oh no. He could be charming on occasion, but never romantic. That would have taken too much planning ahead."
"It's not that hard," I replied.
Angie sighed.
"Mike never thought about anyone but himself. Charm was just something he turned on to get what he wanted. I didn't figure that out until way too late."
"Oh."
Angie smiled at me.
"You're the only man to ever bring me flowers more than once, John."
I glanced down as I felt the blood rush to my face.
"I thought you'd like them," I protested.
"I do!"
I looked back up. Angie was still smiling. She had set her beer down and seemed to be leaning in a little. She met my gaze and then her eyes flicked lower and then back.
Oh.
I slowly leaned in, my own eyes bouncing between her eyes and lips. I had to reach out to avoid falling and she slid forward into my arms. Before I could even think about it, we were kissing.
We kissed. Tender and soft. We kissed. Warm and slow. We kissed. Not with Summer's ferocious lustiness or Tamara's playfulness, but a passion all our own. We kissed.
We kissed for a long time. Mostly lips caressed lips, though mouths parted from time to time. I also went exploring, kissing her face and neck, though keeping quite high, avoiding any hint that this was the beginning of a seduction. We giggled at the accidental bump of noses. I pulled her into my lap and we kissed some more. We took breathers and just cuddled, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes, before one of us would begin the kissing again. During one of our pauses I glanced at the clock and realized how late it had gotten. Of course, it took several more minutes of kissing and cuddling before I was finally escorted to the door. She asked me to call soon and I was quite willing to make that promise.
Angie and I did talk the next day, spending almost an hour on the phone. We talked several times during the week as well, though it was fleeting and bittersweet as the only night she was free was Thursday and I wasn't ready to give up my time with Tamara and Billy yet.
And I was certainly glad I hadn't. Tamara opened the door and gave me a big hug, grinning broadly. As she released me, I could hear Billy headed our way. He came bounding down the hall, wearing a green shirt and brown tights, with a felt hat on his head and carrying a plastic sword instead of his bow. I burst out laughing. Billy frowned at me.
"Sorry, Robin," I apologized. "You surprised me. I wasn't expecting to see you with a sword."
"This one's yours," he informed me. "Mine's in my bedroom." With that he handed me the sword, then turned and headed back down the hall.
I looked at Tamara.
"He wanted to get it for you," she said with a shrug.
What the heck. I followed Billy back to his room.
When I got there, Billy was holding his sword out, standing in something close to a guard position. I raised my sword.
"Prepare to be defeated!" I cried. "You may be better with a bow, Robin, but I am the master of the sword!"
With that, I thwapped my blade against Billy's. We banged our swords against each other's for a while and then I made a couple of light thrusts towards Billy's arms and torso. Billy caught on—the object was not to stab one's opponent's sword after all. He began taking his own shots at me. I let our swordplay drift until I was engaged purely defensively, blocking Billy's swings but making none of my own. Frustrated with my success, Billy sped up his attacks and began swinging harder, which was unfortunate when I got clever and tried a feint. His sword smacked my hand and despite being plastic, it stung. Surprised, I dropped my blade.
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