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A bloke on the radio was talking about a school reunion he’d been to. ‘Funny thing,’ he said, ‘everyone looked pretty much as they did 40 years ago. Older — obviously — but not different.’
I’ve never been to a school reunion. I’m not likely to, either. The end of school couldn’t come quickly enough for me. It’s not that I was a bad student. Far from it. I managed to get an A in almost every subject I took. But I found the whole thing incredibly boring. I couldn’t wait to get away from it all. And the day I got accepted for art school, I was out of there.
For a little while, I sort of stayed in touch with a couple of classmates. But they both went to law school and, gradually, we ended up with less and less in common. The last time I saw either of them was about 25 years ago. Do they still look like they did 30 years ago? I have no idea. And me? Well, I didn’t have a beard when I was at school, but I’ve had one pretty much ever since.
The only person I’ve really stayed in touch with since childhood is my cousin Harry — who also happens to be my agent these days. Harry’s six months older than me. As I often I tell him: ‘Just remember, I’ve known you all my life, but you had to wait six long, lonely months for the pleasure of knowing me.’
To which Harry’s usual reply is: ‘Yeah, and as I keep telling you, Charlie, those first six months were the happiest of my life.’
I was over at Harry’s place last weekend. Harry’s wife, Molly, was throwing a cocktail party for the great and the good who had contributed towards her pet charity, an organisation that puts original works of art into hospitals. Normally, it would have taken a team of wild horses to get me there. I’m allergic to men who wear ties. But I owed Molly one. A couple of the paintings that the charity purchased last year were mine. ‘It’d be nice for some of the moneybags to actually meet you,’ Molly said. ‘And you never know, it might pave the way for a commission or two.’
Actually, the party wasn’t too bad. It was quite entertaining watching the bankers and lawyers trying to trump each other’s thinly-disguised boasts while their trophy wives flirted with the two hunky stewards that Molly had recruited for the evening. I’m sure I saw one of the wives tucking a C note into the cummerbund of one of the stewards. Mind you, he did look as though he might have been a Chippendale in former life. Perhaps she forgot where she was.
The invitation had said 6:00pm to 8:00pm and, sure enough, by 8:15 there were just four of us left: Harry and Molly, a woman named Jan, and me.
Molly went off to the kitchen to check on her Chippendales and I said that I’d better call for a cab. But Harry insisted we have one more glass of wine. ‘A problem with these gatherings,’ he said, ‘too much talking, not enough drinking.’ Harry likes a glass of wine.
‘Pinot gris?’ he asked. Jan and I said that would be fine and Harry headed off in search of supplies.
‘So where do you fit into all of this?’ I asked Jan. She looked vaguely familiar. She was a classy woman, no doubt about that. And attractive. But I couldn’t quite see her as one of the trophy wives. Apart from anything else, she was quite chunky. In my experience, trophy wives tend to come in only three sizes: very slim, very very slim, and skeletal skinny.
‘Molly and I worked together at Larwoods,’ Jan said. ‘I was Molly’s secretary. Then I left, had a couple of kids, and once the kids bahis firmaları were at school, I decided to go back to school myself. It took me six years part time, but, eventually, I managed to get myself a law degree and ended up back at Larwoods as a solicitor. Of course by then Molly had moved on. But we stayed in touch, and, for the past couple of years, I’ve been helping out with the charity.’
Harry’s one more glass turned into a couple — as it often does. And the next time I glanced at my watch, it was about 9:30. ‘Now I really do need to get a cab,’ I said, reaching for my cell phone.
Jan was also gathering up her things. ‘Good point,’ she said.
‘Where to for you?’ I asked.
‘I’m staying at the Sheraton.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we can share a cab. My place is just around the corner from the Sheraton.’
The cab duly arrived, and before we knew it we were outside the Sheraton. ‘Could I temp you to a nightcap?’ Jan asked. ‘A cup of coffee? Another glass of wine? I was really enjoying our chat.’
‘Hell, why not,’ I said. ‘It’s not that late.’
I assumed we would grab a drink in the Lobby Bar. But Jan collected her key card from the desk and headed for lifts. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This way.’
Once inside her room, Jan drew the drapes. ‘There should be a bottle of wine in the refrigerator,’ she said. ‘And some glasses in the cabinet there. I just need to use the bathroom.’
I found the wine — a fumé blanc — and poured some into the glasses.
‘There, that’s better.’ Jan emerged from the bathroom wearing a full-length satin robe and carrying her shoes. ‘That was a bad mistake,’ she said, placing her shoes next to the wardrobe. ‘New stilettos and a stand-around party. You’d think a girl of my age would know better.’
I glanced down at my own much-loved hand-stitched moccasins. ‘My grandfather was an old-fashioned grocer,’ I said, ‘on his feet 12 hours a day. Sometimes more. He reckoned happiness was mainly a matter of comfortable shoes.’
‘He may have had a point,’ Jan said.
She dropped down into one of the armchairs, placed her drink on the side table, and lifted a foot so that she could rub it with her hand. As she did so, one side of her robe fell open revealing a shapely leg clad in a black lace-topped stocking. At first, I thought it was an accident. I waited for the hasty cover-up. But she just kept rubbing. And then, after about 20 seconds or so, she switched to the other foot, and the other half of her robe fell open. Gentleman though I am, there was no way to avoid the view: two shapely legs, each with a tantalising patch of pale, bare upper thigh and, between them, a triangle of black fabric-covered crotch.
‘Why don’t you let me give those shapely calves a massage,’ I suggested.
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I’d like that a lot — if you could be bothered.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I could be bothered,’ I told her. ‘In fact, I am sure it would give me great pleasure.’
I grabbed the stool from under the dressing table and sat myself in front of her chair. Lifting her left foot onto my lap, I began by massaging her toes. Then, slowly but surely, I worked my fingers towards her ankle, then on to her calf, her knee, and finally to her thigh, stopping just below her stocking top. Jan leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, a gentle smile on her lips.
Having worked from toe to almost-top, I then started all over again with the other kaçak iddaa foot. This time, my fingers continued just beyond her stocking top to the soft smooth skin of her inner thigh. Her thighs parted a little further. And, as I moved from one thigh to the other, the back of my hand ‘accidentally’ brushed her crotch.
‘How’s that?’ I asked. ‘Better?’
‘Much better,’ she said, without opening her eyes.
I allowed my fingers to trail lightly along the bare flesh of one thigh, across the satin fabric bridge, and back down the other thigh. ‘More?’ I suggested.
‘Oh, I think so,’ she said
The back of my hand returned to her crotch and lightly stroked upwards three or four times. I paused for a moment to see if she would protest. But there was no protest. There was just a sigh. And a hint of a girlish giggle.
With my other hand, I gently tugged at the satin bow securing her robe. At first the knot held firm, but another little tug and it slipped apart. With the tie untied, the two halves of the robe fell away — as I had hoped they would — revealing Jan’s ample womanly torso. ‘Beautiful,’ I said. And, once more, there was a hint of a girlish giggle.
With Jan’s tacit permission, my fingers went to work on her prominent camel toe, massaging her swelling labia through the tightly stretched fabric of her knickers. After a minute or so, I said: ‘You know, you’d probably be more comfortable on the bed.’
Jan briefly opened her eyes. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked.
‘I do,’ I said. I pulled back the counterpane and then helped her from her chair to the bed. ‘And I think we should remove these,’ I said. ‘You look very sexy in these knickers — no question about that — but I think you might be even sexier without them.’
‘You never know,’ she said, ‘you might be right. Shall we see what happens if we take them off.’
I helped her slide the knickers down over her ample hips and past her creamy thighs. A shake of her shapely calves and the knickers fell to the floor. A moment later, my nose was buried in the fecund dampness of her freshly liberated pubic hair. It was even better than I had anticipated. I parted her pussy lips, and ran my tongue the length of her pale coral-coloured crevice.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, fucking yes.’
For perhaps five minutes my tongue explored the soft folds of her pussy, toyed with her clit, and tongue-fucked her tantalisingly-tasty love tunnel. Then, suddenly, she was pushing me away, tugging at my shirt, yanking at my belt, pulling at my pants. Before I knew it, I was next-to-naked and flat on my back. Jan was straddling my chest, noisily gobbling my hard cock. Her glorious arse was hovering near my face. I pulled her even closer to me and began licking her cunt from fore to aft as though it were the tastiest, most creamy hot sauce sundae ever. ‘Oh, yes,’ she mumbled, with her mouth full of my cock.
Then she was jumping up again, turning to face me. ‘I want your cock inside my cunt. I want you now,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m fucking sure. I want to feel your fat cock inside my greedy cunt.’
To be honest, it wasn’t really up to me. She was on top. And not only was she on top, she was already lowering herself onto my cock. I felt my rod slipping in to her hot box, her cunt at first soft and wet and slippery, then closing around me like a firm hand. Wonderful squelching sounds filled the air as kaçak bahis she rode my cock. Noisy. Uninhibited. Me hanging on to her broad hips; she strumming her clit with her fingers. It was wonderful, truly wonderful. And just slightly unreal.
Suddenly, I felt an urgent desire to enter her from behind. ‘Doggy time?’ I suggested. Happily, she didn’t need a second invitation. The words were hardly out of my mouth before she was on her knees, her thighs spread, her big, shapely arse up in the air, her cunt lips spread awaiting my entry.
And in I went, in all the way. Then all the way out. And all the way back in again. With each thrust my balls slapped against her fat cunt lips. In and out. In and out. Slap, slap. In and out. Twenty times. Thirty times. Who knows how many times.
My thumb slid down the sweet groove between her buttocks and found her rosebud arsehole. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said for the umpteenth time. Her arsehole was relaxed and wet with her juices and my thumb slipped in. ‘Oh, yes. Oh, fucking yes.’
Speeding up, slowing down, going deep, going shallow, we kept it up for another ten minutes or so. Then, just when I thought I could happily keep it up all night, I felt Jan’s cunt start to really grip my cock and I knew that we were both close to the edge. Jan’s breathing got shorter and shorter, her girlish giggles got louder and louder, and we abandoned any thoughts of a marathon and started sprinting for the line. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. And then, suddenly, kapow! We both came at more or less the same moment, both of us squirting. It was wonderful. It was fabulous. It was messy: wonderfully, fabulously messy.
We collapsed in a half-cuddle. For maybe five minutes, neither of us said anything. Then Jan looked at the ten-acre puddle we had created. ‘I suppose we should have got a towel,’ she said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Just to have a quiet nightcap?’
Jan smiled her impish smile.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘you remind me of someone.’
‘Do I?’ she asked. ‘Someone nice, I hope. Someone interesting.’
‘Oh, bound to be,’ I assured her. ‘Couldn’t be otherwise. But I’m damned if I can think who it is.’
‘If you do remember, and it’s not someone nice — or, at the very least, someone interesting — then I don’t think I want to know,’ she said.
The next day, I had to call Harry about a deal he was negotiating. After we had finished with the business stuff, I said: ‘Now, tell me about Jan.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Harry asked.
‘How long have you known her?’ I asked.
‘As long as you have,’ Harry said. The tone of his answer suggested that he thought it was a bit of a dumb question.
‘But I thought she said she used to work with Molly and that she now did stuff for Molly’s charity.’
‘That’s right,’ Harry said.
Now I was confused. ‘But you just said that you’d only know her as long as I had — and I met her for the first time last night.’
‘Last night?’ Harry said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We met on the first day of school.’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Janet Goldsmith. Browning is her married name. Not that she’s really married any more.’
Janet Goldsmith. Skinny little Janet Goldsmith. Skinny little Janet Goldsmith with the impish smile. And the girlish giggle. Yes. Suddenly everything made sense.
Jan and I had agreed to catch up for dinner that evening. And I had some good news for her.
‘Jan, you know how I said you reminded me of someone, well, I’ve remembered who it is. And it is someone nice, it’s someone very nice. And it is someone interesting. It turns out you remind me of you.’
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