It’s been a while since I last saw Mrs. Fenwick, Isabelle’s friend and coworker—the sa Mrs. Fenwick I thoroughly fucked in the backseat of her Jeep.
To be honest, I was a bit shocked to see her at our monthly dinner tonight.
Isabelle invites her regularly, sure... but this ti, her husband ca too.
She didn’t even hesitate to announce at the table that she and Mr. Fenwick had gone through a serious marriage crisis.
But apparently, everything’s fine now.
Funny, though.
That "one month ago" she ntioned just happens to be the night we had our little romantic evening.
If that’s what you wanna call it... Seems to , all she needed was to feel like a woman again.
All’s well that ends well, right? A couple that found its balance again, happier than ever... Sounds great.
So then, why is Mrs. Fenwick rubbing her foot against my dick under the table?
Now it makes sense why she chose the seat directly across from .
But co on—Isabelle’s sitting right next to .
If she noticed anything, it would be over for both of us.
Still, damn... She’s made rock hard, and luckily, the tablecloth is long enough to cover everything that needs covering.
I just hope this dinner lasts long enough, or at least longer than it’ll take her to make co.
Sure, it’ll be hard to explain to Isabelle why my underwear is soaked in cum when she does the laundry.
But I’ll think of sothing.
Right now, my mind’s focused elsewhere.
I lean forward a bit, shifting my hips to give her better access.
She seems to like that—her foot moves with even more enthusiasm and energy.
It’s the first ti soone’s giving a footjob.
And maybe it’s the context that makes it so damn hot... Isabelle next to , Mr. Fenwick next to her... while we’re having our little fun right under their noses—hopefully without them suspecting a thing.
«Your atloaf is just as delicious as always. My complints to the chef,» Mr. Fenwick says in a smooth tone, smiling at Isabelle. «Next ti though, I’d love to have you over at our place. It’s not fair that you always host us, and never the other way around.»
His eyes don’t leave her cleavage—not even for a second.
That pig is totally hitting on Isabelle. You can see it a mile away!
And to top it off, he only invited her, as if I weren’t sitting right here.
«Oh, thank you so much. I’d love that, and I’m sure my son would be thrilled to be your guest too,» Isabelle replies, putting extra emphasis on the part about .
What an incredible woman.
Nothing gets past her—I love her.
Fuck, I love her.
That’s probably why I feel a bit guilty about what Mrs. Fenwick’s doing to under the table... just a little.
But in the end, love and physical pleasure aren’t the sa thing, right?
I love Isabelle with everything I’ve got—I’d give my life for her if I had to.
No exaggeration.
And a random milf jerking off under the table isn’t going to change that.
What I feel for Isabelle goes beyond lust.
Beyond the desire that hits every ti I see her perfect body.
Beyond gratitude for saving from that shitty orphanage eight years ago.
It’s wanting her by my side for life.
Waking up next to her every morning, showering together before a long, exhausting day, having breakfast together, and cuddling on the couch in the evening to watch a movie.
And not just that—listening to her complain that she has nothing to wear, even though her walk-in closet looks like a departnt store.
Dealing with her jealous tantrums or her foul moods during her period, comforting her when she vents after a rough day.
I love all of it. I love sharing every part of life with her—the good, the ugly, even the fights where we scream at each other and then make up by fucking like hormone-crazed teenagers.
Those are things I’d never dream of doing with Mrs. Fenwick or any other milf or girl my age.
If that’s not love, then what the hell is?
—CLINK!
The sound of a fork clattering onto the floor snaps out of my thoughts.
«Ren, would you mind picking that up for , please?» Mrs. Fenwick asks, her voice way too sweet for to say no.
Yeah... there’s no way that fork fell by accident.
And the mont I duck under the table, everything becos perfectly clear.
Her black panties are down to her knees.
Her legs slightly parted—just enough for to see her pussy under the hem of her dress.
She’s definitely more grood tonight than last ti.
Back then, it was all spontaneous, so she hadn’t really prepared.
But this ti, it’s a whole different story.
Hairy, yes—but just the right amount.
Not that wild, unkempt bush that looks like an afro.
It’s all neatly trimd, focused solely on the area around her pussy.
Nothing creeping down to her thighs, and the hairs are definitely shorter than my tongue—because having them stuck in your nose or mouth while going down is just nasty.
And yet, I never told her about this preference of mine.
Could she have figured it out on her own? If that’s the case, well... props to her.
I see her flinch slightly when my fingers gently brush the inside of her thigh—slow and soft—then I co back up from under the table holding the fork... and not just that.
There’s also a business card on the floor. Mrs. Fenwick’s.
Her work number is written on it.
I wonder why she didn’t give it to last ti, when we were alone.
Maybe back then she wanted it to be just a one-night thing, sothing never to be repeated, but it looks like she had a change of heart.
What, did you think I was about to go down on her under the table? Be serious.
Isabelle isn’t blind, and she sure as hell isn’t stupid—she’s the embodint of jealousy.
If I’d stayed down there a second longer, her imagination would’ve kicked in and wrecked her whole mood—and tonight, I really want to fuck her.
So, better not risk it.
I really enjoyed that appetizer—not the one Isabelle cooked, but the one Mrs. Fenwick served.
And now that I’ve got her number... I can’t wait to taste the main course—this ti properly served, not cramd and uncomfortable in the back of her Jeep.
Reviews
All reviews (0)