Sylvia Seduces, a short story by geronimo_appleby. Date added: 2012-03-27. Times viewed: 9056.
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- Intro: Sylvia seduces her friend's son for his first time.
Battersea, South London. 1980
The two girls, one blonde and thin, pretty in a doll-like way, the other, with deep black hair and richly voluptuous, grinned at each other nervously. Around them in the grubby flat were a sink full of dirty cups, a table decorated solely by an overflowing ashtray, wires and cables leading to camera equipment and lights, and four men.
The blonde wore the wedding dress while her friend was dressed as for attending the celebration of marriage in some capacity as a guest. Two of the men in the room were similarly attired, one as the groom, while the other wore a simple, dark suit.
Another man, older than the rest, with the mallet features of a boxer, expensively dressed, sucked on a cigar and eyed the two women.
He nodded appreciatively, speaking to the whip-thin man fiddling with a camera. “Should be good,” Ray,” he growled in a whiskey-lined voice. The cigar jabbed the point. “Two lookers this time, especially the dark one; shame the gown don’t fit her.” He nodded again. “But the blonde’ll do for the bride, sure. She’s pretty enough.” His eyes flicked over the ripe figure of the dark girl again. He should have hired a bigger dress. “Never get those tits in the fuckin’ one I got,” he muttered.
“OK, ladies and gents,” the photographer, Ray, called. Clapping his hands like a Hollywood director, he ordered: “Let’s get you together. Smile now with the bride and groom holding hands. You’re in love! That’s it. The other two look on smiling, big grins. Your friends have just gotten married ...” The big lights flashed and the photo shoot began.
A few minutes later and both women were kneeling, their eyes staring into the lens of the camera while they smiled around the substantial erections for which the two young men had been hired. In the next pose the dark girl’s mouth was crammed with the groom’s girth while the blonde, reclining on a sofa, had her legs forcibly bent at the knees while the ardent wedding guest laved at her uptilted vulva.
She looked towards the photographer, eyes filled with shock at the situation she found herself in. This can’t be true. I can’t really be here ... doing this. Although it had been her idea to answer the advert in the paper: Models Wanted. A phone number supplied. “A hundred quid, Sylvie; just for prancing about with our tits out.” And here they were, earning their hundred Great British pounds.
The man with the boxer’s face, Stan, had been very persuasive with his sparkling eyes, battered, red-veined nose and his rough-diamond, cockney-geezer manner. “Tasteful, girls,” he’d grinned. “Not your mucky shite from the Continent.” He’d looked appalled at the mere thought. “You two beautiful ladies posing with a coupla ‘andsome lads ... Lavverly.”
“Porn, Val,” the dark-haired girl had whispered. Valerie had seen the gleam in her friend’s eyes. The mucky cow was actually excited by the prospect. “He wants us for a porn shoot,” Sylvie had continued. “Fucking in front of people ... Fucking strangers ...”
And Sylvia had had her way, agreeing to model in a contrived wedding scene, with Valerie, as ever, going along with it.
Ray kept proceedings in order. The natural tendency of the two male models, as with all men Sylvia encountered, had been to gravitate towards the voluptuous girl, with her pouting bottom lip and feline eyes. As though they sensed her fecundity on an instinctive level, as though it was their duty under a primeval law to fill her with their seed, both young men vied for Sylvie’s cunt. Ray had stared at the thick, dark triangle of the girl’s pubic bush, muttering an obscenity when he too felt drawn to the scarlet slash of her bubbling sex through her splayed labia. Resisting the urge to abandon his cameras and lights, Ray directed his models in a series of lewd poses, ignoring the invitation offered between Sylvie’s casually widespread legs.
“You,” he pointed towards one of the men. “Sit over there; I want blondie sat on you. Hold it up for her so she can get on it. Face the camera,” Ray barked when Valerie leaned face first over the man. “Legs wide. Let me see that cunt ...”
Sylvie grew frustrated at the endless interruptions and permutation of poses Ray demanded. “Will you just let me come?” she snarled. “Fucking these two in fits and starts isn’t going to get me close to coming ...”
“You ain’t ‘ere ‘cos you wanna feel good,” Stan spoke from a corner and punctuated with the end of a perpetual cigar. ‘You’re ‘ere to do wot Ray says. Now, be a good girl and lift yer tits up so’s that nice young bloke there,” he nodded and pointed with his cigar again. “So’s that nice young bloke can dump ‘is load on your big jugs.”
Later, after Valerie had scuttled crab-like to the shower, with a hand cupped to catch the jizm seeping from her body, Ray invited Sylvia Taylor for a drink.
The nineteen year-old with goo spattered breasts grinned back at the man who would become her first husband.
Hitchin, Hertfordshire. Present day
He wrote her letters. Not love letters, he’d deny, just words on his feelings, words about how he felt when she was near, and how he felt when she wasn’t close by. Delivery was a clandestine affair, dropped through the letter box at the pub where she worked.
“Just until I get a nest egg together,” she’d say. “A little bar work and a bit of a flirt with the punters.” A bit of innocent fun until there was enough money for a new start. The men in the pub, as usual for Sylvia Taylor even now, all flirted with her, eager to be the focus of her attention. With her precipitous cleavage artfully displayed she was the epitome of the jaded, seen-it-all-done-most-of-it barmaid. Sylvia Taylor pulled pints with aplomb, smiling and self-assured, hinting with her eyes and impressive frontage that she might, just might let you take her home and let you fuck her.
Ah to be engulfed in that wonderfully soft body! To kiss her mouth, taste the booze and the tobacco on her tongue, and to lick every inch of her from her shivering tits to the molten heat of her between her legs.
Skirts too short and her blouses too tight, the women would think, their eyes narrowing suspiciously, painted nails razor sharp as they watched their men act like buffoons. Skirts too short and blouses too tight, the men would nod and wink and grin.
Business as usual for Sylvia. Water off a duck’s back. But there were the letters. Who was sending her those love notes?
“TIME, ladies and gents puh-leeze!” Howard the twenty-something bar manager called, rolling his eyes at Sylvia. “Your date’s here,” he smirked, jutting his chin towards the door. “You might as well get away, Sylvie,” he added. “I’ll close up.”
Sylvia glanced at the boy waiting by the door. “Walks me here and back every night,” she commented to Howard. “Lovely lad. Really nice.”
“They’re the ones to watch, Sylvie, love.” Howard arched his plucked eyebrows and winked lasciviously. “Good-looking young man. I might have a crack at him myself.”
“Don’t you taint him with your poofter ways,” Sylvia joked, narrowing her eyes at Howard. She picked up her bag, checked her phone, purse and cigarettes were inside and, with every male eye, heterosexual and straight, watching her, moved across to where the young man waited.
He grinned bashfully, shy as always. At her approach his eyes characteristically flicked down to his feet, as though he was embarrassed to look at her directly. The penny dropped for Sylvia. They’re the ones to watch ... He was there every night to see her safely home, an accord they’d fallen into during the dark nights when Sylvia had first taken the job. His mother had insisted. It wouldn’t be safe for Sylvia to walk back alone. Not at night, a woman on her own. And so she’d gracefully accepted his guardianship, a solid, youthful figure, her silent knight who protected her from the potential molesters lurking out in the wilds of Hitchin town centre.
He walked alongside her, uncommunicative as ever, yet there was no awkwardness between them; Sylvia was used to him; she’d known him all his life. As they walked, she thought, dwelled upon Howard’s unintentionally prescient words. It had to be him, she decided.
At first, when the letters started dropping onto the doormat of the pub she’d suspected Howard of some practical joke. Then she recanted; Howard could be an absolute bitch but it just wasn’t like him to be intentionally cruel, not to a friend. Following that she’d been mystified, reasoning that the clientele of the pub, the regulars, full of bullshit and bonhomie, would be likely, collectively, to misspell the headline of a red-topped tabloid. The composition of the letters would be beyond them.
It had to be him. There was just nobody else capable of putting the words together. There was nobody else, less the maligned Harold, with the sensitivity.
The question now was how to deal with it. His mother was her best friend; Sylvia was a guest in their house. The last thing she needed, or wished to impose upon the saintly Marion, Sylvia’s provider of succour – again – was upheaval, a drama that could threaten a friendship of decades, not to mention leave her without a roof over her head.
And Sylvia had been in that position before when, at twenty-two, she found herself homeless and friendless in a carnivorous city. She’d had nowhere to go; Valerie was long gone, besotted with her footballer boyfriend, now somewhere in the Midlands – Nottingham, Lincoln, Peterborough, or somewhere equally as parochial. All around her the intimidating crowd swarmed, with everyone intent on their own business; desperate prostitutes and their hotels by the hour, impatient commuters, and squaddies recalled to barracks due to some squabble in the South Atlantic. Nobody saw Sylvia, the wife, estranged, of a wife-beating, lecherous photographer who turned nasty on the scotch, bereft and alone on the main concourse of London’s King’s Cross station.
“Are you OK?”
Expecting a predatory male with shifty eyes and a leer, Sylvia was surprised when she looked up into the soft brown eyes and concerned expression of Marion, the woman who would be mother to Justin, who in turn, at age nineteen, would pen love notes to a Sylvia on the cusp of fifty.
Sylvia, unable to help herself, began to weep; whereupon Marion, with the sensitivity and soft heart she would pass on to her son, took the bereft young woman by the wrist and led her, unresisting, onto the train, to the town of Hitchin, a place Sylvia would return to time and again; and to the house where, eventually, Justin would grow besotted by the dark-haired gypsy woman, with her languid curves and feline eyes and graceful way of moving.
She thought of the differences between them, comparing her nineteen year-old self to Justin. The daring excursion to Battersea, meeting Ray-The-Bastard. How frustrated she’d been at the climax – no pun – of the photo shoot, her sex soaked with desire and clamouring for release. A quick drink with Ray in a seedy South London pub before she’d ridden his cock, really taken that pulsing length of gristle into her body, and come and come and come until she collapsed, panting and spent, against Ray’s heaving chest. She doubted that the shy Justin had ever kissed a girl. Her big, generous heart warmed at the thought, and Sylvia found herself almost overwhelmed by a rush of affection for the lad.
A plan began to form in her mind. As the idea developed, blossomed from a nascent seed of thought into a bloom of purpose, her body, as it always did, reacted to the lewd possibilities before her. But, even as Justin’s key snickered into the mortise set in the blue front door of home Sylvia realised there was just one snag to her plan. Quite a big snag.
During the walk back home from the pub, inside the silent Justin’s head, thoughts and impressions and sensations whirled. The metronomic click-clacking of her heels aroused him for reasons he couldn’t understand. The heels were part of her, the entirety that was Sylvia. He often imagined her almost naked, smiling at him with her suggestive eyes heavy-lidded, hands on broad hips as, wearing those impossibly stacked shoes and hold-up stockings, with, of course, with her glorious jugs spilling abundantly over the cups of her corset, she leaned towards him for a kiss. He liked Sylvia’s style; she did it her way. Uncompromising. She was who she was. He watched her drink wine, the glass poised delicately in her fingers – fingers he fantasised squeezing his erection – while she laughed bawdily at some wit in the bar. He watched her smoke her cigarettes, a habit he found disgusting on anyone else, but when Sylvia drew on her cigarette she gave the whole action a sensual elegance that Justin found erotic.
“Come here and fuck me,” he heard her say in his fevered imaginings as she reclined on the old-fashioned chaise in his mother’s parlour, never living room, always described as the parlour by his bohemian, arty mother. In those waking dreams Sylvia lay there, elegant as a 50s film starlet, dressed in nought but those shoes, stockings and corset, a cigarette smouldering between her uplifted fingers. In his mind Sylvia smiled and purred and then, shockingly, casually opened her legs to him.
As they walked along the dusky, nondescript streets of middle-class England, Justin could smell her, her particular scent, and his body reacted with Pavlovian response, his erection hard and aching. Justin blushed guiltily at the memory of her underwear, stolen during a brief moment of madness from her bedroom, and into which he’d masturbated after sniffing the febrile garment upon which a trace of her perfume ... and that other scent, the womanly whiff of her, lingered on the cloth
He wondered how she’d taste on his tongue. He imagined her nipples, thick and long between his lips as he sucked on them; the taste of her tongue when she kissed, and the molten heat of her sex as he dabbed at her in carnal exploration. He even thought about dipping an expeditionary tongue into the dot of her puckered sphincter ...
Then Justin’s reverie ended, they were home. He reached into his jeans pocket, wedged his hand down past his erection, and pulled out his keys. It was at that moment it happened. Unprecedented, less for a perfunctory mwah an inch from his cheek the day she’d most recently arrived to stay, Sylvia leaned her comfortable bosom against him and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you, Justin,” he heard her murmur. His cock throbbed at the low, husky voice. “You’re such a gent for walking me home like this every night.”
A stammered, “No problem at all, Suh ... Sus ... Sylvia.” He watched the woman’s swaying derriere as she ascended.
Unusually for her Sylvia felt a tickle of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. This could go so wrong, but she had to ask, she couldn’t ... wouldn’t act unless without Marion’s approbation. To do so would be disrespectful; deceit just wasn’t Sylvia’s style. Especially towards Marion. So she waited for a response. Having grasped the nettle, never one to shy away from difficulty however awkward it may be – it would be much more awkward, and potentially catastrophic, when they were eventually, inevitably, discovered.
Marion, sitting across from Sylvia at the table in her self-styled parlour, regarded her friend with serious eyes. She sighed, pushed her fingers through her hair, fidgeted with the wine glass for a moment or two, and then, after a swig of rioja, opened her mouth to speak. “He wrote you letters?”
“Yes. Sweet, kind letters.”
A shake of Marion’s head. “He would. I can just imagine him doing something like that.” Marion’s eyes beseeched her friend. “And you’re not offended?”
A snort from Sylvia. “Me? Offended? Come on Marion, you know me better than that. Do you mind if I ...?” She held up her cigarettes and then lit one after a dismissive, it’s of no consequence, nod from Marion. “I was flattered, Marion. And the letters were ... well, they’re so tender and sweet. All anonymous, I hadn’t a clue until something Howard said made the connection click in my head.” Sylvia squirmed in her seat; the moment had arrived to ask the question. “He’s a virgin, Marion,” Sylvia said. “And I think he needs a ... Could do with just a little nudge ...” She balked at the last moment.
But her inference was there between them now. Marion’s eyes narrowed as she deciphered Sylvia’s meaning. “You’re saying ...” she began. “What I think you’re saying is ...” Sylvia nodded. “You and Justin ...? You and Justin doing ... Making love?”
A whisper and downcast eyes. “Yes.” The moment hung between them. The longer the silence drew out the more nervous Sylvia became. Eventually, after a strong draw at her cigarette, Sylvia blurted, “Yes, Marion, I fancy your son. He’s a kind, beautiful boy who’s too shy to get himself a girlfriend. I’d like nothing more than to seduce him. Take him by the hand and teach him, show him properly how to make love to a woman.” She drew on her cigarette again. “But if it means a rift between us, then I’d never do it. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness all these years. You rescued me from God-know-what on King’s Cross station. Helped me get over Ray; you’ve helped me in all the disasters I’ve had with men. So, out of respect, Marion, I wanted to discuss it with you. However distasteful you may find it.” Traces of Sylvia’s original accent, aitch-dropping Essex, slid through the cracks of her expensive, thanks to husband number two, veneered enunciation. “E’s your son after all,” she added finally. Suddenly running out of steam she glared truculently at her friend. She’d said her piece, was morally vindicated. Sylvia took one last vehement drag and, after standing and rummaging in the sideboard for a suitable ashtray, crushed the remains of her cigarette into it. Her heart pounded in her ribcage, her breath came in gasps.
“No need to go on so, Sylvie,” Marion responded as a hint of a smirk danced at the corners of her mouth. “I think it’s a superb idea. Just what Justin needs.” She sipped delicately at the wine and grinned at her friend’s slack face over the glass. “You just get on with it.” Marion held up a hand, palm outwards like a policeman, her eyes closed, with her face three-quarters on as though in denial. “I don’t want any details and I don’t want him to know I know.” She smiled. “You do what you do best, Sylvie. Just be gentle with him; with his heart especially.”
And so Sylvia, with Marion’s consent, set about seducing Justin. Her sex pulsed and trickled its desire while she laid her plan.
Justin was worried. A lump of concrete, solid and somehow greasy, lay heavily in the pit of his stomach. There was something wrong. He could sense something in the air, the same instinct that warns animals of an impending earthquake. Justin scented disaster.
“Just us tonight, Justin,” Sylvia had said. And there was nothing overtly wrong in that statement; no sinister inference at all.
But something wasn’t right. He knew it.
It was Saturday night, his mother was out and it was Sylvia’s night off. There was the usual crap on television, and Justin had planned to stay in his room, with occasional forays to the parlour for his Sylvia fix, whereupon he thought of penning a fresh note.
And Sylvia looked even better than usual tonight. Her black hair, bobbed, shone; she was lightly made-up, unusual for a casual evening in, as was her choice of clothing. Sylvia had dressed as though for work, in her too short skirt and her too tight blouse. The blouse itself was something else, unbuttoned to an unprecedented third button. If Justin angled it just right he could look down into Sylvia’s cleavage to a depth never plumbed before. Dizzying and delicious, and Justin’s cock was thick and hard in his jeans at the sight.
She smelled good too, but the disconcerting thing, even more disturbing than the shivering jellies of Sylvia’s breasts, the tops of which he could clearly see displayed in the V of her décolletage, was how attentive the woman had been.
“I thought,” Sylvia began in a breathy voice. “That perhaps we could eat together, share a bottle of wine – What do you think, Justin? Good idea?” He’d squawked some inarticulate gargle, bemused and embarrassed. Sylvia had laughed then. “What’s the matter, Justin? Do I make you ... uncomfortable?” Did she? – Hell yes! Especially tonight done up as she was. Justin’s erection throbbed painfully, outraged at the restriction, but Sylvia’s next words caused the leaden lump of anxiety to form in Justin’s guts. “I think we need to have a little talk,” she’d said. “There’s something we need to discuss. Clear the air.”
For the next half an hour Justin fretted. As he worried in his bedroom upstairs, while Sylvia watched inanities on the telly, and with the lasagne – pre-prepared by Sylvia earlier in the day – baked in the oven, Justin considered running. It had to be the letters. Sylvia had sussed him and was now going to confront him. His mother was out, that was a relief. The mortification if his mother knew ... Justin rolled onto his stomach on his bed and buried his face in the pillow. He groaned as a fist of chagrin twisted his vitals.
“Shit. Oh shit. Oh fucking shit,” he mumbled. Why had he done it? What possessed him to write those bloody letters? Why was he so tongue-tied and twisted with embarrassment around girls? A virgin – still – at nineteen! He listened to his mates at work, the shelf-stackers and deliver drivers at the supermarket where he was a trainee manager. They all boasted of conquests, and even if not all the effusive self-congratulations were true, at least a portion had to be. And Justin had nothing to contribute. Not even a single, solitary kiss.
But he’d written the letters to Sylvia. What an idiot. The dinner and wine was all about letting him down gently; Justin knew how it would go. She’d be flattered: Very sweet, darling boy – boy, he cringed. That’s what she’d say. Very sweet, darling boy. And of course she’d smile to soften the blow, maybe hold his hand, her eyes filled with sorrow. But you’re much too young; I couldn’t possibly be interested in a nineteen year old ... A trainee manager ... Oh no, sorry, but ... etc. And Justin would mumble a red-faced apology, eat his meal, sip the wine, and then go upstairs and die.
For her part, Sylvia had prepared the food and then herself. She took a lot more time and care and deliberation with herself. For clothing she went for obvious; her signature of legs and tits, with emphasis on the tits. A long bath, during which she resisted the urge to touch herself. “Patience,” she counselled as the bubbles foamed around her. “Don’t be a greedy bitch. It’ll be so much better later.” Sylvia had meticulously depilated her legs and most of the jungle of her naturally thick, still black – no grey hairs yet – pubic bush. For decoration she left a neat, triangular tuft at the apex of her slit. “A conversation piece,” she giggled to herself as fingers of anticipation tickled her freshly smooth vulva. Light make-up, nothing too tarty, a mist of perfume, and then she dressed. Stockings – men were so predictable and easily pleased – a corset in which to wrap the girls and perhaps to hide just a hint of middle-age. Sylvia pushed thoughts of her years out of her mind. “Looking delectable,” she told her reflection. “Good enough to eat ... I hope.” She grinned at herself and slid her feet into the towering heels. “Still got it,” she assured herself.
And indeed she had, if Justin’s boggling eyes told the truth when he reappeared from the den into which he crawled. Sylvia silently congratulated herself when she saw him framed in the parlour doorway.
“A glass of wine before we eat?” Sylvia asked. Her eyebrows raised in question as she held the bottle aloft. A nod from the boy and she poured, noting that he avoided her eyes. “Dinner’s ready. I thought we could have a little talk before we ate.”
Shit, Justin thought. Here it comes. But there was nowhere he could go. Even if he bolted now, there would only be a next time. As scared as he was he pulled the chair reluctantly from under the dining table and sat down, with the air of a condemned man at his last meal.
“Why the long face?” Sylvia asked, eying Justin over the rim of her glass. His eyes slid away. “Something on your mind,” she teased, knowing full well. She reached out and touched Justin’s hand, lightly tracing loose circles with her finger. The boy’s breath caught in his throat. “Those letters,” Sylvia whispered.
There it was, the accusation. But Justin’s concentration was divided. Her knowledge that he’d authored the letters was one thing, but uppermost in his mind at that moment was the physical contact – her finger on the back of his hand. Justin froze, barely able to breathe. His heart raced and his penis, independently-minded screamed at him to kiss her, rip the buttons from her blouse and bury his head in that delicious cleavage ... acres of creamy flesh!
But he just sat there, immobile and inarticulate, disabled by crippling anxiety. What does she want me to do? he thought, unable, as ever, to interpret a woman’s mood, to read the signals. She didn’t seem upset by the letters, in fact every sign so far indicated that Sylvia intended to seduce him – the wine, the meal, those tits ...
But Justin just never knew which way to go. Innate, over-developed shyness made him inarticulate, a stumbling, red-faced fool in potentially romantic situations.
“I know you wrote me those letters,” Sylvia continued. Both her hands covered Justin’s now. “Look at me,” she ordered, suddenly stern. Somehow, with great effort, Justin’s eyes levelled with Sylvia’s. “And I’m flattered.” The words he didn’t want to hear. He knew what was to follow. “A good-looking, intelligent young man writes to me like Lord Byron, and sends them anonymously ... Why of course that’s going to pique a woman’s interest. Even an old biddy like me.”
“You’re not old!” Justin blurted, surprising himself. His eyes fell from Sylvia’s. “You’re ...” He hesitated.
“Go on,” Justin, Sylvia whispered, her hands squeezing his gently. “Tell me. Just like in a letter. Tell me it all. I think the letters are beautiful. So full of feeling. And, Justin,” her tone grew stern again. The young man looked up, stared right at her face as she spoke. “I want you to tell me what you’re feeling, what’s on your mind – all of it. I won’t laugh, I promise you. I want you to tell me, honestly, what you want from me.”
She saw the youth struggle. She lifted a hand to his cheek, knowing that the movement would cause her top to gape. Justin’s eyes flicked to her breasts. Sylvia squirmed against the hard wooden chair. Come on, she urged him silently. Come on, you’re fucking killing me here. For an instant Sylvia considered that Justin could be playing her, that he might be the consummate cocksman and just be teasing. My cunt’s growling, boy. Can’t you fucking hear it? Can’t you smell it?
But, of course, he was just a scared virgin, callow and way out of his depth. All she heard was the youth mumble: “I think you’re beautiful.”
Sylvia fought down a scream of frustration. With great effort she managed: “When I was nineteen ...” Sylvia decided, on the spur of the moment, on a different approach. ‘... I had a friend, Valerie.” She reached for her glass and sipped. “Valerie found an advert for models one day. In a local paper. So we answered it. We found out it was for some glamour stuff, nude an’ that.” Justin noticed Sylvia’s diction had suddenly slipped from the precise ‘parlour accent’ his mother used to something more ... natural, less contrived. “Well both me an’ Valerie weren’t put off by showing our boobs, maybe flashing some fur, but when we got to the grotty flat it turned out to be more.”
Jesus Christ! Where was Sylvia going with this?
“It turned out to be a porn shoot. And I tell you what, Justin ...” Sylvia sipped at the wine again, regarding the boy over the glass, judging his reaction. Justin just stared at her, open-mouthed. “I tell you what, Justin,” she continued, “the thought of it, fucking two strangers ... I melted there an’ then. Valerie was a bit put off but I talked her round.”
Sylvia went on, between sips of wine, to recount the story of the faux wedding. She told the boy about the dress, Valerie being the bride, and how she’d loved being fucked simultaneously – “One in my mouth and one in my cunt” – by two men.
“I was so frustrated,” she said finally. “I hadn’t come. We just posed mostly, for the camera. The boys got to come all right. Of course they did. That was the point. My tits got a good covering, Val took a load inside ... Shit ‘erself for weeks she did. Thought she’d be up the duff ... Dunno why, the silly cow was on the pill. Still ...” She shrugged. “But I was desperate to get off ... So I fucked the cameraman.” Sylvia paused then. She looked at Justin, a statue, his face a mask of shock. “Just like I’m desperate now, Justin.” Sylvia laid her cards on the table. “I want to fuck, she said.” And she could have laughed, really guffawed. If Justin could only see his own face ... “Let’s go upstairs, Justin,” she gently said instead.
Justin was shocked. Partly in light of the revelations Sylvia had imparted, but mostly from when, after her candid disclosure, she leaned right across the table and, almost upsetting the wine bottle with her bosom, kissed Justin’s mouth. The youth didn’t react, just sat with his lips together, too stunned to move.
“Come on, Justin,” Sylvia coaxed. Her stockings swished and the heels click-clacked woodenly as she stood and walked around the table. “Please. Don’t turn me down.” She ran her fingers through Justin’s hair. He blinked up at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you what to do. It’ll be fine. You’ll have a good time. I promise.”
She knew about the letters, had posed for dirty pictures, and she had intuited his virginal status. This was a lot to process at once. But she was offering herself! “Sylvie ...”
“Shh. Don’t say anything. Just stand up and kiss me.” The boy stood uncertainly at the gentle exhortation. Sylvia noticed his trembling. She moved close to him and pressed her body against his. “Kiss me, Justin,” she breathed.
Justin’s eyes were wide open as his lips parted. He felt the pressure of Sylvia’s lips against his, and then felt her tongue slide into his mouth. His hands came up of their own accord. He heard Sylvia’s moan of encouragement and squeezed her breasts through the double barrier of her clothing and corset. The urgency of his kissing increased as desire burned in him. “Really?” he gasped when at last the kiss broke. “You really—”
“—Yes, really, I really want to do it, Justin. I want to do it with you, all of it, anything you want to do ... Anything.” To emphasise the point, Sylvia ran her palm along the front of Justin’s jeans. He gasped and looked down at his open flies after Sylvia unzipped him. Her fingers deftly unbuckled the belt and, before he knew what was happening, fished his erection from within. “Lovely,” Sylvia purred. “Nice and thick and hard.” She smiled into Justin’s face. “You seem pleased to see me,” Sylvia quipped. They kissed again. The boy’s hands moved urgently over Sylvia’s clothed body. He felt her breasts again, ran his palms down along her flanks and scooped her buttocks in his palms. “You’re not so shy now, are you darling?” Sylvia teased. “But let’s get you out of those jeans. Let me get a good look at you. I want to see your big cock and swinging balls.”
“Sylvia ... Jesus ... No ... It ...” Nevertheless, even as he babbled and blinked, shocked and confused, Justin somehow contrived to divest himself of most of his clothing.
The woman stepped back, a forefinger at her chin with her head tilted in appraisal. “Oh yes,” she smiled. “Oh yes indeed.” She stepped towards the youth, grasping his waggling erection as she did. “Unbutton my top,” she ordered in a growl. “Undo my skirt ...” The lad complied, gasping when Sylvia kicked her skirt away with a tut of annoyance and squeezed his cock.
“Beautiful,” he moaned when he looked down and saw the tuft of pubic hair decorating the woman’s prominent mons. “Oh shit ...” A groan from Justin at the fingers massaging his stalk.
“You’re beautiful too, darling.” Sylvia, still in the heels, moved around the boy’s body and pressed her considerable breasts against his back. Then she knelt, kissing the boy’s buttocks as she reached between his legs. First she cupped the hanging scrotum, lifting Justin’s balls in her palm. “How much stuff do you have for me in here,” she asked before releasing the wrinkled, hairy sac and gripping the jib of hard gristle that jutted arrogantly from the boy’s front... “I’m going to wank this till you come,” she murmured, stroking the length slowly. Sylvia let go and stood. “No use fucking just now. Two pumps and a squirt – game over,” she said. “And I want this to last all night, you beautiful bastard.” She positioned herself in front of the young man again. As her tongue pushed into his mouth, and his hands came up automatically to squeeze the abundance of tit-flesh, Sylvia’s fist moved along Justin’s length. The boy swallowed and groaned. His eyes closed. “Just let Sylvia take care of you,” she whispered into his ear. “Just stand there and let me do all the work. Just concentrate on how good it feels. And then think of how much more pleasure there’ll be when we fuck. Because ...” she paused and licked Justin’s nipple. “... Because,” Sylvia continued, “I am going to fuck you.”
With one hand masturbating him towards his climax, Sylvia curled her other arm around Justin’s shoulder, pulling him tight against her flank. She watched Justin’s face, saw him grimace with the sublime feelings pulsing through his cock. She smiled when the boy’s eyes opened, glazed and lost until they focussed on Sylvia’s face.
“How did I get here?” he groaned, his eyes questioning. “How? Sylvia ... I ... Oh ... It feels so good ...” Then, in a whisper he repeated: “Feels so good. So. Fucking. Good. Your tits,” he mumbled, eyeing the wobbling jugs.
“Because you were so sweet to me,” Sylvia explained. “You’re such a darling young man, and I know you’re shy, so I thought I’d help you along.” She kissed his cheek tenderly. “Just you relax, Justin. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of you; I’ll take care of you tonight and any other night as long as I stay here. We can do ... things, Justin. Would you like that? Do you think we could have a little fun together?”
Her hand on his cock ... And her tits and her legs and her shoes ... and the stockings ... She was doing this with him. It was all really happening. To him! Sylvia and him and the things she was saying. “Sylvia,” Justin groaned. “I think I love you, Sylvia.”
“Lust, Justin,” she corrected. “Trust me, just pure, animal lust. Men have always wanted me as their plaything. It’s something I put out there ... a scent or a sign of some sort. I dunno, Maybe it’s me big tits?” Sylvia lapsed into her old Essex diction again, “I dunno what they see, but they see sumfink’.” She laughed, squeezing the boy’s girth as she did. “An’ it looks like you see it too, Justin. Look at you all hot and bovvered.” Her face grew serious as she stared into Justin’s eyes. “But we can talk about that later. Right now we’ve got to sort you out. And then, when you’ve come ...” Sylvia ran her hand across Justin’s chest. She kissed him again. And the hand around the erection began to move more quickly. “When you’ve come for me, we can fuck ...”
“Yes,” the lad sighed as his head lolled forward loose on his neck. “Yes please, I’d ... Oh ... Sylvia!”
Sylvia gave her own cry of delight as the boy grunted hugely, convulsing, and shooting long arc of semen in a high parabola that spattered against the wood of the parquet floor.
“Let it come,” Sylvia urged, her eyes bright with excitement and her insides clenching with lust. “Just let it spit, darling boy. Just feel it, all that gorgeous spunk coming out of you ...”
And the stuff just kept coming, spurt after spurt of relief gushing from the slit in Justin’s cock head. The boy gabbled nonsense; his hips jerked and he fucked Sylvia’s fist. Eventually, as the final ooze trickled from him Justin stood gasping and wide-eyed as Sylvia, with a mewl of arousal, moved to kneel in front of him. With pressure from her hand the youth pushed his hips forward, leaving the opportunity there for Sylvia to pop the still erect cock into her mouth.
Sylvia’s concave cheeks and quick tongue sucked and licked the gloop from the boy. He looked down at her as she grinned up at him from around his girth.
I’m in her mouth, he thought. She’s sucking my cock. He looked at the mess on the floor. She wanked me off. And then the full realisation hit him and his heart soared. Jubilant he recalled her promise: She was going to fuck him!
“You dirty boy,” Sylvia scolded, grinning as she wiped her mouth indelicately with the back of a hand. Her eyes shone. “I think we should go to my bedroom. We’ll be much more comfy on my bed. Are you ready?”
An enthusiastic nod from Justin and they left the food to cool and the wine to warm.
Halfway up the stairs, unable to contain himself as Sylvia’s naked buttocks swayed provocatively in front of his face, Justin made a grab for the woman’s hips.
Laughing she turned. “Easy tiger, in these heels I have to be a bit careful.” Justin saw her face twist into an expression of lust. “Lick me,” she commanded, sitting on a riser and opening her legs. ‘Lick my cunt.”Justin gasped at the obscenity but found himself turned on by her use of it and the way her legs so casually fell apart to reveal the gaping, sodden invitation. “Come on,” Sylvia barked. “Kneel. Get down there and lick it. Kiss it until I ... Oh, fuck ...” Justin’s hot breath wafted across her smooth labia. His tongue slid over the nub of her clitoris and she swore again. Then, with moans and mewls and subtle movements of her hips, Sylvia coached the youth in how to use his mouth and tongue on her body. “Fingers,” she panted, her face a gargoyle grimace as she resisted the inevitable. “Finger me ... Put two in. Rub me inside. Don’t stop licking! Finger me and lick me and ...”
Sylvia came. She pushed Justin’s face against her sex, grinding her body against his nose, his mouth, his fucking forehead as the glorious tide washed over her. “Oh. My. God,” she gasped, chest heaving, breasts trembling. ‘That was divine!” She saw Justin’s smeared face and noticed his slack-jawed expression as he eyed her tits. “Yes, she grinned, holding the girls up for Justin’s appraisal. “The boys love Sylvia’s big tits.” She offered a nipple to him, grinning at his expression. “Upstairs. On the bed. I’ll ride you and you can suck my tits. Yes?”
And so Justin lost his virginity to a woman decades older than he; a woman infinitely more experienced, but who, true to her word, rode him and let him suck her big jugs until, to her surprise, he elicited a groaning, hip-jerking climax from her.
“Oh, God, darling,” Sylvia moaned as the boy eased into her in the good old missionary position. “I think I’m going to have so much fun with you.” Justin began to move; and Sylvia lifted her hips to meet his thrust. “Fill me with jizm,” she sighed. “Kiss me and just pour it into me.”
So he did.
Written by Geronimo Appleby (Santiago, Panama. March 2012)
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