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Just A Girl From Idaho

Some middle-aged women don't realise how gorgeous they are

“You’re here again,’ said Elise. She was tall and slim and so pale-skinned that, with her straight black hair, you had to concentrate to see her as being of distant African origin. But since black people consider anyone with even one black gene to be one of their own, that’s what Elise was. But that’s another story.

Elise was a waitress in my local café, a renowned breakfast spot at which could be found many of the American tourists in this Caribbean island.

“I only come here to see you,” I said with the flicker of self-consciousness which I was still trying to eradicate from my increasingly common flirting. I ordered a coffee with milk and the pastry basket and watched her beautiful ass as it moved beneath the soft, tight shorts as she walked away.

And it was true that I had one eye on the long game with Elise, but she was much younger than me, so I was going to let it happen naturally, rather than issue an invitation that brought with it a chance of rejection.

Today, though, I had other things on my mind. Namely Lorraine, not one of that week’s crop of American tourists, but a fellow resident, whom I had met the previous day with her husband, Norman. Lorraine was short and stout, with a ruddy complexion and freckles all over her chest. And what a chest. Her breasts hung beneath her colorful sundress like warm, ripe, brown, freckled mangoes. I had had great trouble averting my gaze from them during our conversation. I had no problem with allowing her to see what I was so interested in, but when her husband looked up, which he did only occasionally, from his big paperback novel, I didn’t want it to be too obvious.

I saw the middle-aged couple now, emerging from the little barber’s shop, Norman rubbing the back of his freshly-shaven neck while Lorraine brushed hairs off his shoulders. It was a different dress, but a similar style and identical in the way it sheathed her wonderful, mature body.

Lorraine looked over, saw me and waved as Norman headed off into the little shaded parade of shops.

She marched over to my table and sat down.

“D’you mind?” she said. “Busy today.” She gestured at the fully occupied tables.

“Husband not coming?” I asked blithely, or as blithely as my lust would allow.

“Stuff to do,” she said. “He’ll be along later.”

Lorraine ordered English breakfast tea and settled herself on the plastic patio chair like a cat getting comfortable on your lap. That feline quality had a lot to do with my continuing fascination with women. I would have liked to see Lorraine fastidiously arranging herself on my face. And the funny thing was, I knew she knew what I was thinking and I knew she would like to do that too. It was the natural, unspoken communication between mutually attracted man and woman. You were 99% sure.

“So how’s life in The Pines?” I asked.

“I saw you this morning,” she said. “I was walking along Emerald Drive and it overlooks some houses. You were hanging some clothes out on a little balcony.”

“Yes,” I said, surprised, and happy that I had been spied putting my underpants on the improvised line.

”Wow. You walk up there much?”

“Most days. Eight o’clock I’m taking my constitutional.”

“You should come in for a cup of tea some time,” I said, now aiming for a guileless effect.

“I might just do that,” she said, glancing at me quickly, then back to her approaching husband.

Norman joined us and we picked up our conversation from the day before.

When Elise brought the check she stood too close to me, her hip against my shoulder, and I felt a burst of longing at the first real sign that I could be on to a winner there. This did not escape the attention of Lorraine, whose eyes flicked disapprovingly at the contact. My longing immediately switched to her and the unglamorous, completely ordinary yet wonderful promise of her womanly body.

 

The next morning I found it hard to relax. I awoke as usual at 6:30, raced into the shower and was soon downstairs, eating toast and reading the news on my laptop. Since Lorraine knew the back of my house, presumably she could work out which one it was from the front. On the other hand, it was in a row of similar properties, so I took the laptop out onto the front porch and sat there sweating and being bitten by mosquitoes.

When 8 o’clock came and went I scooted through to the back and looked up at the hill. No sign of my date – because that’s what it was, I told myself. I had a breakfast date. The kettle was full, boiled, the teabag was in the nice pink mug I had found at the back of the cupboard. The bedroom was aired and the bedding smoothed out.

I went back out to the front just in time to see Lorraine peering into next door’s garden.

“Hey,” I called quietly. She looked over and laughed.

“I feel like a peeping tom,” she said as I opened the gate and she entered my scruffy patch of grass and weeds.

We sat in the kitchen under the ceiling fan and she took off her jaunty, floppy straw hat and fanned herself with it.

“How long have you got?” I asked apprehensively, because although I considered it a date, perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she was having a cup of tea with a new friend while her husband did whatever it was he did.

“Í told him I was going to look at some shoes,” she said. No husband is going to want to tag along on that trip.

I leaned towards her, both of us with elbows on the table, and she looked into my eyes.

“So how’s it going with the waitress?” she asked dryly.

“Think I’m in with a chance?” I said with a smile.

“She would,” Lorraine replied. “Are you attracted to slim, beautiful girls half your age?”

“I don’t really like slim,” I said honestly. “Or young. And beautiful… well, that’s debatable.”

The conversation got stuck there as we smiled at each other and neither of us wanted to break the spell.

“Show you around?” I ventured, standing up.

“Sure,” she said. “You go much to show?”

We were both fumbling for words, stumbling with self-consciousness. I gestured at the big, open room that was my dining room, office and lounge.

“Plenty of room,” Lorraine said, just for something to say. Then she followed me upstairs.

“Two bedrooms,” I said like a realtor. “Both en-suite. I only need one, but…”

I sat on my bed and she stood in front of me, too close. The air grew heavy as our reservations crawled out of the room. I reached out and took her hand, intending to pull her down, but instead, she pulled me up with surprising strength.

I put my arms around her and we just embraced as years of loneliness and frustration were suddenly expunged.

“God, that feels good,” Lorraine said.

“Yes,” was all I could manage as I tilted her head up and planted my lips on hers. We kissed heavily, strongly, determinedly. She seemed as determined as I was to make this count. It had been a year since my divorce and before that stretched miles of barren, loveless years. I didn’t know how things were with her and Norman, but she hadn’t needed much encouragement to come this far.

“Seriously,” she said, “I’m no oil painting and I’m just a girl from Idaho.”

“Is that what you think?” I said, holding her at arm’s length as I looked at her. “I’m looking at a beautiful woman. As fine a woman as God ever created.”

“Don’t be so silly,” she said with a suppressed smile as she pulled me back into the embrace and we toppled onto the bed.

“Oops,” Lorraine giggled. “Well, we’re here now.”

I lay on top of her and kissed her passionately, my right hand making straight for the front of her dress and squeezing her breasts.

“You have wonderful breasts,” I said. “I’m going to kiss them.”

“Well this dress doesn’t come apart or have a zipper,” she said forthrightly. “So it’s going to have to come right off.” And with that, she stood up and pulled it over her head to reveal a sturdy black lace bra and high-waisted beige panties.

“Show me your tits,” I said, lowering the tone a little. She deftly removed the bra and her magnificent hooters hung proudly, freckled at the top, white further down and with big dark areolas and nipples the size of hazelnuts.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” I said breathily. She was standing right where she had been before, her navel in front of my face. I pulled her to me and put my tongue into it. Then my nose slipped automatically down to where it wanted to be and I pulled her panties down and off. I nuzzled into her lush pubic hair and touched her clitoris as my tongue searched for her slit. Finding the edge, I pulled her on top of me and swung us over so I was on top. My hand reached down and found her hole.

“I’m going to lick you all over,” I promised, and started with her lips, then her ears, my tongue like a teenager’s, grateful for any orifice before the ultimate one became permitted. I licked her neck and her breasts and sucked her nipples, and all the time she purred and groaned and held my head, stroking me like a cat.

When I got back to her navel she squirmed with delight and her legs parted invitingly. My tongue slid down her groin and she quivered, extra sensitive there. And finally I was in her paradise, her musky, tropically-sweaty crotch, only showered an hour earlier but already back to nature.

I slurped at her vagina, sucked her big lips and then held them apart as my tongue pushed in, like a tethered snake. Lorraine was writhing in ecstasy as if no one had ever done this to her before. She seemed to be on the verge of coming and I wanted to make her do so with my personal favorite act, my specialty.

“Turn over,” I whispered. She complied without question and I kissed her buttocks, then ran my tongue lightly into her crack to gauge her reaction. She rewarded me with a happy grunt, so I adjusted my position for maximum access.

“Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” she asked whimsically.

“I’m going to lick your ass,” I assured her.

“Oh my God,” she said, even as she was sliding her knees up to present herself to me. It’s always the moment of truth for me. Some women don’t like it, aren’t comfortable with it, are bashful about it, are squeamish on the grounds of decency or health concerns. Some take a suck-it-and-see approach.

Others know a golden opportunity when they see one and open themselves up to it, no holding back.

Lorraine knelt there with her anus exposed to this man she didn’t really know but whom she liked and, for some reason, trusted. I could tell all this just from the way she was not only willing for me to do it, but willing me to do it.

I licked her asshole tenderly, respectfully, lasciviously, frankly and honestly and she received it with huge pleasure, moaning her acquiescence, then her desire and finally her need to climax, which she did quickly, tumultuously, grinding her rump against her licker’s face.

I needed to come, I knew where I wanted to do it and I knew she would like it. I knelt behind her and masturbated. My spunk shot into her crack, thick and white, and just lay there, this man's semen in her ass.

I climbed off and she stayed in position, waiting for me to wipe her clean. I suspect that is an additional thrill for the woman who allows me that great privilege. I took two large tissues and wiped my spunk out of her crevice. To all intents and purposes she was having her ass wiped, but there was no offensive material involved. Just semen, the product that lovers want to produce.

The next time we met – and I was sure there would be a next time – I would fuck her, placing my penis in her vagina in the time-honored manner that defined “having sex”.

But Lorraine and I now shared a beautiful, dirty secret. She might one day confess to a friend that she had had sex with this guy she met in the café. But what we had shared was so rude, so intimate and so “dirty” that the details would remain purely between us, probably forever.

 

 

 

 

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