Hayato Kawajiri


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Hayato Kawajiri


I was a 21-year-old newly minted university graduate who was on summer vacation at my parents’ home. Life was a little dull, but I had had a challenging final semester and I was consequently appreciating the change of pace. My parents were inclined to parade said scholar whenever the opportunity presented itself, so I was unsurprised when I was invited, with them, to have lunch with some old family friends, the Gracefields. They were a wealthy couple of around my parents.

My mother was adamant that we had to be exactly on time arriving at their residence. I thought this a little odd at the time, but later events put her desire into clear perspective.

Consequently, we arrived at precisely the appointed hour and I was introduced to the hosts. Mr. G. was a rotund bon vivant who welcomed me like a prodigal son. Mrs. G. was, in contrast, quite standoffish. When she looked at me her upper lip curled into what looked like a contemptuous sneer. As later events unmistakably demonstrated, I completely misinterpreted that expression livesex.

The meal was very pleasant. It was certainly grander than what I was normally used to. Over the last hour or so I had become aware that Mrs. G. was paying undue attention to me. Whenever I looked up, I usually found her looking at me. She had that certain sort of disapproving half smile with the attendant lip twist which was more than a little unnerving; it was as though she was waiting for me to make some sort of gaffe or to catch me stealing the family silver. Again – a complete misreading of the signals.

Maybe I should spend some time describing my physical impressions of Mrs. G. I’m not great at estimating women’s ages but I would say closer to 50 than 40. At around five foot three she had what I would have described as an average figure with maybe a little positive emphasis in the bust department. She was wearing slacks that accentuated what appeared to be a well-formed butt. The loose blouse she wore was short sleeved and thus displayed her slim, delicate arms to some advantage.

Her hair was a silvery blonde that appeared natural and was stylishly short. Her hair color was matched by her porcelain skin. Both were in a stark color contrast to her eyebrows which were very dark and perfectly formed. They were a prominent feature. I cheerfully disclose a powerful predilection for a well-shaped, full, dark eyebrow. Call me kinky but the eyebrow form of an Emma Watson or a certain Cara Delevingne definitely winds my clock.

If you wanted to be picky you would point out the small spider webs creases at the corners or her eyes and mouth but overall her face was nicely put together with high cheek bones and large pale blue eyes. Everything seemed legitimately authentic and decidedly attractive. No Botox or surgery here. I’d place money on the fact that she would have been an absolute stunner in her day. Overall, she was possibly a little Doris Dayish in appearance especially if you removed the two furry caterpillars above her eyes. She was a definite milf, maybe a gilf, in anyone’s book.

After lunch we retired to a large verandah overlooking the impressive grounds of the home. Mrs. G’s. extensive garden was locally respected and admired. My mother had explained to Mrs. G. that my degree was in molecular biology, so I was extended a rather erroneous invitation to tour her garden. I feigned polite interest and so off we set. The first five minutes involved a ridiculously in-depth explanation of all the plantings down a ten-yard path that led away from the verandah.

As we rounded the corner at the bottom of the path, we were lost to view from the rest of our group. She instantly went into a defensive crouch and, with a swiveling head, intently scanned the vicinity. Her intensity was such that I too looked for some as yet undetected threat. It was as though her flight or fight response had kicked in. As I later reflected, I should have interpreted it as her flight, fight or fuck response. Once she was satisfied that we were alone, she moved right up to me and clutched my forearms. She pulled me close until our torsos were touching. She smirked, “So, you’ve managed to get me alone with you, you naughty boy. I’ve seen the way you have been looking at me. You want to have your wicked way with me don’t you.” She paused, looked away into the distance and then with a voice redolent with resignation announced… “I realize that I’m powerless to resist your overwhelming advances. I will submit to your dreadful desires.” She sighed theatrically and gave me a sidelong look, in the process raising one of those gorgeous eyebrows. She was seemingly trying to read my response to her absurd assertions. I blinked rapidly in disbelief but remained speechless. Time stood still as I tried to frame an appropriate response to this most bizarre and unexpected proposition sexcam

She became impatient with my lack of an answer. She jammed her balled fists into her hips and demanded, “You do want coitus, don’t you? You know, sex, with me, now.”

The animated eyebrows were knitted together, arching over an irritated scowl. Again, I hesitated, mesmerized by the thought of what was happening.

“Well, are you going to fuck me or not?” she abruptly blurted.

Her coarse language was both shocking and thrilling. I felt my penis flare into adamantine rigidity.

I leaned over her in what I hoped was an intimidating manner and, looking down, replied with a voice husky with arousal, “Yes. I am going to fuck you.” This momentarily widened her eyes, but she hastily clasped me by the wrist and pulled me forcibly down a winding garden path. I was fully expecting to fall into a rabbit hole any second.

What we did come upon within seconds was a small but attractively built cabin. She produced a key from somewhere, unlocked the door and literally pushed me in. The interior was actually very comfortable. The furnishings were expensive and there was even a small kitchenette and what appeared to be a bathroom. It was also clear that someone, presumably Mrs. G, used it as a studio for their creative urges. In retrospect, never a truer word was written, but I didn’t know that yet. What was apparent from the easel and associated equipment was that this buildings principal use was as a studio for the painting of pictures. I think that this was my third incorrect assumption of the day.

Once she had locked the door behind us, she made a blunt declaration. “By my estimation we have 15 minutes before anyone will become suspicious.” She pointed to a large, antique looking clock on the wall. She paused momentarily to glare at me as if to emphasize the importance of keeping to her time frame. I nodded my understanding. Sher reiterated her strategy, “We are on a timetable here.” As I contemplated the clock, I realized that its mechanism was exceptionally loud. The mechanical tick – tock clanking was auditorily unavoidable.

She glided towards a couch on the far wall. With the practiced skill and speed of a formula one pit crew, she unfolded it out into a small double bed. A clean white fitted sheet was produced from an adjacent cupboard and dexterously installed. Her motions indicated considerable familiarity with the process.

Once the site of our sexual soiree was set, she turned to me and grinned lecherously. Without any encouragement or assent from me she sprang forward, knelt at my feet and snatched at my belt buckle. I almost sprang back but I bravely held my ground. I was astonished. One minute ago, I was being lectured on the pruning of miniature roses and now I had the curious experience of my mature botanical tutor scrabbling to lower my trousers.

As she released my prick into the open air, she daintily took hold of it with her thumb and fore finger. Her pinky finger was erect like a posh English person holding a teacup. She moved my member from side to side and up and down. She was conducting and in-depth inspection. Seemingly satisfied her attention moved to my testicles. She fondled first one ball and then the other and then finally cupped both together and moved her hand up and down as if weighing them. Her hands returned to my penis. “Very satisfactory,” she murmured. Not the most flattering epithet that I had ever received about my designated hitter but neither of us were offended. Mrs. G. gave it a few rather forceful stokes. It promptly responded and inflated itself to what I thought was an even more satisfactory stature. Mrs. G. grinned with satisfaction. She seemed gratified that I had further swollen in her care.

Her attentions had produced a sizeable bead of precum at the tip of my member. She dabbed it with a finger and raised it to her nose. She inhaled deeply. Her eyes flashed wide and then, looking directly at me, she sucked the moistened finger into her mouth. Her tongue played around her finger ensuring that all of my sex syrup was ingested. I groaned at the overt lasciviousness of her actions.

I was feeling an anticipatory thrill that my tall boy was about to tickle her tonsils, but my longing was brought down to earth with a clunk like that being emitted by the wall clock.

“We haven’t much time. 14 minutes.” She quickly divested herself of her slacks and a pair of frilly white panties. She swiftly relocated to the bed and lay down. There was that grimace on her face. Slowly, she parted her slim legs and cocked them back until her feet were flat on the bed. She was wide open to me. Her hands went above her head as if in surrender and I was unconditionally willing to accept it.

It was clear the foreplay was over. In this case, it should have been called twoplay. I mean, I was happy to skip the entrée and head for the main course if that suited her but there were several highly-flavored morsels that I would like to have sampled enroute. I had a strong feeling that this was a one-off feast and any courses missed now would forever remain only as regretful memories of lost opportunity.

However, I didn’t wish to dwell on what might have been. I wanted to dwell on what was laid out before me. I simply gorged on the lascivious sight of her. Starkly naked from the waist down and splayed wide open, she was completely vulnerable to any advance I might make. I was intrigued with the almost translucent luster of the skin of her legs and bared stomach. It was so diaphanous that I could clearly see the traces of blue veins beneath it. Her pubic hair was, like her eyebrows, dark brown and formed like a pot scourer perched above her vulva. I was transfixed by its hirsute perfection. Below that I could see a pair of shaved and surprisingly darkly colored labial lips that, to my delight, glistened with evidence of her arousal. Her sex looked like an oyster both in shape as well as moisture content. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting that little seafood tidbit.

“No kissing,” she bleakly informed me. At first, I thought she was forbidding oral sex but when she added, “I don’t have the time to fix my makeup,” I understood my mistake. After another glance at the clock she added impatiently, “13 minutes.” Her voice and language were direct and demanding. In emphasis, she spread her legs even further apart. The clock was running, and I was the laggard sex chats.

I grudgingly dismissed any thought of oral sex and redeployed to the bed, shuffling up and over her. She seemed tiny beneath me. As I lowered myself onto her, my tally whacker assumed the correct position to become intimately acquainted with her little seafood taco. She kindly assisted him into a trajectory where he could do maximum damage and I gratefully leaned him into her. We both exhaled deeply with pleasure. As I had correctly observed, she was delightfully well lubricated. Upon later introspection I surmised that she had probably been revving her sexual engine from the moment we met, so her body had enjoyed a good hour or so to prepare itself for a thoroughly lubricated lift off. She was unexpectedly tight and it occasioned the thought that the Gracefields were childless. Certainly no pelvic floor problems here. As I started slogging away in what I considered to be a quite a muscular motion, I could see that she was staring up at me with a very intense expression on her face. Her upper lip became twisted again resulting in the same disdainful sneer that I had experienced earlier. I also now noticed that one of those captivating eyebrows rose in sympathy with the lip resulting in a rather quirky if somewhat severe expression. I now finally recognized that it represented an involuntary signal of her sexual attraction and/or excitement.

I next noticed that she smelled like a bowl full of berries. It was a heady, fruity aroma that I found enticing although it crossed my mind that the perfume choice was more that of a fifteen-year-old than a fifty-year-old.

Over the next few minutes her eyes became less and less focused. Her mouth opened and her tongue started lolling about in a random manner. I was tempted to suck it into my mouth, but I knew that that act was forbidden. Denying myself the forbidden was never one of my strong points, however. The desire was overwhelming, and I insinuated my tongue into her mouth. She flinched, glared at me from a range of one inch and froze. After a few more swirling lunges with my oral digit I felt a modicum of response. I added a few solid hip humps to illustrate my ardor. She whimpered into my mouth and, after a few more seconds, our mouths and tongues were doing a very tactile tango. Her hands slid to the back of my neck and pulled my head towards her, resulting in a fierce, almost frantic, mashing of our mouths. The gratification I felt in her surrender was palpable. I rewarded her capitulation with a further bowel busting barrage. The whimper became a whine.

I insinuated my hands under her until they were firmly grasping her shoulders. The leverage was excellent. I had her exactly where I wanted her. As I worked away, I couldn’t help my mind swirling around the sheer improbability of what was transpiring. I was shagging an old family friend thirty odd years my senior in a garden shed with our families only a few tens of yards away.

Coco Chanel once said, “There is a time for work and a time for love. That leaves no other time.” Well I was loving my current work of making love.

The next few minutes were wordless and blissful. We both just surrendered to the profane pleasure our frenzied fucking engendered. My mind flickered momentarily to the affable Mr. G. I am sure the emphatic welcome he gave me would be severely revised if he saw the emphatic shafting, I was giving his beloved wife. Any sense of guilt was quickly overridden by the delicious sensations, sounds and smells of our most intimate connection.

The adage “time flies when you’re having fun” was certainly verified when after what seemed only a few minutes, Mrs. G’s eyes unexpectedly flashed into full focus and instantly scanned the clock. “5 minutes,” she announced baldly.

I did some mental arithmetic and gave her a quizzical look. By my calculation we had lost several minutes of playtime. Her response to my wordless inquiry was abrupt. “The kissing has cost us a four-minute time penalty,” she explained, “I have to repair the damage you inflicted on my makeup.”

My glum thoughts on this loss were promptly forgotten as I felt her hand insinuate itself between our bodies and slide down to our pubic areas. I sensed the hand start to move in a feverish and vibratory manner that elicited a sharp gasp from her. This development was clearly for her benefit not mine. Her eyeballs rolled back in their sockets until only the smallest arc of iris was visible. It was a tad unsettling to be fucking a blind, white-eyed creature, but I took solace in the fact that it clearly indicated that she was enroute to the big O. I considered it thoughtful and gentlemanly to redouble my efforts and so help her over the orgasmic hurdle and thus, after a few minutes of dual effort, she exhaled violently and arched her back so strongly that she lifted me off the bed. She then slumped down motionless. Her fun buzzer had clearly been pressed.

I wondered what my response should be. As a default action, I flexed my hips and gave her several powerful pelvic punches. She gasped and bade me stop. “Just give me a moment… I need a moment… My goodness,” she wheezed. “That was extra-ordinary. I felt like I had butterflies flying out of my bottom.” That simile made me do a double take. She really was a peculiar if intriguing old girl. I took the hiatus to have an exploratory grope of her breasts. They had been woefully ignored up to this point. Although impeded by her blouse, I was delighted with the contours I discovered but my mammerial maneuvers were cut short. A fresh inspection of the clock elicited from her a sober look and the unsurprising but peculiarly galvanizing words. “2 minutes. I need your ejaculate in me.” I pondered the fact that she wanted my ejaculate in her not that she wanted me to ejaculate in her. However, this was not a time for a semantics debate. At this point in time, every second was precious.

I certainly took her words and time stamp announcement as license to, to use her words, have my wicked way with her; an explicit incitement to toss my yogurt deep into her butter churn.

I decided to make some rearrangements to ensure I made the most of that time. I lifted her legs up and pinned them with my arms so that her knees were against her shoulders and her ankles were on my shoulders. She looked at me with a mixture of surprise and mild apprehension. She seemed so petite and vulnerable under me. With a long lunging thrust I embedded myself to a new depth within her. Her eyes flew wide but with a few more powerful prods her eyes narrowed to slits and her breaths came in gasps between clenched teeth. She hissed a response to my comprehensive ransacking of her most private passage, “So deep, So deeep. So deeeep.” As I bottomed out at the end of each lunge, she flinched a little but did nothing to deter my advances.

I went into jack hammer mode and was invigorated by her vocalizations which, although incoherent, clearly signposted considerable pleasure. The small bed had a pretty unforgiving mattress, so she was really feeling the ram. I was steadily bumping her up the bed so when her head hit the small bed head at the top of the bed it gave me pause. I offered to move back but she simply spurred me on. She actually seemed to enjoy my thrusts banging the top of her head into the headboard. Whatever floats you boat I thought. It crossed my mind that a modicum of pain with her pleasure was not unwelcome. That would have been valuable data if the unlikely opportunity of a return fixture ever presented itself. Regardless, I did not offer her any mercy in terms of my rollicking motion. Indeed, as the point of no return loomed, my efforts became even more boisterous.

I realized with some amusement that my thrusts had become synchronized with the clock sounds. Tick in, tock out, tick in, tock out, tick in tock out. I had become metronomic! I saw her eyes flick to the clock. I too took a quick glance and saw the second hand continue its relentless advance. Only a minute remained. It spurred me to race.

My pace doubled to a, tick in-out, tock in-out cadence. With this final flurry of forceful piston-like plunges I emptied my magazine into her. I felt pulse after pulse of my cream filling her most private purse. Another glance. I had beaten the clock.

She wailed in my ear, at a volume that disturbed my desire to remain clandestine. If other garden ramblers were nearby that would have been alarmed by her animalistic howling. I slowly withdrew and felt my now diminished little soldier slip reluctantly from her sodden vagina. We were both still gasping for breath.

She shuddered, scanned the clock and smiled, “Good boy. Right on time. Now let’s tidy up.” I stood up and she moved a little unsteadily to a credenza and produced some wet wipes which were handed to me. She went to the small attached bathroom and used its mirror to inspect the damage to her make up. “You really are naughty. With the kissing I mean. I can see that I will have to keep a close eye on you.” She could keep anything on me if it meant I could clean out her pipes again.

¿Dónde vivís?