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You know that feeling when you go to a wedding by yourself and hope to meet an unattached woman — one that you hit it off with immediately and who wants to drag you into bed and have wild sex for days. That was the feeling I got at my cousin’s wedding. My luck came but not in the way I imagined.
I was assigned to a table with some cousin of the bride. Sheila was a few years older than me, divorced, mid-height, with blonded hair that swayed around her shoulders when she moved her head, eyes that stared out from behind heavy mascara, and several pounds overweight. Her dress was a size too small and it showed every curve of her waist and bottom and her terrific cleavage.
Even though thirty-somethings were my vice, to the detriment of my marriage, we clicked immediately as we ate our way through the wedding breakfast. The champagne might have had something to do with it, but who was I to complain?
The only problem was her daughter. Ashleigh was a cracking younger version of the mother: taller, a head-turner with raven hair, slim figure and on the way to developing her mother’s breasts. An inherent beauty, she was a girl ahead of her years, destined to spend life in the forefront. The trouble was she knew it and wore her precocity like a badge.
Ashleigh seemed to want to undermine the chemistry that built between Sheila and me. I imagined she was protecting her mother from making silly mistakes and admired her for it, even if her interruptions became tiresome.
I decided to play it long — to take the subtle approach and hoped Sheila got the message. The dancing started and, fortified by the wine, I asked everyone up on the floor: cousins, cousins of cousins, aunts dead to me for years, the bride, women I’d never met before, and Ashleigh. I got through at least a dozen before getting round to Sheila.
It was one of those dances with lots of arm movements and waving around in the air. Sheila did them all, her breasts cavorting in front of my eyes with every gesture and Chanel Number 5 wafting all around me. I could tell she knew exactly what she was doing and she seemed to like to tease me. How I kept my erection under control I will never know — probably something else to thank the wine for.
Ashleigh sat opposite us, across the dance floor. I felt her eyes drilling into me, wide, accusing, warning me off. Whenever I glanced in her direction, she looked at me as if I was all the evil in Hell, with an expression that made me realise I’d get nowhere with Sheila while her daughter was around.
After that visual slap-down, I slipped Sheila my business card with my phone number and told her to follow it up. I tried not to let Ashleigh see, but her eyes followed me like lasers and I couldn’t be sure, especially as Sheila looked at it deliberately before putting it into her handbag, which she tapped as a sign of affirmation.
I asked Ashleigh to dance again to see if I could find out what she saw, but it was hopeless.
“You’re a good mover … for an older man,” she told me at the end, with the directness of youth. “It’s nice of you to say.”
“The other men are so minging.”
She meant it as a complement and made it clear she expected a second dance by holding onto my arm. I thought it was to keep me away from her mother, who raised her eyebrows at me as I looked over Ashleigh’s shoulder.
“You must work out,” Ashleigh said, her directness unabated. “I can feel the strength in your biceps.”
“I do a bit.”
“I bet you do,” she said in a suggestive way. Could it be? Was an eighteen year old coming on to me — a girl half my age, who I wouldn’t normally be interested in? It didn’t fit in with the looks she gave me when I danced with her mother. In a way, it was flattering and I assumed the champagne went to her head too.
Before I needed to worry, Sheila saved me, whisking her away, from me and the party. She pecked my cheek as she left and whispered that she’d give me a ring. So it was a result and I left happy.
I couldn’t understand why Sheila didn’t ring, so I put it down to being another opportunity that escaped me.
A few days later, the voice on the phone surprised me. “Hello, we met at the wedding … remember?”
It sounded distinct but not quite the voice of Sheila that I remembered, but I was rather well oiled with wine that day, so couldn’t be certain. Perhaps the phone’s electronics distorted the sound, or my ears.
“Sure … I hoped you would call,” I replied, the image of Sheila’s body swaying to the music building in my mind, but not quite morphing with the voice. I hesitated before continuing, aware that I could spoil my chances if I took the wrong line. “You sound different on the phone.”
“Do I? Well it’s the same Ashleigh that you met before.”
The image of Sheila evaporated from my mind, to be replaced by the taller, slimmer, and darker version. Some sort of palpitation rattled in my chest as a rush of adrenaline spread through my body. “Where did you get my number from?”
“I pinched casino oyna your card from Mum’s bag.”
Then I knew why Sheila hadn’t been in touch.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, trying to sound casual and not to leap to conclusions.
“Well … I thought you and me got on well,” she stuttered, sounding less confident than at first. “And … so … well … I wondered … like … if you’d … like … we could meet up some time.”
“How old are you?”
“Ashleigh, I would love to but … you must understand … I think you’re a bit young for me … so … not really.”
“I think you’re too young for my mother … but that didn’t stop you fawning all over her,” she said in raised tones, annoyed at my put-down.
I admit to being tempted as her image rattled around my head: a model’s figure; dark hair falling around her face and shoulders; wide hazel eyes, wearing too much makeup; a stub of a nose. It worried me to remember so much detail. Somehow, I found a way to finish the call.
A couple of weeks later, the voice on the phone said, “Hello, it’s me … Ashleigh.”
“Are you pestering me?”
“It’s been ages since we last spoke,” she said, ignoring my question, “anyway … I’m older now.”
“This has to stop, Ashleigh.”
“I’m not doing any harm … I only want to talk … and stuff.”
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
“You don’t know what it’s about.”
“I’m twice your age.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I need to talk to an older man … a man with experience.”
“You want advice?”
“Yeh, sure … that’s exactly it.”
“Ask your dad.”
“You are joking … right?”
“Find someone else.”
“There is nobody,” she said, a hint of pleading entering her tone, a tone any man would find hard to resist, a tone used to getting its own way.
“So you want to meet up … is that it?”
“I could come round to your place.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“Of course I do … I looked it up.”
Faced with such persistence and intrigued and, I have to admit, aroused at the thought of seeing Ashleigh again, I agreed she could come round. I wondered if I’d made a mistake as soon as I put the phone down.
I knew I’d made a mistake when I opened the door of my apartment the following Saturday afternoon. It was a warm day and Ashleigh turned up in a denim micro-skirt, with a white T-shirt barely covering the lace edge of a pink bra. Her breasts seemed larger than I remembered, though her legs were just as straight and long and thin. Her mother’s Chanel Number 5 drifted past me as I held the door open for her.
She accepted a coke and a chair. I sat on the settee opposite. She stretched out her bare legs in a gesture that was at once intimidating and inviting, especially as her skirt rode up even further, not that it bothered her. Her legs were faux tanned and blemish-free, not even a hair in sight, which made me think she’d had them waxed and sprayed, the rest of her body looked sprayed too.
I tried not to stare and forced myself to look straight into her face and slightly over her shoulder — I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea — the sort of idea that was buzzing through my mind, despite the difference in our ages.
“What can I do for you, Ashleigh?”
The question made her pause and look around, as if taking the time to appreciate the plainness of the furnishings in my bachelor apartment.
“A girl like me … well … like … gets a lot of attention, you know.”
“It’s hardly surprising if you dress like that.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Who wouldn’t? I replied, trying to keep my inner feelings under control.
My flattery bolstered her and she looked me straight in the eyes. “The fact is … I’ve had experience with boys … and stuff.”
“Where were girls like you when I was your age?”
“That’s the problem … when you were my age, you would have been just like them … a boy … not a man … no experience … you know what I mean?”
“What can I do about it?” I asked, beginning to understand her persistence in pursuing me.
She looked down as if considering her reply. “A boy has never given me an orgasm,” she said, quietly but unashamed, as if it was a normal topic of conversation between people who hardly knew each other.
It was my turn to look away, but my eyes kept straying back to look at her long, bare legs and her tits before I forced myself to look away again. While this was going on, I searched for a way of answering her. What could I say? How could such a beautiful creature talk so matter-of-factly about such an intimate subject? No answers came to mind as I sought words to match hers and tried not to look her over, although I couldn’t stop, and fought the flush of panic surging through me.
After what seemed hours, I managed to compose myself and said, “Well, you’re only young and these things take time.” It sounded trite, even to me — the sort of comment you get on a soap on TV.
She canlı casino continued the conversation from exactly where she left off. “They just want me to suck them off … or they come really fast, and don’t care about me,” she said still staring at the solid oak floor.
My mind was ahead of her, but I was determined to hear it from her mouth — a generous mouth, with lips coated in dark pink lipstick, that protruded into a pout — a mouth born to give oral sex — a mouth I was fighting not to get too infatuated about. I shook my head to dispel the fantasy and let her talk on, fighting my erection.
“So I thought … if I found a nice man … with experience … he could teach me … sort of everything … and I would know what to do … and stuff.”
The effort of being so explicit exhausted her. She crossed her arms, holding them to her chest, and then her legs, drawing them in towards her as if wrapping herself in as much security as she could find. Then, she picked up her drink and sipped at it and glanced at me from beneath mascara’d eyelashes, awaiting my response.
By this time, I’d got up and was walking around the room, putting distance between us, searching for a response. It was crazy. I put some music on the CD player — the first thing that came to hand — Miles Davis. The gentle lilt of his trumpet filled the room and helped me to steady my nerves.
Common sense told me not to get involved, to send her away, immediately — but none of those sorts of words would form in my head. The size of my erection, and the opportunity to use it to the full with a beauty in the springtime of her life, urged me to think the opposite.
“You are eighteen … aren’t you?” I asked, playing for time.
“I can show you my driving licence to prove it,” she said, reaching for her bag.
I ignored her and looked out over the street below — people busying themselves with the mundane things in life, while I stood on the precipice of a big decision.
“Well … what do you think?”
“I never had an offer like this before … it takes some getting used to.”
“Nobody else will know,” she said, uncurling her legs.
“I don’t believe this is happening,” I said, sitting down opposite her again, “things like this only happen in books and films and things.” She relaxed further the more I spoke. “I thought you didn’t like me at the wedding.”
“Of course I did,” she snapped back, “I just wanted you for myself … and not mucking about with my mother … she gets enough as it is.”
Somehow the thought of being pulled and pushed between two desirable women, but for totally different reasons, brought me to my senses and showed me the way forward. Who was I to stand in the way of this girl’s education? And it was all her idea, not mine — how lucky was that?
I looked her straight in the eyes. “OK … you win … how can I say no?”
She looked relieved and excited and apprehensive, all at the same time. Judging from the rise and fall in her cleavage, she was breathing hard. I tried to keep my excitement under control.
“What do we do now?” she asked, her confidence rising as she engaged my eyes in a stare, a look of defiance that told me she was used to getting what she wanted.
“Stand up,” I ordered, deciding to let my inner urges take over from common sense. I intended to take my time and relish the moment.
“Turn around.” I surveyed the narrowness of her hips, though she didn’t have much of a waist. “Keep turning.” Her eyes followed mine, but I was more interested in studying her breasts. “How many boyfriends have you had?”
“I never counted them.”
“I’m not a virgin … if that’s what you mean … my mum put me on the pill when I was fourteen, to keep me out of trouble.”
I realised this was no amateur in front of me, but no professional either — even though it sounded as if she had more experience than me at her age.
“How often?” I asked.
“Often enough … look … I’m no different to my friends. We do sex as often as we like … and we like it,” she said, flouncing back down on the chair. “Are we going to get on with this … or what?”
“All in good time … sex is like a good wine … you don’t just swig it back.”
She relaxed at my comment and threw her head back and laughed out loud. “I just knew you’d know exactly what to do.”
“I do … we will do it my way … there is no need to rush … there’s plenty of time.”
She picked up her drink and took a long draught as if to say: take all the time in the world.
“Do you get fully naked with your boyfriends?”
“Not really … it’s hard to find the right place.”
“Have you ever been undressed by a man?”
“Come here,” I said, my mind finally made up, “that’s where I think we should start.”
She narrowed her eyes without blinking, which made her look older — more vampish — then stood up and reached me in two strides.
“Kick off your shoes.”
Her kaçak casino pink stilettos skidded to one side along the wooden flooring — her breasts descending to my eye-line. I reached out and lifted the bottom of her white T-shirt over her head, pulled it free of her hair and threw it on top of the shoes. She didn’t flinch as I surveyed the symmetrical mounds of her breasts, almost touching, protruding upwards from her bra.
I reached round her to unhook the bra. Her breasts hardly fell, as if they were implants. They were magnificent: proud and firm and round, with pink nipples that pointed upwards and outwards.
She stared down at me, not ashamed or embarrassed, hands on her hips, jaw jutted, aggressive. “You like that?” she asked.
I ignored the question and drew her to me, capturing one of her nipples in my mouth and sucking on it. “I love tits,” I said in between moving to the other nipple, “and yours are perfect.”
“Make me a real woman.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“It’s the only thing I want … it’s why I’m here.”
I undid the micro skirt and let it fall around her ankles. She lifted out one foot and kicked it away with the other. I admired the straightness of her legs: from the narrow feet with toes finished in the same red as her fingernails; through dimpled knees; broadening towards the top where they finished at her pink G-string.
“There’s a lot to learn.”
“I want to do everything.”
“It could take ages.”
“Take as long as you like.”
“It’s just sex,” I said, making sure she knew what we were getting into, “it won’t lead to anything between us.”
“I want to fuck you … not marry you,” she said, her aggression returning.
“You’re a remarkable young woman.”
“I’ve got plans for my future … this is just the beginning.”
I reached forward and placed my fingers in the tape of her G-string, pink to match the bra, and worked it down and out of her crotch. It passed close to my face and I caught the muskiness of her natural odour, mixed with the Chanel Number 5 perfume. Her pubic hair sprung forward, as black and curly and wiry as a pan scrub. It covered a tight slit, youthful despite her boasts.
I stroked the pads of my fingers up the silkiness inside her leg. She shivered and instinctively opened her legs. I reached her cunt. She stood on tiptoe. I pushed a finger inside her pinkness. She shuddered, a dreamy look developing in her eyes as they half-closed.
“It’s your turn to undress me now,” I said, releasing her, wetness glistening on my finger, cooling my finger as it evaporated. I resisted the temptation to suck it off.
We changed positions. I stood in front of her while she perched on the edge of the chair. She wrestled with the tightness of my belt buckle until it slackened around my waist. She unzipped me and pulled down my trousers. I helped her to remove them, taking off my socks and shoes in the same movement.
The bulge in my pants ached to be released. She covered it with her hand and stroked it gently and kissed it to leave the dark pink imprint of her lipstick on the whiteness.
She unbuttoned my shirt. I removed it and threw it onto the clothes piling up on the floor. Her eyes fixed on my bulge. She looped her fingers into the Calvin Klein waistband, working it down until my erection was beating in the open air. She took hold of it and pulled down hard on my foreskin and wanked me like a professional.
“I just knew you’d have a big dick,” she said, covering it with her lips and swallowing a good half of it, eyes like half-moons looking up into mine.
My instinct was to fuck her rigid in the middle of the sitting room — but resisted — that’s what boys do. My performance had to be better, to protect my image. I had to stop her.
“There are a few more preparations before we get too carried away,” I said, disentangling myself, a tidemark of lipstick on my cock. I led her to the bedroom and pulled the duvet to one side. “Get under there and wait for me.”
When I returned, she was propped up against the pillows, duvet thrown to one side, knees in the air, soles of her feet touching, fingering herself. Her audacity took my breath away. How I resisted the temptation to fuck her there and then, I don’t know. I was proud of how I forced myself to wait.
I positioned her bottom on the edge of the bed and laid her back. She sat up abruptly when she heard the buzzing of my razor, the expression on her face a mass of questions.
“This thatch must go … it’ll scratch my face to pieces.”
She laughed and relaxed and laid back, trusting herself to me.
I worked from the top of her mound before lifting her legs and opening them to get access to the delicate folds around the entrance to her cunt. She told me she’d never been shaved before and the hair was tough, so it took time. The scent of sex filled the space between us — a mixture of crushed rose petals and sweat and urine — as I fiddled around the soft tissue, finishing it off as smoothly as I could, fighting the desire to get on with the fucking.
She stroked her fingers over her mons pubis and between her legs, pulling at the skin, revealing the internal layers of her cunt.
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