Secret Chest Pt 1

I awoke craving a blowjob, though not from some twenty-something babe showing off her pierced tongue. Not much challenge in that. I hankered a prudish woman over 50 whose lips and tongue had seldom if ever swathed a penis.

Bearing likeness to a celebrity I’ll leave unnamed has proven advantageous for this Milf hunter. Experience has taught me the best time to find Milf’s over 35 is in grocery aisles on weekday mornings. For reaching their unreachable items, one thing often leads to another, which I prefer over hearing a simple “thank you.”

I arrived at my favourite supermarket at 8AM most eager, hoping to find conservatism worth corrupting. A lady most deserving of a one-hole rating, one unprepared for orifice upgrades, much less importing semen into either of the three.

I carted across the main aisle a few times, searching but not yet spotting any ladies having such potential. Should I have waited until 9 AM? My perplexity, however, did draw a cashier’s attention.

“Can I help you find something?” The blonde asked.

Pretending not to know where anything was, but having frequented this store enough to know, I pretentiously asked, “Where have you hidden the peanut butter?”

“Down Aisle 13, sir, just past the bread.”

The cashier’s luscious lips certainly qualified for carnality, I decided. A tad young, probably not a day over thirty, and the gleam in her green eyes lacked the prudishness I now craved. For innocence over fifty, I continued my search.
About midway down Aisle 13, I spotted game! The brunette wore brown slacks, and every button of her beige blouse was buttoned. I looked on as she compared bread prices and expiration dates, somewhat baffled by her familiarity?

MOVE ON, THIS ONE WOULD NEVER TOUCH A DICK, MUCH LESS SUCK ONE, my mind shouted. On a subconscious level, however, this made her even more of a challenge. Already, I had telltale stirrings in my loins, the sight of her shapely ass bending over enough to give me a woody. Her innocent mannerisms all but begged for my corruption. But who was she?

My bewilderment lasted maybe a minute, until her hazel eyes met mine.

“Well, I’ll be!” The brunette said, rather gleefully. “It’s been awhile!”

“Oh, Mrs. Massy, what a surprise!” I too acknowledged, her familiar voice establishing instant recall. Same dimples and pointy little nose, and aside from sporting a few gray hairs and tiny wrinkle or two, Eddie’s mother still looked sexy.

“Call me Elle, please,” she flirted. “Now that our age differences have waned.” Which was true, but that any female 10 years my senior would choose to challenge rather than sidestep her age dumbfounded me.

“Yes, once I was 23 and you were 33.” Our ten-year age difference made less difference now. If I ever knew Elle’s birthday I couldn’t recall, but I’d not forgotten peeking at her laundry when I was a teenager and learning her bra size.

“You’re 50 now, right?”

“Yes, I’ve hit the Big FIVE-0,” I whispered. “But, if anyone else asks, I’m still 29.”

“Come here and give Elle a hug!” She insisted, apparently in no hurry to let me go. Into my ear, she cooed, “I don’t turn 60 until next month, but if anyone asks, I’m turning 50.”

All during our embrace, I found her aroma invigorating but her 34C tits rubbing against me exponentially so. Could she feel my erection rubbing against her? I wondered.

I resisted the urge to kiss my friend’s mother on the lips, not giving a damn about who might witness my daringness and start gossip. Out of respect for her religious beliefs, however, I’d chosen not to. Widow or not, might a Baptist deem any kiss from any male improper? Maybe not on the cheek, I considered, but had I dared to French kiss her—-

Enlightened Elle, “It feels wonderful to be holding a man in my arms again.”

As an excuse to embrace me even tighter, I wishfully speculated, but once Elle let-go of me, her complexion reddened noticeably. Whether from Baptist guilt or from horniness, who knew? A person’s mindset could change in 37 years, though my craving for my friend’s mother certainly hadn’t. Her pelvic gyrations began subtle but then bordered on dry humping. Whether inadvertent or intentional, I couldn’t be sure?

Reaffirming her attractiveness, I then praised, “Such a lovely widow must get asked out often, by men salivating all over themselves.”

“Oh, stop it, Les, you’re embarrassing me!” Elle giggled. “Then I must be the one who’s salivating, since I was about to invite you over for breakfast myself.”

So much for today’s MILF conquest, I thought. And I felt ashamed for allowing my friend’s mother to excite me, sexually. Yet my balls ached. Might she think badly of me for sneaking into one of her bathrooms and masturbating prior to breakfast?

Sensing my reluctance, Elle pleaded, “Please come and see my new house.”

Soon afterwards, I’d followed Elle and her meticulously chosen loaf of bread to her new home, unaware of its secluded whereabouts. Thinking as entertainment, we’d be watching Martha Stewart over coffee and donuts, if I were lucky.

“Wow, this is some castle!” I said, somewhat amazed. “After you and Ted left the old neighbourhood, I had no idea that you’d built such a big house.”

“7,500 feet square, a bit much for someone living alone,” Elle whined.

“Keeps you busy maintaining it?” I wondered aloud.

“After losing Ted so unexpectedly eighteen months ago, I’ve decided that life is too short for overburdens.”

While following her to a side entrance from the garage, I pressed, “Meaning that you are selling the house?”

With a gleam I never expected, Elle replied, “That depends on what happens today.”

Together, we entered her spacious home, sensing she wanted to hold hands. From the kitchen window, I immediately noticed a large in-ground pool in her backyard, along with a 10-feet-high privacy fence surrounding her property. “Your backyard looks cozy,” I assessed. “But, did Ted have this privacy fence installed?”

“This property was nothing but a wooded area when we bought it.”

I wondered why two retired Baptists needed such an elaborate playground in seclusion? “Wow!” I offered. “Had I known this I’d brought a pair of swim trunks?”

While already preparing our French toast, Elle insisted, “Unless you’d rather not wear Ted’s, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

After flirting with me over breakfast, Elle had then excused herself and disappeared elsewhere. Five minutes later she beckoned me to join her in the den. There, I found her seated at one end of a love seat, patting the cushion beside her. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

In her lap, I noticed a skimpy black thong. Teasingly, I said, “Had I known you sunbathed topless, I’d invested in the adjoining property. In that tall oak tree just outside your fence, I’d built a tree house. There, during the warmer months anyone could find me, my eyes glued to a pair of binoculars.”

Blushing, Elle said, “The thong is for you, silly! I can’t imagine anyone desperate enough to go to such trouble and expense to sneak peeks at my boobs.”

“I can,” I admitted, while taking her hands into mine for the first time ever. “If I wear this skimpy thong for your benefit?” I bargained. “How daring can I expect your swimwear to be in kind?”

Rather than answer, Elle then excused herself and disappeared elsewhere for a second time, this time returning with a magazine on nudism. She retook her seat next to me closer than before, and had left the top three buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. “I’m up to my ears in secrets,” she offered, along with a tad of cleavage I’d never seen. “And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather share them with.”

After sneaking another peek at Elle’s cleavage, I said, “I see you’ve found a naughty magazine. Ted’s I presume?”

“Ever since moving here, in one of our closets Ted has kept a secret chest. Out of respect for his privacy, not once have I ever questioned him about its contents, or for his need to keep it locked. Even after finding the key, it took me another six months to find the courage to have a peek inside.”

“So … After all those years of curiosity, this is what you found?”

“Along with some other things I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss,” she concurred. After allowing her right hand to rest on my left thigh, she added, “Oh, this is so embarrassing.”

So much for the Baptist lifestyle, I thought. Even while married to Elle for 41 years, Ted had developed other desires that he needed to squelch in private.

“So, what do you think of the nudist lifestyle?” I asked.

“Ever since moving here, Ted remained persistent. Finally, I gave in, but of course I never agreed to join a public nudist colony. I could never prance around naked in front of strangers, could you?”

In reality, I couldn’t picture Elle going naked even for Ted. “Then with whom?”

“With Ted, of course. Here inside our home, initially, then outside on our deck.”

Given Elle’s puritanical nature, I found her willingness to share even this amount of information a testosterone-elevating event. As I considered my own odds of participation, my loins tingled and my salivation glands kicked into overdrive. Even if for no reason other than to express her nudism with someone else, might she on that level allow me to take Ted’s place?

“You actually go outside naked?” I considered aloud. “Wow! I hope your neighbor won’t notice my desperation and overcharge me for the adjoining property. Not to mention that your total nudity would be worthy of optics superior to binoculars.”

“No need for you to go to all that trouble, ” Elle volunteered. “But, try not staring at me, if you can help it! Once I get past my shyness, though, I’m thinking I’ll actually enjoy spending time with you in the nude. Maybe even more than I did with Ted.”

But, was she also willing to have sex? From admiring her nakedness, I pondered testicular burdens on an exponential scale, without masturbating periodically. “And if I get horny?”

Like a shy schoolgirl, Elle hid behind her hands. “For even telling you this I’m a backslider. So, why pretend I’m not horny too? That said. If your pecker compares to that dude’s on page 17, my accountability as a Christian may be in jeopardy!”

Figuring the man in question to be John Holmes or someone similarly endowed to entice its female subscribers into joining the same nudist camp he belonged to, I’d then taken the magazine from Elle and turned to the page 17, hoping to satisfy my own curiosity. In Elle’s mind, what penis size was ideal? I wondered.

Finding the nudist’s prick on page 17 in no way my equal, I’d then given Elle back her magazine, holding back a knowing smile. “So, when do we get naked?”

To be continued …

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Posted 18/10/2015 by stuart in category "MILF