BabySitter Touching
Melissa rolled up at the requested time and I let her in. I couldn't help but think as I admitted her that there was no way known that she'd be dressed like that if she expected to meet anyone other than us. I think the style is called gunge, the sort of clothing no self-respecting adult would wear. Teenagers, of course, are another breed, which makes gunge acceptable -- in their minds.
So Jenni and I left Melissa to the tender mercies of our children and went out to dinner. After dinner we went to a show and subsequently dropped into a bar for a couple of drinks before heading home. While having our drinks we debated the pros and cons of the show, with Jenni getting quite enthusiastic about some of the cons. She was possibly a little too enthusiastic as she lost track of her drinks and had that fatal third glass.
For some reason Jenni can handle two drinks with no problems, but that third drink acts like a large dose of Seconal. It's not an immediate effect, but a short time later she drops into a rather sedated state. I hadn't counted her drinks either and was taken by surprise when she suddenly slumped against me in the taxi on the way home, out cold.
I carried her into the house and tucked her into bed, first removing her dress and shoes. She was dead to the world and would be out for a good eight hours. I decided I could do with some coffee before I went to bed and headed to the kitchen to make some. Unlike with some people, coffee doesn't keep me awake.
Walking down the hall I noticed that the door to the room that Melissa was using was ajar and the light was on. I was prepared to swear that neither of those things had been true when I passed the room earlier. If you're walking down a dark hall and you pass a lighted room, what is your natural reaction? You look in.
Now the door wasn't wide open, just a little, showing me a slice of the room. That slice showed part of the bed with Melissa sitting on it. She was angled away from me but I could see her quite plainly, including what she was, or in this case wasn't, wearing. She wore some sort of top similar to a singlet and I was betting that this was all she had on. The reason I was willing to place the bet was because I could see the curve of her leg from her knee to her waist, her top being currently caught up on her arm. I could tell for a fact that she'd shed her bra when she went to bed because she was leaning forward and the armhole gaped open, showing the lovely curve of her breast.
I reached for the door, meaning to close it rather loudly, just to give her a shock, when something else registered with me, which gave me furiously to think.
Melissa wasn't just sitting quietly. The reason that her top was caught up on her arm was because her hand was down between her legs. From the way her arm was moving she was obviously rubbing herself. Melissa was fifteen the first time she sat for us and little Greg had been one. Greg was now five and that added four years to Melissa's fifteen, making her nineteen, or very late eighteen at a minimum. Instead of closing the door with a bang I closed it quietly -- behind me.
"Dear me, it seems that you're being a naughty girl, Melissa," I reprimanded quietly.
She turned her head so sharply to look at me I was almost afraid that she'd break her neck. She also looked profoundly shocked, but it seemed to me that the look was a trifle overdone.
She babbled for a second or two, not saying anything coherent, and I held up a hand to shut her up.
"Yes, yes, I know," I said agreeably. "What you do in the privacy of your own room is no-one's business but your own."
She gave me a suspicious look, not trusting me at all, which showed that she had some intelligence.
"However, when you turn on the light and open the door to give a public peep show, that's something else again. What would your parents think?"
"I did nothing of the sort," she was quick to claim, the blush on her face giving the lie to the statement.
"And telling fibs," I said sighing. "Obviously a penalty is called for."
I think she was going to ask what I meant but all she had time to say was, "What. .", because I sat down on the bed next to her and hauled her over my knee.
She barely had time to start protesting when my hand slapped firmly against her bottom. It wasn't a hard spank. Not even a stinging one. Just a casual slap that's only importance was that it was on her bare bottom. I rubbed where my hand had landed and then repeated the slap, this time on her other cheek.
Funnily enough she wasn't protesting, just lying there and letting it happen. I naturally rubbed her bottom again after that second slap and then my hand sort of drifted between her legs and rubbed her vulva.
I started varying what I was doing. A casual slap and rub would be followed by my rubbing her vulva, or just squeezing it at the base so it stood out, or spreading her lips, with her knowing that I was seeing everything.
Even though I was theoretically spanking her I wasn't doing it hard enough to cause actual pain. Titillation, certainly, and the extra attention I was paying to her vulva was arousing her quite nicely. I could tell this from the way her lips were swelling and pursing, her inner lips protruding.
After one occasion of spreading her lips I slipped a couple of fingers inside her, dipping them in and out, and then on with the slap to the bottom and rubbing.
Through all of this she didn't make a sound, apart from a tiny gasp now and then. It did seem, though, that when a slap was due she would lift her bottom higher, waiting for the impact.
She was ripe. Ready and waiting for what was coming. Would she make even a token protest? I suspected not. I swung her to her feet, rising to my own. I turned her to face the bed and gave her a slight push and she leaned over the bed, not saying a word. I ran my hand over her pussy and her only reaction was to shuffle her feet, widening her stance.
I dropped my trousers and let her feel my erection pressing against her buttocks. I eased it down, the head brushing against her the whole way, and positioned myself against her passage. One final time I parted her lips, resting the tip of my erection against her. Then I waited.
Young women are so impatient. Barely fifteen seconds passed before she wanted action.
"Do it, damn you," she gasped out, pushing back against me, and never having been able to refuse a lady in need I drove in vigorously.
I sheathed myself in her hot passage with one swift movement, amply aided by her convulsive push to meet me. My hands slipped up inside her top, seeking her breasts, finding them swollen and waiting, her nipples hard little nubs. Holding them firmly I started pumping into her.
It was as I thought. Hot and ready to trot. I'd thrust in and she would lift her hips, pushing firmly back to meet me. I'd withdraw and she'd relax, and then we'd do it all over again. I wasn't in a great hurry to rush things to a climax. I believe in taking things slowly and doing them right. I kept thrusting in, her bottom bouncing as she took me, time after time after time.
She was mainly silent while this went on, occasionally gasping something out which I took to be a sign of appreciation. (I could have been wrong, of course, as I wasn't really listening to what she had to say.)
When she became a bit more vocal I did try to catch the gist of what she wanted and it seemed that it could be summed up by the word faster. If that was what she wanted, who was I to argue? I picked up the pace and her vocals changed to what sounded like enthusiastic little squeaks.
While I was having fun the new pace wasn't sustainable. I either had to slow down and rest a little or go for broke. Not being a selfish lover I offered to stop for a while and then pick it up again but she didn't seem interested in the idea. At least, that's what I assumed was the meaning of "If you stop now I'll kill you."
So I picked up the pace again, with her matching my drive and seeming to get even more excited. The she suddenly grabbed the pillow off the bed and jammed it over her face and I could hear muffled screaming come from it as she climaxed, her climax forcing my own.
"I hope this little incident has taught you something," I said in a sanctimonious tone afterwards.
"Yes," she replied, sounding somewhat snippy. "Don't trust you when I don't have panties on."
Not quite the lesson I was trying to teach but at least it was something.
https://boredofstudies.org/members/korufabu.1611343685/about
https://www.blognone.com/user/temoyese
https://blog.bmtmicro.com/the-basics-of-push-and-pull-marketing/
https://www.bma.org.uk/connecting-doctors/b/work/posts/uncertain-times-for-eu-doctors#pi4053=2
https://binaryoptionrobotinfo.com/forums/users/tuhoyako/
https://www.cakeresume.com/me/sucolibu
https://www.cakecentral.com/tutorial/47327/football-macarons
Комментарии
Отправить комментарий