“Are you sure Gordon? Anything?” She’d said while slowly peeling off the elbow-length black satin gloves from her arms.
He’d nodded confirmation, “Whatever you want Mrs Hargreaves. Don’t even hesitate.”
Gordon Lister had been pushed backwards over a small footstool onto the carpet which Jean Hargreaves had then kicked out of her way before sitting on him with her legs over his upper arms. He’d been too stunned to speak as she’d grabbed both his wrists and pushed them under her knees.
He’d tried to speak, but had only been able to stutter “But, but, but…” as Jean Hargreaves had lifted her skirt with her left hand, and hooked two fingers of her right hand inside the leg of the largest pair of black underpants Gordon Lister had ever seen, and pulled them to one side. She’d put her left hand behind the top of his head and used it as a lever when she’d slid forwards, dropping her skirt over his head and burying his nose in a mass of pubic hair.
There’d been no point in resisting as he could hardly move, and any attempts at speaking had been futile, so he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do, and licked.
He’d no idea how long he licked for, or whether what he was doing had been to Mrs Hargreaves’s satisfaction, but all of a sudden she’d pressed down far harder than she had before, and shuddered to such an extent that Gordon thought his neck was in danger of breaking.
He’d never been in so much pain, never been so sticky and wet, and when she’d finally pulled her skirt to one side to look down at him, never felt so glad that a sex act was over.
“Sorry to keep you in the dark as it were, but I didn’t want to crease my skirt or get any….um… stains on it. So what do you want to do now?”
Gordon didn’t speak. His wrists were still trapped under her knees, and he could tell that as she didn’t seem inclined to just get up, couldn’t think of what in his helpless situation might be an appropriate response, even if he was physically able to muster any sort of suggestion.
And then, in the same impatient way she’d acted earlier, she didn’t wait for one.
“Oh all right then” said Mrs Hargreaves with what looked to Gordon like a cross between a grin and a sneer, “I’ve not had a man inside me for about five years and it’s not as if you can get me pregnant or anything.”
She reached behind her, grabbed the waistband of his trousers with her left hand and unfastened the solitary button using just her right. She didn’t bother with the zipper: Mrs Hargreaves just grabbed either side of the top of his trousers and pulled them apart with such force that the zip split.
And then staring unblinkingly down at him, she slowly and very deliberately unbuttoned her skirt, unfastened its zip, carefully folded it in half, and placed it on an armchair, before grabbing the top of his boxers, pushing them down his legs, pulling her pants to one side as she had done when sitting on his face, slid down his chest and pushed his erection deep inside her.
He was about to lift his arms, if only to make some remote attempt at introducing some mutuality to whatever it was that was happening to him, when she bent forward, grabbed each of his wrists with her hands, and once more pinned him to the floor: “I move and you don’t” she said in a tone of voice that even a man able to move wouldn’t have tried to argue with.
So he lay there: pinned to the floor, while Mrs Hargreaves rocked back and forth, and up and down until he finally spurted inside her.