Message-ID: <44438asstr$1064448618@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: Reply-To: From: "Philip Harris" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Disposition: attachment; filename="Mrs_Buckley_Observed.txt" X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2003 10:28:06 -0400 Subject: {ASSM} Mrs. Buckley Observed (F-solo) Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2003 20:10:19 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman Mrs. Buckley Observed (F-solo) by Philip Harris Mrs. Lori Buckley, two years divorced, sat alone in her kitchen and pondered the welcome realization that she was nearly alone in her own home, a rare occurrence. Her eldest boy, next year to graduate from high school, was at summer hockey practice. Her eldest daughter, recently blossoming into middle school womanhood, was away with friends, probably doing things that she hoped her mother wouldn't suspect. Mrs. Buckley's youngest daughter, still in grade school, was at summer band practice. That left only the 13-year-old son, Tommy, who was sitting outside on the front porch with the next-door neighbor boy, 14-year- old Richard. "Tommy," Mrs. Buckley called. "What?" Tommy called back from the front porch, but only after Mrs. Buckley had called for him three times. "Tommy, come here." The front screen door slammed and Tommy trudged into the kitchen with the petulance of juvenile rebellion at an expected chore. "Tommy I need you to go to the store and pick up some milk," Mrs. Buckley said. "Ah, Mom . . . ." Tommy whined, simply to show resistance against responsibility. After a few minutes of further protest the front screen door slammed again as Tommy, a small bribe in hand in addition to the milk money, set out upon his task. "I have to go to the store for my mother," Mrs. Buckley overheard Tommy telling his friend Richard. The store was several blocks away. A walk there and back would take an adult twenty minutes. Sending a boy on the errand guaranteed Mrs. Buckley at least forty-five minutes of privacy. Satisfied that she now had had the house to herself she walked up the front stairway to her bedroom. In her bedroom Mrs. Buckley undressed quickly, stepping out of her open-toed flats as she unbuttoned her bright yellow blouse, revealing a lacy violet bra with B cups. She wiggled out of her lime Capri pants, unzipped on the left hip, to reveal violet panties on a still-nearly flat tummy and firm buttocks. Right there in bed, just as if she was fucking a man, Mrs. Buckley thought. It would be nice to do it in bed for a change. With four children in the house her only place for relief was usually the bathroom. In bed, legs spread, would be much more comfortable now that she had the chance. But wait. Mrs. Buckley stopped with her hands just inside her waistband, her panties just coming off her hips. Wait, she had the whole house to herself. Why not do it someplace special? The couch in the front den! That was the place! That couch used to sit in Mrs. Buckley's parents basement, and when she was a girl just her own daughter's age she spent many delightful private moments on that couch giving herself relief from countless crushes and schoolgirl fantasies. Later she'd given her virginity there. It was a comfortable, experienced couch. Mrs. Buckley strode boldly out of her bedroom in her bare feet and underwear. She hadn't gone about the house like this since--well, since never. When she was first married, before the children came, she walked about at home like this all the time, to her young husband's delight; but they hadn't owned this house back then. Today Mrs. Buckley felt wonderfully sexy as she walked, nearly naked, down her front stairway. Now nice it felt to be walking somewhere-- anywhere--on a mission for sex. The summer afternoon sunlight streamed in through the ground floor windows; all of the curtains were open. The windows were open too, letting in the distant sounds of a lawnmower, of passing cars, and of children at play. Mrs. Buckley felt almost as if she were naked outdoors. How long had it been since she'd had sex outdoors? Oh, way back when she was a teenager. How she missed it! Yes, the couch in the front den was the best, most wicked place. With those big screen windows open it would be nearly like doing it right out on the front lawn. The front den didn't look anything like a brothel. The furniture was old, mostly given by relatives. A big wing- backed chair faced away from the doorway where Mrs. Buckley entered. But in her mind she played a little fantasy that this was a brothel. This was the parlor, she pretended, the place where men select the women. There would be a man in the big chair, of course, making his choice. A stranger unknown to her, but very handsome. Mrs. Buckley would be the last girl to enter, displaying herself in her underwear. He'd seen all the rest, but of course he was going to choose her. "On the couch," the brothel's madam would tell her. Mrs. Buckley didn't look back at the chair as she entered the room, she didn't look at the client. Men choose women in this establishment, not the other way around. She lay on the couch, intending to sit up for inspection, but instead instinctively taking the reclining posture so familiar to her from her adolescent couch adventures. She lay with her head toward the chair, toward the imaginary client. Her left leg rested up upon the back of the couch while her right leg stretched down to the floor. "Show him your wares girl," she heard the madam say in her imagination. Mrs. Buckley reached behind her back, unhooking her bra, and then pushing the cups upward from the front, holding them up to show her breasts. She knew that she had very fine breasts. Her eldest daughter would soon need a bigger bra cup than Mrs. Buckley did, but Mrs. Buckley's breasts still had youthful firmness. They'd always been prettier than other girls' breasts, in her opinion. She'd seen other girls naked in high school gym class, naked and bigger in the chest, but when she'd looked into her bathroom mirror at night she'd always known that her breasts were prettier. They were fuller now, more experienced. Her areolas were dark from giving milk to four babies, and her nipples were bigger and more noticeable than when she was a teenager. Looking at them now, touching them with her fingertips, she was very pleased at what she could offer. What she could offer . . . . She frowned as she plucked at her umber nipples. She was still a fine looking, youthful woman full of sexual desires. Many men looked at her every day. But once they found out that she had four children to care for they avoided sending her even the remotest sexual invitations. Back to fun: "He says that you're the prettiest girl," Mrs. Buckley's imaginary madam told her, "but he wants to see more demonstration." Leaving her breasts bare, Mrs. Buckley reached down into her panties, holding them open with her left hand and touching her vagina with the fingertips of her right hand. "Mmm." A short, delighted hum came through her closed lips. Oh yes, this was something she definitely needed. Nobody could possibly know how much she needed to do this. She understood that other people had sexual urges too, but privately she felt that nobody in the world could have sex urges as demanding and as often as she did. "Aahh," she gasped, her mouth falling open as she caressed back and forth across her sensitive womanhood. She longed for a man's rough fingers to explore her there again in unskillful but delightful possession. "He can't see how you do it if you hide it that way," Mrs. Buckley's imaginary madam reminded her. Mrs. Buckley paused just long enough to quickly slide her panties off her hips, kicking them to the floor half way across the room with a flick of her foot. Mrs. Buckley slid her fingertips between her labia as her vagina opened wetly. She was teasing her imaginary customer, seeing if he would walk around for a closer look at her. She tapped her clitoris with her fingertips, using her other hand to hold it more openly exposed. She could cum very quickly this way, but she wanted to play for a while. She wanted to show herself off. She alternated rubbing her open vagina and tapping her clit. She plucked at her clit, pinching it gently and rubbing it as she had her nipples, but it was too slippery and elusive to grasp. The pursuit felt delightful. "Show him that you want to fuck; let him hear it; demonstrate your need," the imaginary madam's voice instructed. Mrs. Buckley plunged two fingers in and out of herself, and then stroked herself rapidly, causing a gushy- gushy sound as she quietly mouthed breathy "uh, uh, uh" sounds. Then she switched to using three fingers--since last using this couch she'd become a three-finger woman, but the generosity of her wetness was more than a teenage girl could produce. "Oh, ah, oh, ah, oh, ah, oh, ah" she was now moaning aloud. Her breathing was short and in gasps, making her breasts jerk slightly up and down in rhythm with her waves of arousal. She liked being loud at sex. She wanted to shout and scream, to let the neighbors know that she was having sex. She'd loved doing that in the small apartment where she'd lived when she first married. With children sharing her home now she always had to be very quiet when she did it in the bath, but today she felt like cumming with a scream. "Fuck me, fuck me!" she spoke aloud, but keeping her voice down to ensure she could not really be overheard. "Fuck my pussy!" Soon her fingers were moving almost too quickly to see, and urgent "nyah, nyah, nyah" gasps were all that she could articulate. In the throes of her masturbation Mrs. Buckley felt a sudden fear. Did she hear a sound other than herself? It had been very faint. Was somebody on the porch, looking in at her? Could it be that the neighbor boy Richard hadn't gone to the store with her son? She continued to stimulate herself passionately while listening. She was too close to climax now to deny herself. She was uncertain that she'd heard anything at all, and yet she now felt as if someone were in the room with her. Could the neighbor boy have come into the house and been waiting, sitting quietly in the wing-backed chair when Mrs. Buckley came into the den? But no, she told herself that there had been no noise. It must have been her imagination. She didn't look. She didn't want to know. She was in desperate sexual need now and had to ride to the finish. She needed her climax no matter who her audience might be. "Ah, ah, ah, ah . . . ah! I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Ah! I'm cumming, cumming, cumming! Ah! Ah. Ah. Ah . . . . Oh make me cum more! Make me cum more! Please make me cum more!" Mrs. Buckley came, in two, big, hip-thrusting waves, and numerous smaller ones. It was a good cum, the best she could remember having in a long while, made better by the imagination that she was being watched while she orgasmed and the uncertain thrill that it might be true. She lay there afterward, in after-sex rapture, her eyes closed as her fingers gently and expertly coaxed the twilight of her ecstasy, slowly cooing "oh, . . . oh, . . . oh," to herself while her breathing quieted. Her imagination of being watched was silly, she decided. No, she must be alone. When she opened her eyes she would see that no one was watching her giving in to her sex- frustrated girl-woman needs. She lay with her eyes closed for several minutes, displayed, listening timidly. As her cum-high quieted, the feeling again grew that she was being observed. The back of her neck prickled with a certainty that she wasn't alone. Her bare breasts felt--looked at! She wished that she hadn't tossed her panties away, leaving her only her recently busy hands to cover her sex with. She smoothed the hairs of her once-raven bush, subconsciously realizing that it needed a trim. Ah! She felt sure that she heard a very tiny noise again, from within the room! The big chair had creaked. Could she hear breathing? When she finally opened her eyes Mrs. Buckley didn't look back toward the chair or toward the window. She put her bra back into place and got up from the couch quickly, walking swiftly to exit the room at the opposite end in from which she'd come in. As she stooped to pick her panties up off the floor she snuck a quick backward glance, but it wasn't enough to let her see anything distinctly. The corner of her eye seemed to catch a Peter Pan shadow. Was it just sunlight? She didn't dare take a good look. Mrs. Buckley quickly walked bare-bottomed and wet-thighed through the house, avoiding the den as she circled back toward the safety of her staircase, but then glancing back into the den as she walked up the stairs to her bedroom. From that view she could only see the back of the big chair. No feet showed below it, but a young boy sitting cross-legged in the chair, or peeping in through the window, wouldn't be visible from the stairs. Once in her bedroom Mrs. Buckley listened very carefully, straining for any sound she might hear. She intended to dress, but instead she removed her bra to bare herself completely. She felt strangely compelled to play with herself some more as if she was still being watched and that more was expected of her. "What do you want me to do now?" she asked in a whisper to her empty bedroom. Was that the front screen door being opened and closed quietly? Were there small footsteps descending the front porch? "Ah!" she gasped. Peeping out of her bedroom window Mrs. Buckley saw Richard slink quickly across her front yard and into his own parents' house next door. He must certainly have heard her. Had he seen her through the window? Maybe he had even been in the house, in the den watching her do it! Mrs. Buckley sat on the edge of her bed, wondering fretfully what to do about this awful embarrassment. What could she offer the boy to ensure his silence? She lay back across her bed, still unmade from this morning, with her feet on the floor. She knew what boys his age want more than anything, and as she thought about that her fingers busied themselves between her legs again. If Richard ever told anyone of whatever he saw, Mrs. Buckley never learned of it. There were no repercussions. Perhaps he hadn't seen or heard anything. But thereafter, Mrs. Buckley often looked across to his bedroom light at night and, closing her eyes, she imaged what he might be doing in there and she wondered if he was helped by memories of witnessing her passion. Uncertainty teased her. If he was doing it, he was just preparing himself for manhood, she decided. Often when Mrs. Buckley was alone in her bath she gave herself to the fantasy that someday an older, ready-to-become-adult Richard would come to her and demand reward for keeping her secret. -end- -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+