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Taking a careful sip from the oversized mug cradled between his palms, John Elliott sighed in contentment as he gazed out through the opened kitchen door. Freshly brewed coffee and a chance to drink to the last drop without any interruptions or distractions from his noisy, playful, demanding twins. Heaven!
He was on his first real vacation in nearly seven years and he’d already vowed that it wouldn’t be his last. The business was doing well; it was time he enjoyed the fruits of his labour. A few noses had been put out of joint when he had announced that he was taking a three-month vacation and leaving Carl, the second youngest of his bus drivers, as Office Manager. One of the other drivers had sniggered knowingly, but John had refused to acknowledge the inference that the openly gay young man was more to him than just an employee. It was a business he had worked hard to turn around. He couldn’t afford to be sentimental—if he left any of the others in charge he would constantly worry that things weren’t running smoothly. Carl was resourceful enough to handle minor emergencies, but had the acuity to call if a situation arose that needed John’s expertise.
The first two days of his break had been tough. Helen, John’s wife, should have been off too, but at the last minute her employer had asked her to postpone the start of her leave because the young man they had recruited to cover her absence had had to work a longer notice period than anticipated for his previous employer. And with his seven-year-olds, Tim and Tina, on school holidays but spending a week with his sister Susan, John had had the house to himself. Used to dealing with a dozen or more emergencies daily, he had found it hard to adjust to the slower pace of life and had desperately looked for tasks to occupy the hours. But, by the third day he had gotten the hang of being idle.
Remembering that he hadn’t yet read the newspaper delivered that morning, he turned and walked through the house to the living room. The neatness of the room gave him an unexpected pang—the twins were mini tornadoes, leaving mayhem and destruction in their wake—the room seemed sterile without them. Shaking his head to clear the feeling of loneliness, he took the newspaper out of the magazine rack where Helen had placed it earlier and settled into his favourite chair, a wide buff-coloured leather recliner.
“Is there any more coffee?”
Engrossed in the newspaper, John started at the sound of his next door neighbour’s voice.
“Sure,” he replied, smiling across at the West Indian woman as he folded The Times over at the sports section and placed it and his half-empty coffee mug on a small side table and got to his feet.
“No gardening today?” she asked over her shoulder as she preceded him to the kitchen.
“Not today,” he responded.
Florence and her husband, Sydney, had moved next door the previous summer, but until last week John had not exchanged more than a dozen words with her. He had once invited Sydney to the local pub for a couple of pints, but finding that he and the man had little in common hadn’t extended another invitation.
Helen and Florence on the other hand, had instantly become good friends. The woman had even cut her long, flowing curly locks into a pixie style similar to Helen’s. She and Sydney were both half-Black, half-Indian as were many Trinidadian and even in a thick plait down her back, Florence’s hair had been a thing of beauty. Loose around her shoulders and flowing down her back, it had been every man’s fantasy. Helen had told him that Sydney had not been amused when his wife had cut her hair. Secretly John hadn’t blamed the man; he would have been apoplectic himself!
Earlier in the week when he had been in the garden vigorously attacking the weeds around one of Helen’s rosebushes, his t-shirt drenched with perspiration, Florence had popped her head over the dividing wall and started chatting.
Now sinking carefully onto one of the sturdy chairs set around the kitchen table she gave a soft sigh. “I shouldn’t really be drinking coffee but you make it so well.”
“One cup of coffee won’t harm you.” John reached into the cupboard for a small cup and saucer.
“The house is too quiet without the kids,” Florence remarked, taking the cup of sweetened milky coffee from him when he had made it exactly to her taste.
“They have probably exhausted poor Susan.” John chuckled. “I was expecting her to bring them back after a day or two, but they seem to be having fun.”
His older sister hadn’t had a playful bone in her body when they were growing up together, but she was the complete opposite with his children. They absolutely loved her and could barely contain their excitement when he’d told them that she had invited them over for an entire week.
“So it’s just the two of us.”
John’s heart had been beating erratically since he had turned and caught sight of her in the sleeveless, pale yellow dress. It beat even faster at her words.
It was his and Helen’s wedding anniversary. ankara escort Helen had often teased him that Florence had a little crush on him and had jokingly, he’d thought, said that she would ask the other woman if she wanted to sleep with him. He had dismissed the idea that Florence fancied him, but he had felt it each time the woman popped over to discuss plants whenever he was working in the garden. She loved flowers, roses especially, but Sydney who had grown up on a farm didn’t see the point of planting or growing anything that wouldn’t bear fruits or be eaten in some form.
Sydney worked long hours and spent most of his leisure time travelling around the country with his domino club.
Florence was a bored housewife—a heavily-pregnant, bored housewife.
John just happened to be a man who adored pregnant women—bored or otherwise.
He had enjoyed Helen’s pregnancy. She was usually on the slender side—a trait shared by both her parents, her three brothers and her much-younger sister—but she had bloomed during pregnancy. Her breasts, in particular, had surprised him completely by going up several cup sizes and becoming even more delicious to fondle and suck on.
The twins had thankfully not been large babies, but carrying two babies instead of one had been tough on his petite wife. He had insisted that she stopped working six months into her pregnancy and though she had protested vehemently she had acquiesced when she realized just how worried he had been about her driving to and from work each day in her condition. Bizarrely—well, bizarrely because it seemed contrary to what most women experienced during pregnancy according to the pregnancy books they had read—Helen had been in an almost constant state of arousal. He had often come home in the evening to find her eagerly waiting for him. He’d often had to eat her and then his dinner.
They had hoped for more children after the twins, but it hadn’t happened yet. They were largely content, blessed with a child of each sex, but they had planned on having four or five children when they had first married. They had discussed IVF when the twins were three years old and Helen hadn’t fallen pregnant again, but mutually agreed that it wasn’t for them. It seemed selfish to want more children when there were couples who had none, but they both prayed for at least one more child.
“Another two and a half months to go.” Florence gave a long sigh and placed her hand on her distended stomach.
“Aren’t you enjoying the pregnancy?” John asked, surprised. She seemed content enough, constantly stroking her stomach softly, looking dreamy as she hummed to it under her breath.
“Yes I am, but I don’t think Sydney is very much.”
“Are you sure?”
John and the man might not have much in common, but surely their tastes could not be so dissimilar. Surely the man could not think that his wife was anything but beautiful.
“He rarely makes love to me now that I’ve gained extra weight,” she explained.
“He’s just worried about you. All men get worried about making love to their wives when they’re pregnant—it’s only natural,” John reassured her. “The little extra weight suits you.
“But everything on me seems twice the size it was before,” she complained. “Even my feet feel bigger!”
“Your feet look fine to me.”
Actually, they looked better than fine. They looked dainty and soft and incredibly feminine even with toenails cut short and free of polish.
“What about the rest of me?” she asked, holding her arms outstretched and looking at them.
“Those matchsticks!” John laughed. If he tried hard enough he could probably snap one of her slender arms in two.
“And what about these?” She pulled the top of her dress downwards suddenly, exposing her chest. “They are huge! I used to have small, firm bubbies. I didn’t really need to wear a bra until well into my twenties. Now I need all the support I can get.”
John coughed self-consciously and then took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee he had fetched from the living room as she made no attempt to cover herself.
“At least lingerie designers make pretty maternity bras these days,” she ran her hand over her left breast. “I particularly like the intricate lacework on this one, don’t you?”
“It’s pretty,” he agreed, without looking at it too closely.
“And look how well it supports me.” The next instant she had taken her breast out of the cup to demonstrate. “See. Without the bra my breast would droop slightly.”
“But only very slightly,” he acknowledged, his eyes locked on to her uncovered breast. God, she was the epitome of lush womanhood!
“Feel how heavy it is,” she offered, bouncing it gently in her palm. “And it will get heavier when it’s filled with milk.”
“No, thanks.” John hastily clasped his hands behind his back, away from temptation.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude!” she admonished, taking his hand and placing it beneath the heavy orb. “Surely you must have touched Helen’s.”
Touched? escort ankara An understatement if he’d ever heard one. He had been at Helen’s breasts constantly during her pregnancy and had been only marginally better after she had given birth. He had been surprised and horrified to find himself a little jealous of his twins as Helen had breastfed them. He had needed to be close to her, sometimes sitting behind her and cradling both her and the feeding baby in his arms, unless he was occupied with holding the other twin. But even that had not been enough—for the first few days he had felt strangely disconnected from her and them.
Thankfully Helen had always been able to read him like a book—sometimes it was scary the way she knew his thoughts before he had articulated them. She had known exactly what he’d needed to feel less isolated. One night, after they had put the twins to bed, he had been lying with his head on her lap—something he had done increasingly since the twins were born but had never done in the past; usually he cradled her head on his lap—she had opened her dressing gown and the flap of her nursing bra and guided her nipple to his lips. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, he had latched on, his toes curling as her milk obeyed the pull of his lips and surged from her body into his.
The next day he had awoken feeling a hundred times better. He had looked at the babies with a new-found love and marvelled that he and Helen could have created such tiny miracles together. And later that day when he’d held her as she breastfed Tina, he had felt absurdly happy and content. Tim had been the better feeder of the two and when he’d finished with a breast there was nothing left for his dad, but Tina always the one more willing to share, had left just enough to keep John happy. They had all been weaned when the twins were four months old so that Helen would be ready to go back to work two months later.
“John?” Florence’s questioning voice brought him back to the present.
He had been fondling her breast rather ardently.
“Sorry, I got a little carried away,” he apologized and released her as he straightened.
“Oh, don’t stop!” she begged. “I was just telling you that the other one was getting a bit jealous.”
“Is it as heavy as this one?” he asked, smiling at the absurdity of the question.
“Heavier I think,” she responding playing along with him. She unsnapped the clasp of the front-closing bra and her glorious breasts tumbled free. “You can compare them and see.”
Cupping them in his hands he closed his eyes for a moment in ecstasy. But only for a moment. He reopened them and watched his hands as they moved over the honey-toned flesh. The contrast of her darker skin against his was surprisingly erotic. Strangely, he had never fantasized about making love to a Black or Asian woman. Growing up in a small village his sexual yearnings had been focussed on the brunettes, redheads and the other blondes around him when not focused on Helen, the girl next door.
“Did you know that I read a lot of Mills and Boons when I was younger? I used to dream of growing up and marrying a white man,” Florence confessed. “Someone with dark hair and blue eyes like you. I told Helen. She knows that I have the hots for you.”
“Do you?” he asked and grinned like a schoolboy when she nodded her head.
“Sydney will be home in less than…three hours,” Florence squinted at his watch, trying to read it upside down. “My mother always told me to play hard to get—make a man work before I give him my cat, but I don’t have time for that—not this time.”
She made to climb up onto the kitchen table and John rushed forward hastily to lift her up onto it.
But she placed her hand over his mouth as he bent to kiss her.
Surprised he drew back and stared into her suddenly serious eyes.
“Promise that you’ll never tell Sydney about this,” she begged. “If he found out that another man fucked me, he would never forgive me no matter how hard I begged him!”
“He will never find out,” John promised her. He had no intention of telling the man anything. As a matter of fact the reason why he hadn’t pursued a friendship with Sydney was because the man had become tipsy after three beers and accused John of leering at Florence. John admitted to himself that he had perhaps looked at her more than he should have that day he and Helen had invited the couple over for a barbeque to welcome them to the neighbourhood. But it had been the way her shiny jet black hair had rippled in the sunshine; the way she had thrown her head back and laughed out loud and unrestrained when she thought that something was funny. Her vivacity had made Helen and her friends seem too refined—an orchid in the midst of English roses. He had been about to apologize to the man when the man had sneered and said that he wasn’t worried, though. Florence would never let John fuck her, he had said, because he was a white man.
The man obviously felt threatened. Maybe he had realized that ankara escort bayan his wife fancied white men and had tried to warn John off. Whatever the reason John had stayed away from her. In the end, it had been she who had made the first move. But John had secretly hoped for this moment.
He laid Florence gently back against the sturdy dining table, placing her feet wide apart to support her as well as give him easier access. His mouth watered as he gazed at the plump folds of her vagina through the thin gusset of her black silk panties. It was plump almost to the point of obesity, the way that only pregnancy can fatten a slender woman’s vagina.
Pushing her short maternity dress upwards, he smoothed his hands over the curve of her belly. How could a man not enjoy a woman’s pregnancy? he thought in wonderment as he caressed her rounded abdomen. A friend of his had confessed that he hadn’t made love to his wife in the last five months of her pregnancy because she had become so large he had gone off her sexually. The man had also confessed that he didn’t ever want his wife pregnant again. John had been shocked. They were a couple he and Helen saw regularly and the woman had barely gained weight, even well into her pregnancy.
The media was partly to blame, John acknowledged. All those stupidly vain celebrity mothers-to-be proudly showing their bumps while maintaining their size zero bodies. He much preferred a woman to obey the call of nature and nurture her body and her unborn child.
Easing Florence’s high-legged panties over the bump, he slowly rolled them down her legs and off. Then sliding her feet to the edges of the table, he feasted his eyes, gazing in wonderment at the tuft of silky hair covering her mons pubis and her smoothly shaved outer lips. Her inner lips protruded but curled backwards like the petals of a rose. Breathtaking!
Pulling a chair closer he sat on it and prepared to partake of the meal set before him.
“Oh my God!” Florence started in shock at the first flick of his tongue.
“You okay?” he asked, lifting his head and peering over her bump to ensure that she was alright.
“I’m fine. It’s just that Sydney’s never eaten my cat before.”
“What?” John couldn’t believe his ears as he ran the tip of his finger lightly over her clitoris. A 21st Century man who didn’t perform cunnilingus? Impossible!
This woman needed to be eaten, he decided, and eaten well. Draping her legs over his shoulders, he moved closer and got to work without further ado.
Her loud, throaty moans immediately filled the room.
The kitchen door was now closed, but John was conscious of the fact that there were no blinds on the kitchen windows and anyone looking in could see them. Sydney was not due home for a while yet, but her noises of appreciation were so loud, if the man came home early he would probably hear them through the adjoining wall.
But rather than try to curb her exuberance, John worked at making her moan even louder, sticking two fingers deep inside her and thrusting them in and out as he tongued her clit.
“Oh shit…I’m cumming!” John smiled secretly at what sounded like disappointment in her voice for coming so quickly. He would have liked to have gone on for much longer, her smooth thighs snugly pressed against the sides of his head, his tongue caressing the ultra soft folds of her flesh, his nostrils filled with the heavenly scent of woman in full arousal.
“That was appetizer,” he told her, supporting her legs with his arms as he got up and leaned over to kiss her. “Are you ready for the main course?”
“Oh yes,” she responded eagerly. So eagerly they both laughed.
Placing her feet back on the edges of the table, he reached into his sweat bottoms and freed himself.
“I want to say hello.” Florence tried to get a look at him, but fell back with a laugh as her bump obscured her view.
John went around the table, his erection bobbing in front of him.
“He’s a cutie!” she exclaimed. “Bring him and let me give him a kiss.”
John wanted to say that his cock much preferred to be buried as deeply inside her as possible rather than to be kissed, but he humoured her by moving closer.
“He’s so big,” she kissed the tip and ran her soft hand up and down the shaft. “How long is he? Ten inches?”
“No!” John laughed. “The last time I measured him, when I was about nineteen, he was seven inches.”
“You need to measure him again. He’s longer than seven.” She encircled him with her slim fingers. Again he admired the eroticism of their contrasting skin tones. He felt his erection expand further when she praised, “And he’s lovely and fat.”
Sitting up she tugged John forward and he obeyed hoping that she would give his erection the promised kiss so that he could get back to the temptingly plump moist folds that awaited him.
He shivered visibly when she cupped his balls and suddenly took him deeply into her mouth. Shock held him immobile as she controlled her gag reflex and swallowed the head of his erection.
He hadn’t expected her to go down on him, assuming that if her husband didn’t go down on her she would know nothing about giving head. He’d been completely wrong! She ate him like she was a professional.
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