I’m a girl of habit. I have a Gardner who is fantastic and I employ him and his son to keep my grounds in order. Likewise I have a builder. He has two sons, one of whom is still at college, but the other is taking over much of dad’s heavier work now. I wouldn’t use anyone else.
If you ask me, I think John (senior) is unwell. He’s only mid 50s, but it seems to me he’s lost a ton of weight recently, he gets out of breath easily, and his son John (junior) does the heavy work under his dad’s direction. Both of them have a fabulous business ethic, and I know for a fact they don’t cut profit both ends - that’s to say from adding money to the cost of the materials and the labour.
I’ve been an increasingly avid follower of John (junior) for a while now. They’ve done several projects for me, some big, some small, both here and at the Farmhouse, and I’ve seen young John develop into quite a panty-wetting specimen. More than once I’ve thought about him to the extent I had to do something about it…if you know what I mean!
My fantasy (for reasons known only to Miss Brain), involve him bending me over a large pile of builder’s sand and having me from behind.
I’ve had a new room built to the side of the property. It’s going to be a music studio and I’ve decided to take up my classical organ lessons again. I started learning when I was in the church choir when I was 15 - mainly because I had a schoolgirl crush on the organist. I got quite good - good enough to play for a service now and then - but now I want to see how far I can take it, and modern digital electronic classical organs are very, very good and not overly expensive. Way cheaper than the equivalent pipe organ, that’s for sure!
So…room built. Plastering needed - young John arrives. The room, I should mention, isn’t hooked up to the home’s climate control system yet (apparently the plaster needs to dry naturally.) and the only way to describe the room now is ‘fucking hot’. Tropical too, since the moisture from the plaster has raised the humidity to crazy levels.
Coffee break - young John, overalls down to his waist and T-shirt removed, bathed in a pleasing sheen of sweat over some very impressive muscles.
Lunch - young John with visible sweat staining to the thighs of his overalls. Chatting to him was now difficult, as I was extremely wet, and Miss Brain was stuck in a loop of “fuckhimfuckhimfuckhimfuckhim”
Mid-afternoon tea break - you John, discarded overalls just in his work boots, socks and very tight fitting underpants. I damn nearly dropped the tray! That bum….oh my God in heaven! For a brief moment iI thought I couldn’t possibly fuck him now because I couldn’t let him find my panties in this state of wetness - where, I could almost feel it running down my legs! What would he think?
Well..I did say ‘almost’. Someone switched on my ‘flirt like a whore ‘ switch, and I put the tray down on something - a box if flooring I think - that allowed my dress to flop forward revealing my still very much schoolgirl tits. Then I sat on another pile of boxes that was too low, meaning my knees were pointing up. All I needed to do now was just separate them enough to reveal a tantalising “V” of moist underwear.
John sat opposite me and tried, oh bless him, how he tried, not to look up my dress. Girls have an automatic erotic response system, and so, thank God, do boys. His hard-wiring to look up a girl’s skirt whenever the opportunity arises is part of a heterosexual male’s core programming….and I gave him just enough. Just enough to a) see my panties, and b) to see beyond doubt they were wet.
Which was shockingly unfair of me. Ask yourself - what is a man’s reaction to seeing first the small budding tits, and then the obviously wet crotch of a girl going to do? Yep…erection time. And erection in a pair of very tight underpants. And an erection he stood not a chance in hell of hiding. Sometimes, I wish I had pubic hair. Oh, not much, you understand, but just enough to provide a few spider legs of pubes to entice.
He tried, oh bless him HOW he tried to hold a conversation with me about how long the plaster would need to dry, and when we should do the flooring and ..and…and….on he went, his sentences becoming more and more disjointed, as I moved just a little to give him more of a view. The final straw came when I leaned over to my right to pick my mobile off the floor and ‘overbalanced’ enough to make me spread my legs properly. That’s when I saw the small stain of pre-cum on his pants. well, I couldn’t leave him like that.
Phone retrieved, I sank to my knees in front of him asking him to stand up. I peeled his pants down his legs revealing a truly delicious cock - and I mean delicious. He tasted wonderful. But my mouth wasn’t where I wanted this really big 8 inches of man-meat.
After sucking him, I stood up, placed my hands around his neck and simply said “fuck me.” My dress was off in less than a second, and he didn’t even bother to remove my underwear. He lay me on the rough, scratchy concrete floor and pulled my panties aside and thrust the entire length and girth of himself up me. It actually hurt….but hurt in a good way….hurt in a being totally filled just slightly too quickly kind of way.
His hands hooked over my shoulders and I found myself literally bathed in his sweat, his muscles rippling nicely above me. I can’t say he made love to me - he didn’t - he merely, hmmm, what words describe it…..oh I know…..he merely banged the living fuck out of me. My back was scratched from the floor, and John….wow! He must have lasted all of two minutes before he came in me. He was very apologetic. But since there was little evidence of him softening, I figured a little dirty talk would quickly lead to round two.
I told him I don’t do this with everyone and not to expect it again. “If I feel like it, and you feel like it, we may do this again.” (Heheh…since when, in the history of humankind has a girl said ‘would you like to fuck me; and a red-blooded horny guy said ‘nah.”)
He lay, still pleasingly embedded in me while I said “Mm…even after cumming, you’re still hard enough to stretch my cunt nicely.” As expected, on the ‘c’ word, I felt him begin to stiffen again. He gazed down at my naked body. “You look….you look…” I interrupted him “I look like that sexy 13 year old you first noticed at school when you began to notice girls. The one you wanked yourself silly over for months. The one you never actually spoke tto, but you knew ever curve of her body - including her small little tits - like mine - and you imagined what she looked like between her legs. Maybe she had just a little hair…or maybe, like me, it hadn’t come in fully yet.”
Yes, I know, grossly unfair. But I know every man remembers the first girl he noticed in a sexual way. When puberty had moved in to stay and he began to notice these strange creatures who shared the planet with him….and whose presence caused him to get hard..
“Did you ever see up her skirt - like you looked up mine just now? Did you ever think that maybe she knew exactly what you were doing and let you see her panties. Did it ever occur to you that she might have touched herself thinking about you looking at her crotch, only her thin panties between you and her sex?”
Fully hard now, he started to move. This time was much better, much more controlled. This time I sensed he was reading my reactions fr better.
He brought me to a crushing orgasm just as he came in me again for the second time. We disengaged, and I left him to recover, while holding my dress between my legs to catch what turned out to be about a litre of semen! (Well, no, obviously not that much, but there was a lot of it.)
In my room, I almost didn’t want to shower his scent off me.
My cunt still felt stretched with muscle memory from his hugely satisfying cock. Yes, we must do this again sometime.
If it stretched my cunt like that, imagine what it will do to my bum!
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