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Everybody has preferences, likes and dislikes, and most often, we do not really know why. What triggered our likes and desires? Why do we hate specific smells, tastes? Why do we get excited at certain sights that leave the next man cold, why do certain other things that drive another man to white heat leave us cold? In some cases, we can analyze it or find out in another way, but most often, our tastes are just what they are, and no reasons obvious for the why.
I like raven-haired petite women in a short figure-hugging leather dress, a bit older than myself with pert, well-rounded bottocks. And I know exactly why.
While during my adulthood the issue was to find raven-haired girls in leather to play with (something I became quite good at, also thanks to loosening public morale), it now becomes an issue to find them older than myself and still slim with a pert shapely arse, as my story happened a very long time ago, in another country where I spent my misspent youth.
At that time, I lived in a student dorm that beyond the usual bed-roof-companionship combination offered some more perks. It had a very active social calendar, with planned visits from local and foreign student groups, its own bar and beer pump and facilities to serve meals three times a day for which you could (and were expected to) subscribe. The members also used the sports facilities together and trained for sports competitions.
The House was managed by students and financed by alumni. Whoever joined was a lifetime member with varying tasks over one’s life.
In 1st and 2nd year: party fodder. New members were the heart and soul of the House. They participated in all events, partied, received the guests and lived in the House.
In year 3 and 4, the members grew into roles of organizing activities, leading the group, managing finances and organizing the external support needed. These roles were seen as officers’ roles with a certain amount of power over the stripelings.
In year 5 one usually became an alumnus and paid an annual due as soon as one made a living.
The older members were also available as mentors in personally or academically difficult situations and for many students, the network of alumni acted as an extremely efficient career booster.
The House was a Victorian building from the 1880ies built of brownish sandstone with arches and vaults everywhere, a lovely building that could have been renovated into a real gem hadn´t there been the students with their moderate sense for order and cleanliness and their constant parties that included a generous amount of drinking and carousing. The alumni curbed the most extreme excesses but left the students a relatively free rein, exactly as they had enjoyed one generation before, or two or three.
The House could not have been run without the help of a couple, janitors does not entirely describe their role. He was responsible for small repairs around the building, grilling and pulling beer at festivities. She was in charge of food, three meals a day for between 4 people (during term breaks) to 30 people (during term), occasionally a banquet for special days where up to 100 alumni joined; this and the tidiness and cleanliness of the house in general.
This was not a task we envied her for and particularly not the day after one of the rowdy beer parties. The whole ground floor stood full of empty and half-empty glasses, the floor was sticky from spilled beer and sometimes, there were the last revelers snoring on a sofa, a chair or leaning in a corner, wherever Morpheus had overpowered them.
A good couple made a huge difference for the whole House and they were always in high demand from other Houses. We were envied for ours as they were performing their tasks outstandingly well and never gave us students a hard time. Yes, our couple was a gem. They both were Croats who had fled the country and had lived here since the war. I cannot recollect their name anymore, after all, the story I am telling happened a long time ago. But let us call them Mr. and Mrs. Juric, that does suit them well.
I must have been in my third or fourth year in the House and my role at the time was that of the House’s Steward. I was responsible for everything to do with food and drink, I discussed events and the weekly menu with Mrs. Juric, I ordered wine and beer and I was responsible for cleaning and maintaining the beer pumps. If the latter sounds like a lowly chore, this is misunderstanding the importance of the beer pump.
In Christian churches, life revolves around the altar stone, the Jews in the Sinai danced around the Golden Calf, Muslim life revolves around the Qu’aaba in Mekkah. Our life at that time revolved around the beer pump. Not cleaning it properly, a malfunction during a big event, or any other laxity had you immediately stripped of your rank and excluded from the House for a set time. I cleaned and maintained that pump religiously and could even today, decades later, disassemble and re-assemble it blindly. But I digress.
It was in my fourth year when we had the visit of another House, old friends of the House güvenilir bahis since at least 20 years and the beer party in the evening had taken off like a rocket, as these things tend to do. Drinking games, challenges, daring speeches, competitions, songs, always lots of songs, and lots and lots of beer.
At two in the morning, the group was considerably decimated, and at three, all but six or seven had gone to bed. We decided to retire from the large wood-paneled hall to the Red Salon, a smaller room with plush armchairs and blood-red velvet draperies that gave it its name.
The small group had entered together the Golden Hour, that magic time sometimes experienced towards the end of raucous parties. A small group, the fever has dropped, everybody is quite drunk, not yet fully out of order, but already a bit exhausted. Discussions ensue on a subject that are pursued in ernest, it can be anything from extremely philosophical to downright ridiculous. I found myself at one time arguing whether or not souls had a fixed size, carrying away the day with the remark that souls could not have a fixed size, they had to vary by species, otherwise a flea’s soul would go beyond its body, sort of spill out and would be visible. Solemn nods, wise words, it sounded very true at that moment.
The most remarkable thing is that these discussions are led with the ultimate seriousness and meaningfulness. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow not quite here, everybody draped over the armchairs, dreamy, happy. You feel engulfed in this golden cocoon that bathes everything and everybody in its warm and comforting light and shines deep into your soul.
It was one of these golden moments, and one of the remaining guests said:
“Your housekeeper”, he referred to Mrs. Juric, “she is hot”. A discussion started if this was the case, a serious and slow discussion with long, pensive pauses. The main arguments for it were her looks, she occasionally wore short dresses, among them a black leather dress, her friendly smile she gave all of us so freely and the tight dress she had worn today. The argument against it was that she was OLD. She could not have been a day older than 35, but for us at 19 or 20, that was old and even though we were full of sap and strength, most of us could not see her as an object of our desires, or so we thought.
“Does she do it…” was a tentative question from our guests. We did not understand what he meant, a pause followed, the idea was far from our minds, so he added after a short pause “… you know, does she do it with you?” Now that was a droll idea and we said truthfully, that no, she did not, and we had not heard anything from the Alumni that she had done at any time or ever. Silence descended upon us again while our guests considered the information and we grappled with the concept that Mrs. Juric was a woman and we were men, and therefore, theoretically, …
“I bet she wears a garter belt under her skirts” one of the guests said softly after a while. That was a statement of incredible audacity and eroticism; in the time of the pantyhose as a key element of women’s wardrobe, a garter belt was a symbol of naughty girls that liked to play. The thought of Mrs. Juric who fastens her nylons while being bare-legged… You could see how the thought made its way through everyone’s mind, sparked more secret thoughts that each of us carefully protected and did not share … except for one guest:
“I bet she even wears a G-string underneath her skirt while she is about the House…” That was a shocking thought; to our knowledge only skanks wore this kind of incendiary underwear to excite their customers. The thought alone that Mrs. Juric’s buns were naked under her skirt, nothing but her skirt hiding them from our view, while she served food at lunch…
“Only sluts wear lingerie” stated one of my friends forcefully, thinking this would close the debate. I felt like a real bon vivant when I testingly said:
“And …?” A thundering silence ensued. Everybody stared at me, mouth agape. What had I insinuated here? Did I really mean what she was … Me, the person that probably had most to do with Mrs. Juric. A shocked silence reigned, I was possibly most shocked of us all by my own audacity. My question had closed the debate.
The next morning, it must have been around nine, I was seemingly the only soul alive in the House. I was in one of the vaulted cellars where we stocked beer barrels and connected them to riser pipes that brought the beer to the tap room. The stone vault was sparsely illuminated and cool, which is always welcome after a hard night’s drinking.
I was checking how much beer was left from yesterday’s debauchery. Did we have enough to make it to Friday, where the next delivery was expected? Just barely enough, we did not have any planned activities until Friday, but I found it wiser to later go and borrow a barrel at one of the neighbouring Houses to be on the safe side.
My head was hurting, I had a funny stomach, but what a night it had been… I bent forward, tapped on one of the gas control valves and saw with satisfaction that the meter türkçe bahis jumped up a couple of clicks before coming down again. Despite the cool cellar air and the muted lights, the bending down had made my head spin and my stomach started to rebel. I sat down on a nearby chair until the room around me stopped spinning and came to a standstill.
It was at that moment that I heard the clacking of heels.
In the archway stood from one moment to the other Mrs. Juric.
I saw her in the half light and saw her for the first time not as our housekeeper, but as what she was: a beautiful, hot-blooded woman in her prime. She had a mass of jet black curls falling in cascades over her shoulders; it framed a finely cut face with high cheekbones and a strong nose, the nostrils of which were twitching. Her face was flushed and her nearly black eyes sparkled, she was visibly angry.
God, she looked desirable. I realize for the first time her slim, finely muscled legs of a dancer, her flaring hips, the slim waist and wide shoulders, her chest heaving visibly from emotion. Yes, she was angry, and yes, she looked intoxicating. She stormed towards me, heels clacking and I managed a feeble smile, a short wave with my hand, anything else would have triggered a cataclysm in my stomach.
She wore as always high heels, this time shiny black shoes with very thin high heels. How could she work with these shoes, how could she clean and tidy up? And were these the shoes of a decent woman, or did they make her a … The thought hit me for the first time.
She wore the black leather one-piece dress that had been mentioned yesterday in support of her hotness, you could probably call it glace leather, it seemed very smooth and very thin and it followed her body’s every curve and movement. It was cut close to her delicate neck but the leather clung to her bust, not hiding it, but displaying it like the statue of a roman goddess. She had medium-sized apple-shaped round breasts that moved temptingly under the leather. And the hem of the dress was very short, more than two hands above her knee, yes, much closer to … well, her little paradise than to her knees. I felt how I got hot just seeing her.
She stood in front of me, hands on her shapely hips and scolded me:
“I am not happy with you, Mr. Carl”, she shook her head which made her curls fly and her breasts jiggle, “Not happy at all! You called me a loose woman in front of your friends last night.” How did she know, had she listened in on our discussion? If so, I was indeed in trouble. In my foggy mind, I tried to muster a defense and opened my mouth. “Tsk, tsk, tsk”, she waved her finger in front of my face, “I want to hear no excuses, Mr. BigMouth, we will sort that out once and for all!” I was dumbfound and did not know what to say.
She stepped back a few steps and said challengingly:
“So, do you think garter belts are for skanks?” She looked at me, I could only make a non-committal sound. “I did not hear that” I managed a mumbled:
“No” I said, to which she nodded.
“Good,” she said and turned sideways in front of me, slightly lifted her heel from to floor and bent her knee, then took the helm of her already too short skirt and lifted it up on the side over her perfect tanned thigh, “because look, no garter straps” I stared unbelieving at the muscles playing under her skin. She moved her shapely leg back and forth to give me a really good look, I saw her toned leg from her shoes to where her halterless stockings ended to nearly her holy of holies without her showing me more than a leg. But what an intoxicating sight it was. I felt very hot and flustered and I gawked until she said:
“No garter, no skank, right?” I stared until she insisted “Right?” I licked my dry lips and mumbled:
“Right” She smiled satisfied, a dangerous, mischievous grin, Croats can be dangerous people, then turned her back to me. Oh gosh, she had really a perfect pert ass. I had never consciously seen her backside before, I looked perfectly shaped, round and slightly gleaming under the black leather. I was officially in lust, my body temperature rose and I felt that something stirred in my trousers. She interrupted my thoughts:
“Mr. Carl, next question to you. Are G-strings only for sluts?” I was too dumbstruck to reply, she had heard the whole discussion. “Mr. Carl?” I stared at her fabulous rump and felt my face go beet red. “Hello, Mr. Carl, this is Earth, do you copy?” I violently shook my head. “So, Mr. Carl, no G-string, no slut? Carl, answer me!” This insolence shook me out of my erotic stupor, I mumbled something.” Not good enough, Carl! Answer me. No G-string, no slut?” Her repeated insolence calling me just by my first name did it and I managed to press out:
“No G-string, no slut.” She smiled at me knowingly, and slowly, ever so slowly, she bent forward. Her anyway short skirt rose up over her thighs, higher, over the end of her legs, her round buttocks sprang out towards me and a dark crack in between them, her glorious cheeks nearly fully exposed while she leaned more and more forward and … there … between her güvenilir bahis siteleri thighs, I saw naked pink folds, lighter than her skin, pink, juicy, rosy folds of her naked pussy between her tanned thighs. I was mesmerized by this display of delights, licked my parched lips …
“No string, Mr. Carl, so no slut” she announced triumphantly before straightening and brushing her skirt back over her treasures. “And now to the question if I am too old to be exciting to you” her confident grin did nothing to reassure me and I was even more troubled when I saw her graciously kneel down and crawl towards me on all fours.
O those round breasts that jumped between her arms while she crawled towards me like a black cat! That fabulous back under the thin gleaming leather, the narrow waist and round arse.
In spite of my sorry state, my trousers became very tight. She was between my thighs and lay a warm hand very close to the growing tent in my pants.
“Let us see if I am too old to excite, or if that was nonsense as well” she said, her eyes squinting cat-like as she slowly unbuttoned my fly and her hand disappeared in my trousers. Her cool hand grabbed me firmly and dragged my pride and joy into the dim light of the cellar.
“My oh my, Carl, what have we here? Not such a small boy after all, our Carl.” She inquisitively lifted an eyebrow, and slowly rubbed my engorged member. “Let us see if you are a good boy, Carl, or if you lust after your old janitor” she stared me in the eye and slowly let her cool hand slide up and down on my hot rod. I moaned with lust and she looked at me in mock surprise: “What is it dear boy, are you in pain?” She rubbed faster now, harder and faster, then gave me a coy smile “Or are you maybe excited by your scrawny janitor”. While she whispered this, her red lips were merely inches away from my purple cock head; I lifted my hips but with an iron grip, she held me down and furiously rubbed my hot shaft. “Ah, little Carl wants to play… Do you Carl?” I was nearly drooling with excitement. She looked up at me expectantly, her mouth now very close to the bulb of my tulip, I could feel her breath going over it as she whispered. “Tell me Carl, do you?” She squeezed my pole hard and extracted a croaked “Yes!” from me.
She slightly blew over my cock head where the first drips of pre-cum showed. Her hand was a flash as she asked me further with an impish smile: “Tell me, what do you want?” I watched her slack jawed and speechless as she rubbed my meat furiously. “Tell, me little Carl, what do you want” she said again and slowed her pistoning hand. “Don’t be shy, you can tell old Mrs. Juric” her hand grew ever slower.
“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop” I gasped just before her hand stood still. She slightly accelerated again, her eyebrow rising, her face a picture of innocence:
“Oh Mr. Carl, what is it that you want?” she stroked the whole length of my tail, then slowed down again “You can tell Mrs. Juric, you know” further slowing down, slowing down, and then she stopped. Took her hand off my vibrating, precum leaking cock. Which stood upright, waiting for her caress. She instead laid both her hands on my thighs.
“WHAT do you want, Mr. Carl????” she said sharply, looking at my expectantly. And in the breathless silence, I heard myself say:
“Play.” Silence. “I want to play”. She grinned up at me, a wild feline grin.
“My oh my, as you have found your eloquence back, Ill be nice to you…” She pressed herself up and turned around, putting her hands on my thighs. And just when I opened my mouth to protest, she backed up, the moist folds under her skirt making contact with my tip… and she sat down on my lap with a little scream. Sat on my lap, her hands on my thighs and my cock deeply buried in her body. Her skirt hiding everything from view, but I could feel her hotness around my stiff member, her bloodstream pulsating around my engorged cock. I was stunned, did not dare to move. And then I felt her muscles contracting and she lifted herself up from my lap… up up up … And, bam, she slammed down again, a little stifled scream. Up, up, up, bam, ahhh!! Up, up, up, bam ahhh! She was pumping up and down on me, riding me like an amazon would ride her horse and all of a sudden, I snapped back into my body. I could smell her body, the faint intoxicating smell of a woman in heat, sweat and something else, indescribable, but amplified by her leather dress.
Admiringly, I laid my hands on her hips pushed her down on my cock, she jumped up again, I guided her, gripped her leather-clad hips and buttocks and impaled her on my member faster, harder, faster, both of us panting, I felt how my the juices rose in my hose, my testicals twitching, I was close , so close, she screamed, shuddered, and her muscles gripped me under her skirt, and then she sat still… panting and breathing. I was stunned, waited for her to start again and… Yes, she rose again… Yes, yes, bring me over the edge as well. Please, please do it. … But she rose and stepped forward … and with a sloppy sound, my twitching rod came free of her and she stepped away from me. I stared at her in disbelief, at my smeared hard cock in the light, the long threads of sticky liquid dripping down over my crotch and onto the floor, at her leather covered ass and she turned her head, looked slightly flustered:
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