1. He Looked Familiar


    Date: 10/16/2015, Categories: Mature, Author: marlowe, Rating: 5, Source: LushStories

    feel the heat of her breasts pushing against his arm, her body language seductive, her behaviour laden with persuasive suggestion. “I’ll not bore you with the wedding photographs,” she said, skipping randomly over a dozen pages, cursing at some old photographs and laughing at others, pausing and smiling at a holiday photograph of her posing by a swimming pool, the promiscuous outfit of tight fitting white shorts and knee-length leather boots getting his attention. “You look fantastic in those white shorts,” he offered, the compliment boosting her ego, an overexcited hand pouring wine into glasses, her smile widening, her confidence growing. “That was taken on my thirtieth-birthday,” she said, counting back the years in her head, “Almost twenty-two years ago,” she lied into her glass, turning quickly on the sofa, catching a glimpse of the promising bulge inside his pants, hiding the glint in her eyes behind a flirtatious smile, a sudden flash of memory breaking the nostalgic interlude. “Wait a second,” she blurted, flashing her eyes and pointing a finger in the air in that universal sign for, ‘I’ve-just-had-a-thought.’ “I think I’ve still got those white shorts in my bedroom wardrobe,” she said proudly, jumping up from the sofa, taking his wine glass from his hand and pulling him to his feet, a skip in her step as she led him up the stairs. “Turn around and close your eyes,” she smiled, opening the wardrobe door, searching impatiently inside a drawer, breathing a deep sigh ...
    of relief when she found the white shorts. Kicking her heels across the floor and shuffling her feet, clothes riding up, buttons and zips coming undone, wriggling her hips and sliding her skirt to her feet, deep intakes of breaths and frustrated sighs joining a breathless commentary of undignified curses, a motioning hand on his shoulder and a whispered voice announcing that he could turn around. “What do you think?” she asked, humming a tune inside her head, performing a theatrical pirouette in the full length mirror, twisting and turning with both hands on her hips, sucking in air and craning her neck, admiring her bottom in the reflection. “After all these years they still fit,” she said, a hint of uncertainty in her voice, running her hands over her hips and staring into the mirror, her smile growing in confidence, the white fabric clinging to her arse like a second skin, stretching over plump cheeks and disappearing into the long crack of her bottom, a bulging vulva and a discerning camel-toe imprinted in the tight fabric, gaping like a sabre wound from a forest of black pubic hair spilling from both side of her shorts, the familiar movement in his pants a reminder that even in her mid-fifties, Brenda Morton was still sexy enough to get him hard. “I told you so,” she smiled, sweeping her tongue over her top lip with flirtatious suggestion, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his mouth, feeling the bulging flesh pressing against her body, a thin smile and a ...
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