Wherehouse Notes 1 / Annie
“What was the name of your home town?” I gasped trying to divert and delay.
Annie was looking at me with her startling blue eyes which peered out from under her ratted blacker than black hair. Cut short with a single curl on either side of her rouged cheeks for a side burn, she seemed to me to be the last of the mods from Great Britain. No doubt she once screamed for John, Paul, George, and Ringo in her day. Now it was the late 1970’s and she smiled at me and said, “I’m from Kaddiff,” in that accent that always made my nineteen year old cock stiffer than it usually was. She was the poshest women I had ever met. Or at least that is how I felt as she was giving me a hand job in the warehouse office where we both worked. The way her tits had the ski slope swoop from the bra-less 1970’s and came to a point of reserved British ecstasy while pulling apart the unbuttoned flimsy fabric polo shirt. The view was bringing me off fast. Just the way Annie liked it so I would last a little longer when she mounted me after business hours. These were the best work breaks ever.
But when Donna, the other “woman of a certain age” I was intimate with at my fun house warehouse job found out all hell would soon break loose. With that I broke loose and with perfect as ever timing Annie’s mouth covered my cocks top and slurped up every last drop. Only strands of my cum saw the light of day as she threw her head back and swallowed my load with her incredible sense of bravado.
“Well done my boy.” Annie said as she took out her compact to inspect her lip stick and face for any telltale signs of my seed.
Posted on July 31, 2013, in adult, Blogging, cynical, erotic, relationships, serial, Snarky and tagged awareness, desires, erotic stories, erotica, girlfriends, history, women, women.men. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.