Daddies Brat

MY LADY GROTESQUE

She did not clean herself after I had spunked over her over-ripe, fleshy tits and her makeup-pasted face. She simply sat there, still in the position she had been in as I had fucked her, and with the cum that I had showered over her beginning to run down her chin to her neck and from her tits towards the gentle rolls of her stomach. In remaining like this, she was silently offering me an invitation to admire her and I was keen to accept it.

She reached for her cigarettes, took one from the pack placed it between her lips, lit it, and dragged hard. She took the cigarette from her mouth and exhaled, and with her other hand began to smear the thick spunk over her tits, and at the same time, she rolled out her tongue to lick up what she could reach of the sperm that was running down to her chin.

I was sitting in the chair opposite her, where I had been before we had begun, and my cock had risen again and far more quickly than it ordinarily would, so soon after such vigorous sex; but this was not an everyday kind of experience.

She looked over, her keen eyes focused on my cock, and she smiled. Her cigarette almost finished, she took another from her pack and lit it from the burning stub of the first and pulled on it with all the loving intent with which she had sucked my cock half an hour or so before.

She had finished rubbing the cum into her tits, and with such fastidiousness that you might have thought that it had some restorative quality, except that she desired no such false hope of rejuvenation. She was like some courtesan of yesteryear refusing to leave the field of her conquests; a once high-class whore, past her sell-by date, but not quite yet going cheap in the sales. She loved what she was: I could see it as I admired her. I loved it too, and I don’t need to ask my cock what it loves either.

Her hand reached down and her fingertips ran over the lips of her pussy and with her first and third fingers, she peeled open her lips and slid her middle finger into her hole and began slowly to masturbate herself. Then finishing her cigarette, she said

‘I would love to have you fuck me again, but my husband will be home in an hour or so, and I don’t want to insult him quite that much.’

I sat for a few more seconds admiring her and thought to myself that she was my greatest adventure so far.

‘You will come and see me again,’ she said.

‘I will.’

‘My husband will be away for the weekend. Come on Sunday afternoon at three. We will have all of the rest of the day and the night too.’

I went to the bathroom, with the intention of washing, but decided not to. I wanted to have her remain on me. I returned to the living room and still she had not moved. I dressed and walked over and kissed her goodbye.

‘I want you to take this image of me with you,’ she said, as I was making for the door.

I decided to walk and I was home within an hour. I ran a bath and stripped off. Her image had stayed with me and before bathing I lit a cigarette and my mind became filled with that picture of her. My cock stood up and I wanked myself off. I came, and cum again shot from my cock, though less than with her; and it fell onto my stomach and chest, but it was unable even to suggest the sordid delight I had felt as I had watched as my cum splashed her face and tits, and then stared as she had smoked and rubbed the cock cream into her tits.

As I lay in the bath I thought of her and all of my other adventures. They were mostly older women. Younger women were girlfriends. Erotic adventures are a stepping out from the every day and I have stepped in many directions, but I mostly towards older ladies when I can; or they have stepped towards me. And there is always the advantage of this particular delectation that a woman who knows she is beginning to leave behind her prime is often highly susceptible to the allure of the attentions of a man ten or fifteen years younger than herself. It reminds her more than anything else could that she remains a desirable woman when she has come, at moments, to doubt it.

This lady, though, was twice my age and my oldest fuck, I thought to myself, and she has been my best, and I have only yet been given a brief taste of her.

But I was going to be given more.

Suddenly I thought to myself that I did not know her name! She had not told me and I had not asked. And she did not know mine. I began to think and I searched my mind for a name that would suit her and our afternoon, and even one that would suit my tastes. It came to me and I decided that she was ‘My Lady Grotesque.’ It was right, for it captured everything; about her and about me and about what we had been together for an afternoon, and would be for more.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Once out of the bath, I took my dictionary from the bookshelf.

‘Grotesque: strangely or fantastically distorted; bizarre; bizarrely attractive; incongruous.’ Yes, it was perfect.

On Sunday at three, I rang her doorbell. She answered and smiled and invited me in and I followed her through to the living room. I sat and she offered me wine. I chose red and she went to the cabinet to pour each of us a glass.

‘I always prefer red,’ she said.

Her peroxide-blonde hair was scraped back and tied, though a little less tightly than at our first meeting. Her makeup had been applied again as Van Gogh applied paint to his canvases, and an image of having her kneel while I stood before her, making smears and prints in it with my cock came into my mind as she poured the wine.

She looked at me and asked

‘Did you think of me and have a nice wank when you got home last time?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good. I’m worth it,’ was her reply, and it was true.

I studied every detail of her clothes and those parts of her flesh that were exposed. She wore a black and very tight boob-boob tube of which her tits seemed to be at every moment about to fall; black leggings that reached down to a place on each leg a little above her ankle and hugged every inch of her thighs, and her legs and her arse. Her ears, neck, wrists, fingers, and left ankle were adorned again with the same gaudy and expensive jewelry, and I could see from the poking of her nipples against her top and the mound at her crotch that she wore no underwear. But it was her anklet that caught my attention. It was gold and had little red hearts dangling from it, all the way round. She noticed my eye lingering on it and said

‘You like my anklet,’ and as she said it, a look in her eyes suggested to me that an idea had formed in her mind.