The Concierge

3/31/2008

I've been at this gig for about three years now in London.
Career-wise, it wasn't what I expected to be doing
at my age, but I can't gripe about the pay. This is for
a private apartment complex (not a hotel, mind you), so
it's rightly what Europeans define as being a Concierge
(attending to high-end residents' needs).


I'm in my mid-twenties, tall and reasonably fit, outfitted
in a blazer, gray slacks and dress shoes, and I sport a genuine-enough
smile that's kept fresh every day. This is no mean feat,
as the job is the essence of repetition; if you think it's
easy coming up with clever ways to say the weather stinks,
guess again.


Getting to the sexual stuff in the building: it's always
there, right under the surface. If I had a pound for every
instance when a female resident told me something confidential
about her husband's behaviour, well, you know, I'd
be retiring early. Like, next week. And I don't mean
it's always overt stuff; mostly it's just little
hints that they wouldn't mind something extra in their
lives.


Hell, some of the married men here have given me signals
that they'd love an informal intro to a sexy lady who
just moved in on the fifth floor, for that matter. They're
more direct in their comments, naturally, than the women.



But, I'm avoiding the main subject. Let me tell you
about Mrs. Harris, for starters. Not her real name, of course,
but it might as well be. She's a long-standing resident
of this building, which is set back on a short, relatively-unknown
street off a major road in the city, but manages to seem nestled
in just the right spot to allow easy walking distance to
every cultural (museums, opera, clubs) as well as practical
conveniences (grocery, shopping, shopping, and shopping)
that one might need.


Mrs. Harris is perfectly coiffed and made up, at any hour
of the day. Don't expect to catch her with pale, reddened
morning eyes, not her. She's petite and well formed,
appears to be about 40.


If anything Mrs. Harris wears costs less that a thousand
or maybe two, I've never seen her in it. Don't ask
about the various tasteful jewellery pieces and what they
may cost, please. I've met her husband twice so far
in three years, so the vague "he travels a lot on business"
will have to do.


Mrs. Harris and I have carried on a discreet and unusual
sexual life for about a year now. We've never actually
spoken about it, oddly enough. Even as I write this today
I wonder if she might read it sometime and recognize us.
I believe she'd get a charge out of it, in her own refined
way, but I will never know. Such is our arrangement.


As I said I believe she is about forty in years. But never
forget this about the well-off: you can't guess their
ages without a look at the driver's license, and even
then you don't know if it's forged. Her wide, deep-set
eyes are light brown and she has a patrician nose that leans
toward a possible Italian half-heritage. That may explain
how warm and moist her skin can look. Her hair is so professionally
collared that it looks like real chestnut brown. She wears
it down around her graceful neck, almost to her shoulders.



Her breasts are firm and high and not artificial, as best
I can tell, with responsive nipples. Not thin-waisted
but not thick, her daily trips to the gym keep her shapely,
which is doubly-important for petite women. Invariably,
Mrs. Harris totters expertly on expensive, imported heels
that one day may be her downfall (literally), but I guess
one never loses the stigma of being short.


Her wardrobe style complements her figure, with her favourite
looks epitomizing the "just back from Aspen, by way
of the Alps" attitude, namely ski pants that hug her
hips and arse quite well.


Most of all, Mrs. Harris has that thing called charisma.
Charisma has the power to mesmerize you, to make your eyes
draw down from hers to the source of that strong but soft
voice, to study those moistened lips and the perfect teeth
within, as they expel the time-tested, upper-echelon
diction.


Not that I'm intimidated by such personal magnetism.
No, not intimidated by such a person as Mrs. Harris, but
certainly drawn to her. I could listen to her read the phone
book with that voice.


It all started with Trust. Trust is something I've
learned is required to get the rich to open up. Discretion
is a major part of Trust. I'd be fired tomorrow if any
of my residents felt I was telling tales out of school. Trust
is the tree from which all things green grow in my world,
if you get my drift.


Over the course of time Mrs. Harris evolved from stiff to
soft in my presence. This was before the first sexual incident
I'm about to relate. As she grew to realize she could
trust me, even in things that might put me in an awkward position
with the management company that pays my salary, she gradually
dropped her master-and-servant bit and loosened up. This,
I figured, would give me opportunities to worm my way into
performing more services for her, with escalating tips
as a result. Little did I know.


That was all that drove me that day when she asked me to her
apartment to rearrange some heavy planters on her balcony.
I'd been frequently in her unit to take care of the many
florals and hanging plants during Mrs. Harris' vacations,
so this was not anything unusual, except for the fact of
her presence in the place. I'd been summoned by her
phone call. It was about 11 AM.


We discussed upcoming renovations to hallways in the building,
as I recall. She wore an orange robe with discreet piping
running down the front, and as we spoke and politely shared
the wine I noticed that the arcs of that piping seemed to
mimic her own considerable curves, underneath.


Then Mrs. Harris did an odd thing. One moment she was poised
so elegantly on an antique chair with light yellow upholstery,
speaking to me of her time in Greece and the ancient kitchen
she had toured in some ruin or other, and in the next she was
gliding across the room to her stereo and upping the volume
a little. The lady of the house crossed back through the
room and stood beside my seated form in the chair, with her
right leg pressed into my left arm.


I know it doesn't make sense, but that bathrobe felt
like it wasn't there, like I could feel the heat from
her outer thigh right through that imported material and
my own assembled-in-Malaysia jacket. It was a heat that
meant only one thing.


I looked up at her and she looked back. In her right hand was
a wine glass. I remember it shimmered in the late morning
light, betraying slight nervousness at what she was doing.
Her neck seemed flushed. Her eyes studied mine with a vulnerability
I'd never witnessed in her, but at the same time she
was in charge.


Mrs. Harris gasped slightly when she felt my hand running
up under her robe. I wasn't even aware I was doing it,
to tell the truth. This was a woman in serious lust and heat,
a woman who needed my services at that moment and was not
ready at all to be turned down. A woman whose legs were parting
slightly as I slid further up. My response to this was pure
instinct.


We spoke not a word as Mrs. Harris leaned down and used her
left hand to pull her robe out of the way, offering a naked,
needy body to my view. Her sumptuous flesh was actually
trembling. She bent more and brought a stiffened nipple
to my mouth. I felt like I could hear her inner machinery
hum.


My hand had reached her inner thigh, where I encountered
actual moisture sliding down her skin from above. I had
to make myself step outside the overwhelming, almost oppressive
fact of her need, to notice that my own response had produced
a fierce erection, one that was painfully trapped within
my confined position. I don't believe I've ever
had a stronger reaction than that in so short a time, even
during puberty. It was like I could come any second just
from the novelty of this situation.


The nipple between my lips seemed to expand from the licking
and sucking I was giving. I heard a sort of sobbing breathlessness
from Mrs. Harris. Looking up, I saw the wideness of her eyes
and knew right away that she was about to come. It made no
sense, but she was about to give out, I could tell.


I brought my fingers to the mouth of her sex and felt the warm
wetness, the shape of her vulva, the reality of her. I was
like the blind man allowed to see, or I should say I didn't
need to actually view her naked cunt to feel the bareness
of its need. My mouth was now full of her substantial breast
as Mrs. Harris tried in her lust to push more of it into me.
Her breath was ragged, just above my ear. I barely found
the time to locate the nub of her clit before she exploded
all over me.


At least it felt that way. Unlike most women I've known
at this height of passion, Mrs. Harris' orgasm was
one large blurt full of emotion and biological culmination.
She seemed to squat and leak all over my fingers as the wine
glass flew across the carpet. Her breast pulled violently
out of my mouth even as her hand softly stroked my neck like
it was her lover's cock. This gentle gesture seemed
autonomous, given that the rest of her was so involved with
her strong release.


Within about twenty seconds she was on her knees on the carpet,
exhausted, with her arms about my neck, her head buried
in the hollow of my shoulder. I petted her sopping cunt lips
with my fingers softly before withdrawing. Her sexual
smell was positively overpowering in the room, which only
made me more erect and more in awe of her suddenly-revealed
inner person.


I remember that day she recovered gradually and gave me
a short hug before dropping a hand curiously to my lap to
explore my reaction. I guess she needed to know that her
actions weren't merely ones of selfish impertinence,
but that I'd gotten something out of it as well. Her
touch was more like a physician's exam than a lover's
caress. Her wine breath was sweet as her cheek briefly touched
mine, and then our session was over.


"Thank you, Richard."


"My pleasure, " I replied, hoarsely. "Perhaps
another day for the planters."


"Yes, thank you." And then she was in the bathroom
with the shower starting to run and the door closed. And
I was doing what cleaning up I could, but screw the wine glass
and the stains on the carpet, that was her bother.


My erection didn't recede for quite some time, owing
to the thoughts in my mind and the smell of her pussy on my
fingers. I found myself wondering if I'd be called
back soon to complete our session that day, but that didn't
happen for another month or more.


In the interim I wondered how I might react to her the next
time we'd meet, outside her apartment, I mean. I even
practiced keeping a straight face in our imaginary hallway
encounters. I wondered most of all if she would act differently
toward me, and hoped it wouldn't be in a negative way.



I needn't have bothered worrying. Things were back
to normal the next day, as if nothing had happened. Small
talk and a bit of politics were exchanged between us for
weeks, and pretty soon I chalked the whole thing up to aberrant
behaviour. It was either that or make myself crazy dreaming
up a rational explanation. Still, I couldn't help
wondering how I'd behave if ever Mrs. Harris summoned
me to move those blasted planters again.


And so it was, immediately after taking a cell phone call
from her the following month about coming up to do exactly
that job, that I found my trousers tented unbearably. It
was with much trepidation that I took the elevator to her
floor and attempted to conduct myself professionally
while knocking.


Mrs. Harris only nodded to me as I entered her hallway. She
was dressed this time in a loose tropical blouse and casual
off-blue jeans, her feet bare, but the ensemble was not
something you'll find at BHS. I followed her until
she entered her bedroom and sat on the edge of her throwback
platform bed, facing me as I stood at the door. That's
where my feet stopped, along with my breath.


Her being petite and the bed being close to the floor, I twigged
to what she wanted to do immediately, and it was disappointing
to realize I didn't find it surprising. By that I mean
that I really wish I could have seemed puzzled. Maybe it
was the look in her eyes as she beckoned me to her, or perhaps
I was beginning to understand that to Mrs. Harris I was more
of a useful object than a lover.


Anyway, it was apparent she had pre-estimated the best
place to do this in her apartment, and her deductions were
correct. Neither of us spoke when I walked to her and she
pulled me close by grasping my hips with her hands. I unbuttoned
my blazer as the bulge in my slacks pressed against her face
and she ran her mouth and lips and cheeks over it without
a sound. Her face was at just the right height to marry with
my crotch. I could feel her insistent desire through the
touch of her hands on my hips.


I don't know how she got my penis out of my pants so deftly
(hell, just unzipping to take a piss requires me to spend
some time at it), but in no time my naked flesh was feeling
the cool air of the room and the warm lips of Mrs. Harris.
She'd even managed to fish my balls out so she could
nuzzle and kiss them. She got her whole face into it, smushing
herself against my erection, her eyes closed peacefully
like she was waking from a nice dream and didn't want
the light to get in, just yet.


It felt wonderful, I must say. Her features being small
and delicate didn't hurt anything in my ego -- my dick
looked quite large against her face, especially looking
down at her like that. I could see a little smear of my precum
adorning her slightly flushed cheek, which only made me
stiffer. And then she had me slipped into her mouth with
her tongue running along the underside, and I let loose
involuntarily with a small groan.


I didn't know what to do with my hands. They naturally
wanted to reach out and caress her face and hair and neck
and ears, but something told me to just hook them behind
my back and keep such impulses in check for the moment. I
knew I was right when I saw Mrs. Harris open her eyes and look
up at me with a disconnected gaze, as though the fact that
there was an actual person attached to these male genitals
was inconvenient. I should have been put off, but it came
more as a relief.


Of course she knew how to blow a guy, so my cock and balls stayed
very interested even as I went a little cold inside. One
of her hands left my hip to drift over and cup my ball sac as
she tilted her head back a little to accept more of me into
the back of her throat. All the while that tongue was roving
the underside of my shaft like a little pleasure machine
that knew all the right destinations, especially just
under the ridge of my glans.


I wasn't too surprised when her other hand moved down
her own body, first giving a light trail across her blouse-covered
breasts and then delving into the spot between her legs.
Looking past the erotic sight of my cock buried half inside
this woman's mouth, her lips stretching as she began
to bob her head on it, I could just make out her using the heel
of her hand to grind against herself down there. It was a
languid rather than urgent movement, and I remember thinking
that she was clearly in no hurry to reach her own pleasure
peak.


I don't believe I was thinking coherently right then.
My senses were all about her warm wet mouth and the fact that
she was now taking more of me into her throat than when she'd
started. My hips were starting to push out at her. My balls
were in her hand, being rolled gently between her fingers.
My eyes were on her lips.


In my mind I pictured what the shaft of my cock looked like
moving through her mouth, the head pressing past the back
of her tongue to enter her throat. I imagined the flanged
tip blossoming out and the hole of my urethra spread wide,
ready to ejaculate directly down that aristocratic throat
and fill her with my semen. It was something I'd never
pictured like that before, and I think there was a bit of
involuntary sexual menace in those visualizations.


I knew instinctively Mrs. Harris wasn't the sort of
woman you had to explain things to; she would naturally
know when I was to reach my peak of pleasure, since she was
in total control of it all the time. And she'd of course
know what happens when a man makes it to that point. The way
she was now aggressively sawing my cock in and out of her
mouth as I thrust it at her, her cheeks alternately swelling
and hollowing, her head moving back and forth as more and
more of me seemed to be swallowed down and her lips nearly
met my crotch....well, that could only mean that she wanted
to get me to that destination in a hurry.


Although the hand between her legs moved a bit more energetically
now, she still sat on that bed with no other sign that she
was nearing full arousal herself -- no squirming of her
arse against the fabric of her coverlet, no rising of her
chest, no flushing at her neck, no other signal. Just those
eyes occasionally meeting mine, and our laboured breathing
in that silent bedroom.


Mrs. Harris didn't resist me when I bent a little and
felt up her tits through her blouse. They were a good handful,
and belied her age in their firmness. Those expensive bras
don't get in the way of one's ministrations like
your garden variety Playtex models, let me inform you;
it was like she was encased in a supportive spider's
web. I could feel her nipples harden in my palms.


Deep in my belly and just below my balls I felt the onset of
my orgasm. Again I had those images of my cock in her mouth
and the head of it stretching to its fullest as it pushed
into the back of her throat. I could see the tip just spreading,
opening up....


My balls pulled up against myself and then I could see in
my mind the course that the mixture of sperm and semen was
taking as it rose urgently up my shaft and then burst out
of the tip into her mouth in several very sharp, speedy ejaculations,
followed by two more that were much slower in pace and brought
me excruciating pleasure. It was all I could do to keep my
hands from tearing her blouse open as my sticky fluids filled
her mouth and her tongue kept on with its insistent roving.
I fear I was making some sort of noise. The pleasure was intense.



I hadn't realized Mrs. Harris had ceased her back and
forth bobbing as she sensed my climax was upon me. Only as
I felt a gradual return to full attention, and could focus
my eyes properly, did I notice that she had instead pulled
back so that only the head of my shaft was resting just inside
her firmly closed lips. That tongue action I'd been
feeling was just at the tip, teasing and milking out the
rest of my cum. Jesus, that woman knows how to suck a dick.



Her eyes on mine, with my prick starting to soften a bit in
her mouth, Mrs. Harris then returned quickly to her masturbation,
using both hands between her legs to rub her mound through
her clothes. I swear it wasn't ten seconds before she
gurgled around my cock as it protruded obscenely from her
carefully lipsticked mouth, and twitched sharply on the
bed.


It was almost unnatural, the way it happened so suddenly.
In another few moments a second wave hit her, and my cock
was dislodged from her mouth as she sucked in air.


The head of my dick hung there for a moment just outside her
mouth, a string of saliva and sperm connecting it to her
lips, and then she reflexively slipped it back inside as
the last of the orgasm swept through her body.


I must admit, it felt good and looked even better. It was
just so dirty. Her lips suckled at me for a few more seconds
before Mrs. Harris fully opened her lidded eyes and let
me slip back out to hang there before her face.


She studied my softening penis as it hung there shrinking,
all reddened and wet. Her neck now was almost the same colour
as my cock from the flush of her own induced climax, and her
lips were slick with my cum and her spit. I looked at her,
unable to think of anything to say, or able even to decide
if something should be said.


She solved this awkward moment for both of us by matter-of-factly
lowering her jaw to show me the strings and pools of jism
residing on her tongue and clinging to her teeth, following
this absolutely filthy display with an exaggerated swallowing
of my entire offering to her fellationary skills. I could
see her throat working. Even today, nearly a year later,
I can get aroused all over again and reach orgasm by masturbating
to just those few seconds of imagery in my mind.


This session ended same as the last (and others to come):
Mrs. Harris rising up to go to her shower and me leaving her
apartment, discreetly. At least this time she thanked
me as she got up, and even ran a hand softly over my cheek.
It wasn't exactly a loving gesture, but it was a bit
more personal than other times.


I departed, moving awkwardly in true exhaustion. I had
to find a furnished, unoccupied apartment to lay down on
the couch for a bit, before returning to work that day. My
balls felt empty and achy.


I have yet to penetrate any part of Mrs. Harris with my penis
other than her mouth, but I do know her body rather intimately.
The next time she called, for instance (simply saying "Richard"
this time, and softly hanging up the phone), was for me to
enter her sizable bathroom, where she awaited my arrival.



Naked from the waist down, she was perched on the marble
sink with her legs wide open, a fluffy white towel under
her pampered behind, a towel which already showed moisture
stains caused by the arousal that delineated her cunt lips.
It was running down to her arse crack. I swear this woman
gets as wet as a teenage girl.


I couldn't help but notice there was a somewhat larger
spiffy towel on the floor in front of the sink, thoughtfully
folded over a couple of times so that my knees would be well-cushioned.
I've always enjoyed pleasing a woman this way, and
in fact have tried to make it part of every true lovemaking
session of my life, but I'd been rather worrying that,
in Mrs. Harris' case, I might find her nether region,
well....perhaps less appetizing than those I'd visited
before, closer to my own in age.


I had a thing or two to learn about older women in general
and rich, pampered women in particular, because her pussy
and arse crease were just as attractive and arousing as
those I've seen in the flesh, on screen, in pictures,
or in magazines. She had nicely shaped, Bermuda sand-collared
vulva, which gleamed wetly in the halogen bathroom light,
a set of invitingly pink and liquid inner lips, firm haunches
that led to a smooth division of her backside, and a softly-wrinkled
rear hole that was clearly as well cared for as the rest of
her.


Did I mention that she trims herself but doesn't shave?
Well, she probably has someone else do it, now that I think
of it. Enough hair removed to make for fine dining, but just
the right amount left so that you'll know it's
a woman you're performing cunnilingus on, not a callow
girl.


I removed my necktie this time as well as my blazer. No sense
having that hang down below and getting all stained. Mrs.
Harris watched me with some arousal showing on her face
but no impatience. I slid to the floor and planted a hand
on either of her thighs, a move which she welcomed, and then
started to make tender small kisses and licks to the inner
parts of her thighs. My nose took in the unmistakable scent
of a hot woman.


As her heels settled upon my shoulders I studied her open
cunt, searching for the proper place to start. The glistening
pearl of her swollen clit was slightly protruding from
its nest at the top of her furrow, showing me she was warmed
up enough that I wouldn't have to coax that out of hiding.
It would probably do to nudge it along with the bridge of
my nose, at first, as I supped lower. And so I nestled in and
started to lap up her juices, which were salty and plentiful
but not thick and viscous like some ladies produce. More
like tears, as though her pussy was weeping.


My tongue roved over the flaps of her opening at will, delving
inside just a bit as her muscles relaxed further to allow
me full access. My nose indeed brushed at her clitoris as
I pushed forward to give her warm flesh as much contact with
my face as she needed, my tongue going inside a little to
lap at her inner walls. My chin rested on the edge of the sink,
rubbing against that towel as I licked away and sucked now
at her inner labia.


Mrs. Harris made no sound but her lower body was alive with
the stimulation she was receiving. She gave a little jump
when I ran my tongue tip up her furrow and teased her clit
for a long instant. I chose that moment to look up at her eyes
but they were closed and relaxed, one hand lazily brushing
inside the front of her robe. I wondered if she'd go
off like a firecracker, as she had in our last session.


As I say, I enjoy going down on a woman, so I continued happily
licking, sucking, kissing and rubbing her pussy and the
surrounding soft skin with my lips, tongue and face, starting
to feel her push outwardly towards me in a sustained rhythm.
This brought her to the very edge of the sink, with her backside
opening up to my close scrutiny. Her juices seemed to slow
down not a bit, and the wetness clung to her everywhere,
as well as to my lips and chin. Her crack gleamed in the reflected
light from the tile floor.


Her scent was strong but not unpleasantly so, adding to
the sexual rawness of this master and servant moment, and
I shouldn't have to mention that I wish I'd taken
a moment to unzip myself before kneeling; my poor cock was
cramped up again in my trousers. I wondered if I dared to
move one of my hands.


Mrs. Harris gave out with a minor sigh as I brought my fingers
into play at her arse crease. I felt momentarily triumphant
at guessing that such a move might get a rise out of her. I
ran a fingertip over her anus and then quickly away again,
teasing the area as my lips locked onto her clit and gently
sucked. My other hand held her left thigh firmly to keep
her in place, and my index finger stretched over to caress
the area directly above her clit, massaging the sensitive
upper hood.


I rolled her clitoris itself with my tongue, trying to find
just the right pressure. Too often a lover can be overly
aggressive with this little ball of nerve endings, driving
a woman into unpleasant overload.


Her knees were now locked behind my neck, her heels pressing
against my upper back. I love that, personally, I don't
know about you. Nothing tells you she's feeling great
about what you're doing more than a pair of legs, ankles
or thighs hugging you and urging you forward (or, at least,
trying to hold you in place). As well, her pussy started
to get that sort of sweet flavour that I've only ever
sensed just before a climax is approaching. I can't
describe it, really, but when it's present, get ready!



I entered her arse hole with the tip of my finger just as I
used my upper lip to rub urgently at the top of her cunt and
slid my tongue as far into her pussy as I could manage. Quickly
she began grinding against my lips with her pelvis, and
I swear I could feel liquid flowing like a stream into my
mouth. When her hands gripped my hair and her arse humped
out almost off the sink I knew this was one woman who never
had an average climax.


My face and mouth were engulfed by her hot flesh and moisture
as she shivered and came in four great, strong convulsions.
I kept my finger in her backside all the while, in fact it
slid in to the second knuckle as Mrs. Harris came and came
and came. God, she was hot inside. She made subdued but audible
mewling and light grunting sounds deep in her throat as
her arse rose and fell and her vagina tried to swallow me
whole.


My face was soaking wet. It felt actually wrinkled from
the drenching she'd given me. And damned if Mrs. Harris
didn't like the slow fade approach to her pleasure:
as her orgasm slid away she held me in place and simply rubbed
her sex all over my lips and chin, milking out the feeling
gradually. Her cunt was visibly swollen, her outer lips
puffy as she rubbed, her inner labia super-heated against
my tongue. Again and again she pressed and slid herself
against me until she'd had enough.


I gingerly slipped my finger from her rear hole as her body
withdrew. I felt proud, to be truthful. Even though I was
a tool I'd given her my all, and that had been more than
enough. Hell, my finger was redolent with her odour, as
was most of my face. No doubt this woman had enjoyed my efforts.



Mrs. Harris was visibly exhausted as I helped her down from
her perch and toward her shower. Her robe fell to the floor
and I beheld her completely naked for the first time. She
really is quite well put together, even if she's not
anyone's idea of a teenage love bunny. Proportionately,
pound for pound, I can't imagine any man, of any age,
not appreciating her.


I took awhile watching through the translucent shower
curtain as she washed herself, before using the sink and
liberal amounts of soap to clean her residue from my face
and chin. A word about soap in such situations: if you're
married or have a regular thing going on, gentlemen, do
not use anything flowery. I had to search under her sink
that day, for instance, to find a cake of something unscented.
English Seaside Lavender is a plain giveaway.


Almost forgot to tell you: I'd just gotten all presentable
that day in her bathroom and was set to leave when the shower
stopped and Mrs. Harris peered out around the curtain at
me.


"Do you have a few minutes, Richard?"


"Um, yes, sure Mrs. Harris." Actually I didn't,
but what else could I say.


"I wonder if you'd do something for me. You see,
you might not know it, but I miss my husband when he's
away like this, and you could help me through it by doing
a little something. Can you?" I couldn't help
noticing she was looking at the front of my pants.


I heard myself saying, "What the fuck were we just
doing? If THAT wasn't helping you out a bit, what the
hell WILL?" Of course, that's not what came out.
In fact, nothing did. I simply nodded.


"Good", she replied, and emerged from the shower
and reached for a towel. "I'm prone to sad spells,
you know. You'll be a dear and help me put that off for
awhile."


I watched her dry her breasts, her legs, and between her
legs. Then she spent a moment fluffing her hair in the mirror,
not bothering to don her robe. She watched me watching her,
all the while. A tiny smile seemed to play over her lips and
then was gone. I wondered what she needed.


To my surprise she moved over to the toilet and lifted the
lid, then turned and settled onto the seat. I reflexively
turned my head to give her privacy, but she motioned for
me to approach her.


"Gerald sometimes likes to do something with me when
I'm in the bathroom, Richard. I hope you won't
think it odd." I noticed she was squatted as if to pee
but not doing so. Her eyes were again on my pants. I realized
I'd never lost my hard-on.


"It's just that I miss him and this will help",
she continued. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind
moving over here in front of me."


I did so, my uneasiness giving way to a strong feeling of
sexual anticipation. I was looking down at Mrs. Harris'
proper face, and below that her improperly naked tits.
Below that were her very improper pair of thighs spread
open over the toilet, revealing her still-swollen cunt
lips. Her eyes were on my zipper.


"I'll need you to say some things to me now, while
we're doing this. I hope you won't find it silly."
Her eyes met mine, and for a moment it seemed that I held a
certain power over her. I didn't like that at all.


"Whatever you need, Mrs. Harris", I replied
softly.


"Thank you", she said quietly. Then her eyes
went back to my pants. "I imagine from the look of it
you could use some release?"


"Um, yes....."


"Good. I was hoping so." She motioned hurriedly
for me to remove my slacks, so I quickly did so, trying not
to look awkward in the process. In moments, although my
socks and shoes were still on and my shirt tails hung down
below my blazer, I stood a foot or so away from her with my
prick bobbing before me and my swollen balls hanging free.
Mrs. Harris relaxed against the toilet tank and alternated
her gaze from my eyes down to my cock, then back up again.



"Gerald, must you bring that thing in here like that,
all rampant? You can see I have to pee." This took me
aback, as you may imagine. It was several moments until
it registered within me what was up.


I twigged to what she was getting at, wanting me to play-act
the husband, doing whatever this thing was that they do.
I had to guess what my line of response might be. While I thought
about it I noticed Mrs. Harris was actually pinching one
of her nipples. It was distended and looked almost purple.



"Who cares what you're up to. I need to get my pleasure,
and you're Mrs. Harris, last I looked at the marriage
certificate", was my stagy reply. I used a gruff voice
and my eyes were on hers to see if I was going the right way.



She looked up at me with no malice. "I suppose you want
to do what you always do, wank at yourself while you watch.
Isn't that right. You're very naughty, Gerald."



I said nothing, just brought my hand right away to my cock
and started doing just what she'd described. Her eyes
lit up to see this, and one hand went to her lower belly. Despite
how weird this scene was, my cock was indeed "rampant",
as she'd put it. It hung low and thick in my hand as I masturbated.



"You want to see me pee, don't you? That always
gets you off, brings you off so your spunk gets all over me.
Watching me take a pee." She was telling me what to
do, with her little ritual phrases. I wondered how the two
of them had ever started all this up? It must be important,
what with Mrs. Harris even needing an occasional stand-in.



"I can feel it starting. You're so dirty, making
me piss in front of you like this. That great big cock of yours
is right in front of me. Tell me what you're going to
do. I can feel it just starting." She squirmed in her
seat and I could see she was strumming lightly at the hood
of her clitoris. She had her pussy thrust out so I could get
a good look.


"I'm going to shoot my cum all over you, that's
what. As soon as you start to pee. It's what you deserve."
I saw immediately that the last bit was a little out of line,
her face had gone momentarily dark, but that moment passed
and she returned her attention to my cock and then my face,
then back again. She was trying to time everything perfectly.



"All right, you dirty bastard. Go ahead and do it,
I'm going to pee. Watch me. Shoot your spunk all over
my face and my tits."


Now I knew where she wanted it, so I stepped back just a bit
to get a good look down between her legs. As soon as I saw and
heard the stream begin I furiously pulled at my cock and
felt myself start to tense up deep inside. Mrs. Harris was
pretty flushed in the neck and looking a trifle desperate
as she saw me bring my dick to her face. I stroked it firmly
there in front of her as she stared closely at it.


I couldn't tell whether she was physically or emotionally
distraught, but very soon it was too late for her as my semen
came roping out and covered her left cheek in two quick splats,
then more spattered her nose and upper lip.


It was really quite an exotic sight, something I'd
always imagined I'll do someday with my wife (if I ever
get up the nerve to tell her about how cool it looks in all
those fuck films, and can manage something like "gee
honey let's try it you might like it"). As her
urine stream positively gushed into the toilet my thick
cum jetted out, now onto her chin and then down onto her neck,
immediately starting to drip from there onto her hanging
tits as she stared wide-eyed at my prick hanging there mere
inches from her face and spitting out sperm.


It was a wild scene, replicated out of the corner of my eye
in the mirrored wall behind her. I'm not one to find
a woman taking a piss to be a major turn-on (well, I once did
in my teens, when a girl let me watch her in the woods), but
I gotta admit old Gerald knew what he was doing in this case.
Mrs. Harris came across as elegantly nasty, riding her
own fingers while she peed and took cum in her face. It was
all around her lips and she was not above licking it in a little
as she moved against her fingertips on the toilet seat.



She was cumming, had been ever since her peeing began, it
turned out. I was too lost in my own pleasure to realize that,
what with my balls happily churning out the froth for her
immaculate, salon-toned skin. As my spurts became dribbles
I held the flanged head of my penis against her cheek and
smeared it into her like I guessed her husband would do;
her little shakes and shivers then cued me in that she was
having a series of small climax peaks despite the continuation
of her peeing, which seemed to go on forever.


Finally her pissing subsided and just a couple of little
drips came out of her. With that cessation came the easing
away of her orgasm, as well, but this time in little spasms.
Her upper body slumped against the toilet as I gazed down
at her and saw how utterly erotic (in a very dirty, very raw
way) she looked with my cum dripping down her flesh and her
cunt working in little jerks against her hand. If I could
have managed it physically, just the look of her would have
been enough to spur me on to do it over again, right then and
there. I even had a quick mental flash of how another burst
of my cream would look being launched across her already-wet
features, and over the puffy nipples of her sperm-smeared
tits.


After watching her lap up a few drops from the sensitive
tip of my prick as I slowly recovered, I reluctantly began
the task of tidying myself up as best I could. I left Mrs.
Harris sitting on that toilet, her eyes closed and her mouth
slack. Neither of us spoke, as had become our custom at parting.