Teatime

In the hollow of the afternoon with the cool springtime sun filtered through the thin curtains, she shows me into her living room with a little sweep of her hand.
There is tea and cake, and giggles and snuggles watching Julie Christie in Darling on the TV. A large clock with a gold rim on the wall, above a mantelpiece crowded with knick-knacks and photos of past summer days and relatives, ticks away the slow minutes of the day.

Later she is masturbating on the settee, her bottom on the very edge of the seat as she lounges back amongst the cushions. The two middle fingers on her right hand play in tight circles on her clit, the two remaining fingers held daintily aloft.
I sit on the floor in-between her open legs, watching. Watching her hand, watching her face as it stiffens in concentration, frowning every so slightly. Her skirt is bunched up high round her waist. I lay my head against one of her soft, pale, warm thighs. My face is very close to her dark pink pussy as it is stirred by her flurrying fingers, which I can view in detail.
I stroke her other thigh with my fingertips. I marvel at it’s velvety smoothness. Her strumming hand quickens when I start kissing her other leg. A line of kisses up along the delicate white skin of her inner thigh until I reach the top where when I suck on the taut tendon that is there; taking it in my mouth, licking it, tasting her as her hand continues to furiously flutter right beside my face.
Her cheeks are now rosy. Breathy whimpers escape her mouth as she reaches climax.

The room is warm and the air still. The sounds of children’s chatter and laughter as they walk home from school can be heard as they pass by outside. We are on the floor beside the coffee table; I’m on my back with my face nuzzling in her sultry minge whilst she is face down on top of me, gobbling away hungrily on my cock. She mewls, holding me in her mouth as the rhythmic motion of my hard tongue pushes her to a second orgasm. After that I push her off and do her from behind for a while. She keeps her face against the carpet - a shag pile I notice, half-amused. As I’m giving her one the TV catches my eye - some antiques programme: a white-haired pensioner turns a ceramic donkey around in his bony hand, points to a manufacturers stamp on it’s belly.
I don’t think I’m going to cum. A fatigue is setting in. I’m too hot; my back prickles with perspiration and I’m feeling headachy. I bet she’s got the central heating on as well.

We try a new tack: she’s keeling in front of me, I’m pulling her hair back behind her head as I wank myself right in front of her face, my balls dipping in and out of her mouth. I can feel her breath against them. It pays off and pretty soon I shoot a silky ribbon of jism into the air. Like some spider’s silk it extends quite beautifully, catching the light of the afternoon sun as it seems to hang suspended in the air for a moment before it sails gracefully downward. Further, lesser spurts of cum end up laced across her face like snail trails.
After I have gently wiped her face clean we hold each other, kissing necks and shoulders as we kneel there, naked together on her living room floor. Then there is more tea and the bakewell tart to finish. The filigree pattern on the icing reminds me of how my cum looked across her face.