Read an Excerpt
Our relationship started quite innocently. It was the first full day of summer, a glorious Saturday morning. The sun was shining. My cock was throbbing the way it does when I’ve ignored my morning erection and gone directly out to work in the yard. Doing yard work with an erection, delaying my satisfaction until my arousal has reached a feverish peak, is a dirty little pleasure I allow myself on days off when I want to indulge in a truly spectacular masturbatory session later on. That particular morning, I was standing at the property line between our houses, my raging hard-on hidden by the row of prize-winning rosebushes on their side of the line.
I was particularly admiring a bush filled with a riot of Maureen’s huge, full-bloomed, blood red roses. My fantasies, and my erection, were even more intense than usual. I cupped one of the blooms, leaning forward to inhale the heavy floral scent, fondling the velvety soft petals. My cock leaked into my cargo shorts as I imagined myself nuzzling Maureen’s lovely, full breasts. Would her skin feel as soft? Would she smell of roses and sunlight? Would she taste of them? My hand dropped to my crotch. My lips parted, tongue slipping out before I could stop it.
The giggle beside me had me jumping back so fast I almost tripped.
‘I must say, I don’t think anyone has ever paid such a compliment to my roses!’
Oh, God! Maureen was standing at the far end of the bush, wearing a blood red sundress the colour of her roses. The bodice fit so tightly I could see where the lacy cups of her demi-bra ended just below her nipples. The long, thick tips jutted out into the silky fabric, straining as desperately for touch, I was certain, as my own throbbing cock.
I’d admired her from afar. Our friendship, such as it was, was merely that of neighbours. We were neighbourly acquaintances, nothing more. I forced my gaze back to her eyes, willed my hand from my cock as I stammered out a horrified apology.
‘I’m sorry! I – ’
She was smiling, but there was something else in her face as well. Her eyes dropped to my crotch, then back to my face. She slowly ran her hands up the front of her dress, cupping her breasts, her fingers stopping just below her nipples.
‘Lick your lips,’ she said quietly. I obeyed without thinking, and as I did, she pinched those glorious tips.
I could no more have stopped my orgasm that I could have stopped breathing. I kneaded my crotch, groaning as rivers of come soaked my shorts and I fought to keep to my feet.
A half hour later, I was kneeling naked on throw pillows on the floor of Maureen’s guest room boudoir. She’d used her husband’s designer silk ties to secure my wrists firmly behind my back. My ankles, spread wide enough for comfort and balance, were tied to the feet of the four-poster bed.
That first time, she would only let me watch, would only listen to me praising her body while she lifted her skirt, kicked off her sandals and panties, and fingered herself to orgasm. She pulled down the top of her sundress and opened the front of her bra, tugged futilely on her nipples, whimpering in frustration while I told her how much I wanted to run my tongue all over her beautiful, creamy breasts. I wanted to lave her huge, dusky nipples until they reached out to me, stiff and yearning. Then I wanted to draw her nipple into my mouth. I wanted to suckle her, tenderly but persistently, until she was so sensitive she gasped and squirmed each time I so much as brushed my lips over a nipple – until my loving attention had both nipples so exquisitely bruised she screamed when she came.