Aunt Ann’s Pony Life Ch. 02

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

When I got home from the Air Force I needed a place to stay. I used my Air Force-trained wiles, I had been a cryptanalyst for four years, and found Aunt Ann’s phone number. I called but there was no answer so I took a chance and drove over to my old friend’s house. It had been four years since I was in my hometown, never mind where, and I wasn’t surprised when his mom answered the door.

Loretta Dunham had been my first crush although God knows I never told Greg about it. I had always found her to be the sexiest woman in my life, including his sister who was, obviously, much more age-appropriate for me.

I stood still as she looked at me and then I saw recognition dawn.

“Dave?” she said, well, she asked.

“Hello Mrs. Dunham,” I said, flashing my best boyish grin.

I noticed she didn’t open the screen door.

“Greg’s not here,” she said, “he moved to Florida a couple of years ago.”

I tried a conversational gambit. “So what’s been going on for the past four years.”

She didn’t even smile, she just said, “It’s good to know you’re alive, Dave,” and then shut the door.

“Well,” I said aloud, “that went well.”

I went back to the street, got in my four-year-old Mustang, purchased for cash from savings when I got out of the Air Force and back to the U.S., and tried again on my new cellphone to raise Aunt Ann.

And there it was, a voice I recognized, kind of deep for a woman, a little coarse, almost raspy, making you think of whisky and cigarettes and late nights at a roadhouse somewhere.

“Hello?” she said, the question mark clear from her intonation, the number on her phone unfamiliar to her.

“Ann Richards,” I said, trying to disguise my voice. I was speaking from deep in my belly, keeping my voice as radio-disk-jockey-like as I could, “this is a blast from your past speaking,” trying for the sound I had heard regularly on the radio advertising drag races at the local drag strip – SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! BE THERE!

“Okay,” she said, that gravelly voice still familiar, “I’ll play.”

“We shared a bathroom,” I intoned.

She laughed at that and said, “honey, that doesn’t narrow it down much.”

That made it my turn to laugh.

“Okay,” I said, struggling to hold my voice control, “we shared a bathroom for a year.”

There was a pause then.

I waited her out.

“Davey?” she asked, her voice very soft.

“Yes, Aunt Ann,” I said, but for the last two words, I was talking into dead air. She hung up.

“Well fuck,” I said aloud, “that went well too.”

I sat in the car, starting to Google “cheap lodgings near me,” when my phone rang, surprising me. It was the first time It had rung since I bought it and at first I didn’t recognize the weird little chimes as a phone ringing at all.

I figured out how to accept the call, and finally touched the little green phone icon.

“Hello?” I said.

“Is this really you?” she asked.

I laughed.

“Give me an address and I’ll demonstrate,” I said.

“David, I….” she said and stopped.

I waited her out and she finally rattled off an address.

“Put on your dancin’ shoes,” I said, and hung up.

I entered her address in the Google Maps app on the phone, something I actually had figured out how to use, and started following the blue line. It took almost 45 minutes, fighting cross-town traffic, but Dr. Google didn’t let me down and I found her place, a small house in one of those subdivisions where none of the streets ran straight.

I pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, took a deep breath, and marched up Hüseyingazi Escort to her door. Yeah, marched. I might have tracked every day I spent in uniform (three years, nine months, eleven days, seven hours, and twenty-six minutes if it matters), but some habits die hard.

I knocked and stepped back politely.

And she hadn’t changed. She literally hadn’t changed. Her brown hair, a nice dark tan color, was still worn in a short cap framing her face. Her face was still sort of long and narrow, not quite “horse-faced” but close. Her eyes were close-set and hazel, and the sclera (the whites of her eyes, a word I learned while taking Human Anatomy and Physiology online while I was in the Air Force) had little blood veins showing. Her nose was straight and thin, pointing to her mouth, generous but with thin lips.

She smiled and I was glad to see she hadn’t succumbed to the current trend of tooth bleaching that made about half of the women I had seen since I got back to the “world” after my stint in northern Japan look like someone had selected Appliance White before painting their teeth. Hers were natural ivory and those slightly protruding canines, what she called her “vampire teeth” kept her limited to being “attractive” rather than “pretty” or “beautiful.”

She had no makeup on, not surprisingly since it was Saturday, and as I finished looking her up and down I saw that her breasts still filled out the T-shirt she wore nicely and her hips and ass still looked great in the tight jeans she favored.

She slapped me.

A hard slap. Hard enough that I automatically fell into a defensive posture as those three years in a karate dojo working with a Japanese sensei who believed that pain taught lessons had drummed into me.

Her face was red and tears overflowed from her eyes.

“Four fucking YEARS,” she wasn’t quite yelling but it was close, “and not even a fucking LETTER!?”

I relaxed and theatrically hung my head.

“I apologize,” I said, and I hoped my voice expressed just how much I meant it.

“Four fucking YEARS!” she repeated.

“Ann,” I said, looking up to meet her eyes, “when you wake up in the morning and find your mother dead in the front room, naked in a pool of her own puke, it kind of fucks you up. I HAD to get away.”

She was still glaring at me.

“Four fucking YEARS!” she said for the third time, “and not so much as a fucking LETTER to let me know you were still alive!”

I took a chance and stepped closer, taking her hands in mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, “please accept the apology of a known asshole.”

It worked.

She relaxed suddenly, threw her arms around me, and kissed me.

It was a slick kiss, her nose ran while she cried.

It was a good kiss.

Finally, she broke the kiss, pushed me to arm’s length, smiled the crooked smile I remembered, and said, “Okay, you asshole, come on in.”

The house was about what you’d expect from a single divorcee. Uncle Don’s alimony check arrived sporadically, but her work-at-home job as an editor kept her solvent. It was a small house, very similar to the one she had come to live in with mom and me. Two bedrooms, a single bathroom, a generous living room, a small but well-equipped kitchen, and a dining room table sitting in an extension of the living room, not really a dining room. Her desk and computer were in the corner behind the dining room table.

“I have beer, iced tea, water, and some bourbon around. What would you like?” she asked.

I chuckled and said, “I will kill anyone you name for a beer.”

She Hüseyingazi Escort Bayan headed for the kitchen and I just kind of looked around. The place was interesting. There was nothing to suggest “girly,” but it was clearly a woman’s domain. The furniture was cloth material, pale tan a nice neutral color. A bookcase was full of books, mostly hardcovers. A good-sized, but not overwhelming, television was the centerpiece of the wall opposite the double recliner with a console between the two seats. The floors, surprising me, were hardwood and a brightly patterned area rug covered the center of the room. It was, all in all, as I said, feminine but not at all “girly.”

We talked for an hour. You can cut a few yards of that dialogue and you’ll have it. Two people who had been intimate and then separated catching up.

“Okay toots,” I said, standing quickly, “put on your dancing shoes. I’m taking you out, getting you drunk, and then taking advantage of you.”

She stood and closed the distance between us.

“Or I could feed you and then we could take advantage of each other,” she said, looking at me from under lidded eyes.

I’m not sure, if I’m being honest here, who initiated the kiss.

I am absolutely certain, however, that it was an excellent kiss.

She molded herself to me, her arms around my neck, and her back arched.

I pulled her to me, my hand low on her back where the arch was deepest.

Our tongues played and fenced and explored.

She broke the kiss, leaning back, looking at me, and said, “four years, you asshole.”

I laughed softly at that, reached down and caught the hem of her T-shirt in my hand, and said, “let me make it up to you.”

She grabbed my ears, hard, hard enough to make me yell.

“You had fucking BETTER!” she said, and lifted her arms straight up over her head.

I was laughing as I peeled the T-shirt straight up and off of her.

Her “weekend bra” was a white cotton thing, heavy-duty, appropriate for her large breasts. I reached around and unhooked it, four of those little bent wire hooks, and then eased it off of her arms before theatrically tossing it over my shoulder.

She giggled and stood still as I just looked.

My Aunt Ann is what you call a “heavy-chested” woman. She’s not huge, but the tag on her bra said 36D. Her breasts sagged and separated dramatically. She had failed the pencil test, she told me once, about two days after she got pregnant. Her areolas are perfect circles about the size of a silver dollar a pale pinkish tan color, and her nipples are little buttons, about two shades darker, about the size of my little finger in the precise mathematical center of her areolas. As I watched the areolas tightened, about a bazillion little wrinkles turning them into little cones, and the nipples darkened by two more shades.

She has GREAT tits.

I lifted each in turn, kissing, sucking the nipple gently, and then releasing.

Then it was to my knees.

I kissed her belly button, a little slot of an innie, before taking her left foot into my lap. She grabbed my hair for balance, her fingers entwining, as I untied the tennis shoe she wore and then rolled down the white athletic sock. After I had both shoes off I unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and worked them down and off. She kept her fingers in my hair as she did that awkward little two-step to get clear of them.

I kissed the line of her panties, no stupid buttfloss thong for Aunt Ann, real French-cut panties.

“Shall I take them off?” I asked, looking Escort Hüseyingazi up at her and smiling.

She smiled and said, “Your technique has improved.”

“Were you celibate for the past four years?” I replied, aware that this was kind of a surreal conversation to be having.

She smiled, an open, unashamed smile.

“No, Davey,” she said, “I wasn’t.”

“Well,” I said, “neither was I and my Japanese girlfriend taught me things.”

“I see,” she said.

“Sooooooooooo,” I said, dragging the vowel out, “Shall I take them off?”

She giggled and said, “please.”

Her pubic hair was coarse and closely trimmed, a triangle pointing to the top of the slit formed by her full nether lips, her labia majora, which, in turn, were perfectly smooth suggesting wax or perhaps lasers and expensive chemicals.

I kissed her there, drawing a sharp gasp.

“Am I forgiven?” I asked, smiling up past the roundness of her mons veneris and breasts.

“You’re getting there,” she said, grinning now.

I cupped her ass in my hands, pulling her to me as I kissed harder, my tongue exploring, turning it into a good old-fashioned American blow job.

She didn’t resist. In fact, her fingers entwined in my hair demanding.

I figured I was forgiven when I smelled the womanscent of her need and tasted as her Bartholin’s and Skene’s glands began working with the mucus cells lining her vagina to lubricate her. She tasted oily and salty with a hint of something else, maybe garlic from last night’s dinner. She was delicious, and my tongue probed and explored greedily.

“Oh, Christ,” she sort of grunted and I felt the sudden gush of her climax wet my chin.

I held her to me as she relaxed, kissing along the line where smoothness gave way to closely trimmed hair and then standing, slowly, to hold her while her breathing returned to normal.

“Wash your face,” she said, “and I’ll pull on a dress. Then you ARE going to take me to dinner.”

So I did.

And in a minor miracle, as I finished washing up, I dug my little toilet kit out of my duffle and took a little extra time to brush my teeth and shave around the goatee I was starting to sport, she was ready.

And she looked terrific in a simple, as they say, little black dress, with fresh makeup.

“And yes,” she said, “I have my dancing shoes on.”

The evening was refreshing. We talked and laughed. We ate at a steak house she knew and drank at a club that featured live music, a not-terrible cover band doing mostly blues although at tempos that had us dancing fast and slow by turns. She was interested in what I had done in the Air Force and I was interested in how well she had adjusted to the single life, mildly surprised that she hadn’t remarried.

We slept together that night, my first night back in town, and she said she would love to have me stay with her while I was going to school, “or for however long you want to stay,” she added, “I like your new techniques.”

She was as good as I remembered. She was passionate and gentle, wet and slick and tight, or loose when she relaxed. Her kisses were hungry, almost desperate, and before we went to sleep she told me of a date gone bad that had left her with a black eye, fat lip, and an aversion to men.

I kissed her, very gently, and told her I would kill the guy, all she had to do was give me the name.

She giggled and said I couldn’t do that.

So I agreed, no assassinations. But if I happened to get into a fight, wellllllllllll.

She giggled and kissed me and said, “thank you.”

“For what?” I asked.

She giggled again.

“For reminding me that not ALL men are creeps,” she said.

I laughed, and said, “I’ll take that as a compliment I guess.”

“I meant it that way, Davey,” she said.

So I found her nipple with my mouth, latched on, and nursed.

She hummed softly.

It was a good homecoming day.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32