Chapter 1
Jennifer Standish awoke feeling very horny.
She had been having a vaguely erotic dream. Although she couldn't recall the details, the feeling of arousal lingered in her cunt as she drifted slowly up from slumber. She smiled, still half-asleep, and reached out beside her, intending to get a hold on her husband's big prick.
She frowned, bemused. Her husband was not in bed.
She rolled over, just to make sure. Not only was he not there, but his side of the bed had not been slept in. In her semi-awake state, Jennifer was confused. Then she remembered that Pete had left on a business trip the previous afternoon. He had gone to Chicago for a week.
Damn! she thought.
When Pete had told her he had to go away for the whole week, Jennifer had been a bit concerned about what he would be up to in the Windy City, with all those healthy, corn-fed blondes and all those places that strived so very hard to pretend they were as sophisticated as New York. She trusted Pete. But still, alone for a week, a handsome man with a powerful sex drive . . .well, she wasn't too happy about it.
But she had overlooked the other end of the situation--her own end.
Jennifer had never once gone a whole week--since their marriage, and, truth be known, for some time before the wedding vows were taken--without sex.
It hadn't occurred to her how unpleasant that was going to be. Concerned about her husband's fidelity, she had overlooked her own needs.
Now, waking with a hot pussy, she realized that it was going to be an awful week.
Well, she thought, with resignation, I'll simply have to give myself plenty of hand-jobs.
The thought was strangely erotic. Jennifer had finger-fucked herself as much as any young lady in her formative years, but since her marriage there had been little need for such self-stimulation. She and Pete had a very satisfactory--almost spectacular--sex-life together.
She grinned wryly, wondering if she would be out of practice, if she had forgotten how to rub herself off. But she figured that masturbating must surely be like swimming or riding a bicycle--once you learned the art, you never forgot it.
She wished she had a vibrator or a dildo.
Martha Jenkins, the woman next door, had one. She had showed it to Jennifer one day, when they were having coffee, and both women had laughed about it.
"But ... do you need it?" Jennifer had asked.
"Oh, my husband isn't impotent, if that's what you mean . . . but it's a handy thing to have around the house."
Now Jennifer wished that she had one--that she'd been prepared for a solitary week. She thought that she might go into town and buy one. But even as she thought of it, she knew that she wouldn't. It would be too, too embarrassing to go into a sordid shop and tell the clerk that she wanted to buy a rubber dick. She'd die of shame.
She could get one by mail order, of course.
But that was no good. By the time it arrived, Pete would be back and she'd have no need of it.
Smiling impishly, she wondered if she might get up the nerve to ask Martha if she might borrow hers?
They were good friends and Jennifer didn't think she'd be too ashamed to ask--but she wasn't sure how a woman came to feel about a dildo. She thought that maybe the neighbor woman might be loath to lend her latex lover.
She might even be jealous of its attentions.
Jennifer thought she had better nibble around the idea a bit and see if perhaps Martha offered it to her, without actually asking for the loan.
But that would be later.
A dildo in the house next door was of no possible use to the horny woman at the moment, and she was going to have to be satisfied with her hands.
She parted her thighs.
Her cunt felt like a smoldering ember below her belly. She knew it was open and wet.
She ran a hand up her sleek inner thigh.
She rubbed her fiat belly.
Her nipples expanded, poking up in twin peaks that lifted the sheet like a double-domed tent.
She ran her thumbs over those stiff tit-tips, shuddering pleasurably at the contact.
Sometimes, she remembered, she had been able to make herself come just by playing with her sensitive nipples, without even touching her twat. Holding her smooth thighs together and moving her pelvis around in a circular, grinding motion while she pulled at her nipples and got her rocks off--that's, how she did it.
But she didn't think she would do that now.
Her cunt was too hot. It was fairly steaming. It cried out for attention.
Jennifer slid her hand down over her cunt-mound and pushed her fingers into her crotch.
The touch was so electric that she opened her eyes wide, almost startled.
Oh, I'm going to enjoy this, she thought.
But then she heard Timothy, her son, moving around in the hallway.
Oh, damn, she thought.
"Hey, Mom . . . when's breakfast?" he called.
With great reluctance, Jennifer drew her hand away from her cunt. There was no sense in starting if she wouldn't have time to finish or had to rush the job. She decided it would be better to get Timmy fed and out of the house first, so that she could settle down to a long, leisurely hand-job without any distractions.
"I'll be right down," she called.
She threw the covers off and sat up, looking down at her naked figure. She was pleased by what she saw. Although she was thirty-five years old, her body had lost none of the supple firmness of her youth. Her tits, despite their size, thrust out without any tendency to sag, big mounds capped by large, dark nipples. Those nipples, at the moment, were jutting out like little rocketships about to launch themselves from the areola pads, eager to blast off into the heavens of sexual release. She cupped her mounds, lifting them and pushing the big spheres together into deep cleavage. Holding her knockers together, she swept her thumbs back and forth over the tips like windshield wipers.
She wondered if she could still lick her own nipples.
Ducking her head down, she pushed her tongue out, lifting her tits at the same time. Her tongue swept over the fiery tips easily and fluidly. She was pleased to know that she was still supple enough to tongue her own tits. It was an%ct she had always enjoyed very much, either as a prelude to finger-fucking or as added stimulation while she rubbed her pussy to a lather.
She had tried to go down on herself once.
It was when she was fourteen--a very mature fourteen--and she had tried very hard, eager to see what it felt like to have a tongue on her twat. Nobody had ever eaten her out then--she was still a virgin, in fact--and she had been desperate to satisfy her curiosity as much as her desire.
Lying on her back, she had flung her legs up, bending into a bow, neck straining like a giraffe towards the upper branches of a tree as she sought to bring her mouth into direct contact with her hot pussy. But, to her disappointment, she could not quite make it. Her tongue had rustled throughg her pubic hair, but had been unable to go that extra inch or so into her burning cunt.
Then she had tried it the other way, sitting with her knees up and bending down sinuously between her legs--holding her cunt-lips wide open with her fingers so that she could look right up her creamy flooded slot. Her mouth had watered so much that she had drooled right into her cunt. But once again her tongue had fallen disappointingly short.
It had proven too frustrating to come so lose and yet fail, and so she had never tried to eat herself out again. She had an idea that, with practicing and stretching exercises, she would be able to reach her goal, but shortly after that she lost her cherry in the back seat of an old Ford convertible. Once she had started fucking, she no longer masturbated very often and settled for other tongues.
She still sometimes wondered what it would be like to eat herself, however.
Every man who had ever gobbled her snatch had seemed to enjoy it so very much that it must be, she figured, a very tasty sort of snack.
Once in a while, she wondered how it would be to suck another woman's cunt, too.
But they were only passing thoughts, erotic but not compelling, and it was a thing that she never expected to find out.
As she licked her nipples, her cunt flared.
But then Timmy called, "I'm starving, Mom!"
So am I, she thought, wickedly.
But she sighed and got up from the bed, knowing her pleasure would have to be delayed. She padded to the closet and drew out a black silk negligee. Before she put it on, she paused in front of the full-length looking glass, admiring her body.
It was an admirable body, no doubt of that. Jennifer was no narcissist, but neither was she falsely modest. She knew how desirable she was.
She was tall and shapely, her tits almost too large for her slender torso, her hips sweeping out from her narrow waist, her legs long and smooth. She had a suntan, not too dark, a pleasant shade of copper. Her tits and a wedge across her loins were white, showing the outline of the skimpy bikini in which she sunbathed.
Her hair was dark with red highlights, a heavy mane that framed her face in curly folds, falling to her shoulders. She had dark, flashing eyes, a wide, sensual mouth, and high cheekbones and a firm jaw.
Her pubic thatch was a wiry triangle, wide and thick on her prominent mound.
She drew the negligee on.
It was semi-transparent. She looked even more sexy with it on, she thought, than when she was naked. Turning, she glanced over her shoulder to admire the teardrop contours of her trim little ass, smiling at her reflection.
She started for the door.
Then she hesitated. She had put the sexy negligee on because she was feeling sexy, knowing that looking that way would enhance the pleasure of playing with herself, later. But now it occurred to her that it might not be quite seemly to wear such a revealing garment in front of her son.
Timothy was at an age where he was quite likely to notice such things.
But then she shrugged.
After all, she was his mother . . . surely he would not be aroused by his own mother?
She went down to make breakfast.