It was just after the Sunday
morning service had ended at St Jude’s when I spotted her, and I thought for a
woman of her age she had a particularly nice figure.
She had just come down the
steps from the Church and had stopped to converse with friends.
At the time I was sat at a
table outside the Café Espresso just opposite the Church.
I’m not a Christian myself
but I often sat outside the Church on a Sunday morning.
I know that sounds very
wrong, but in my defence, I sit there waiting for the Phoenix shopping centre
to open, but I have to admit I do get a kick out of ogling all the Christian women
in their Sunday best.
I knew her slightly; her name was
Lorraine Lyon, and we were both members of the same Golf Club.
She was a wealthy woman by
all accounts, which was self-evident by the way she was dressed, though her
financial status was of secondary concern to me.
Everything Lorraine wore was
quality and she was always immaculately turned out, so I was quite surprised on
that day to see her standing chatting on the concourse wearing of all things,
leggings, expensive, good quality leggings, but leggings, nonetheless.
My surprise quickly abated
though as I looked at the exquisite fit and was just thinking to myself that
she had a very nice arse when she shifted her body weight from one leg to the
other and turned slightly towards me just as a beam of sunlight fell upon her,
or at least the part of her I was looking at, and as it illuminated her hind
quarters it revealed as clear as day her big black knickers underneath the
exquisitely fitted leggings.
It was at that point I
decided to chance my arm; after her conversation was over, I got up and went
over to talk to her.
“Lorraine?” I said
“Oh hello” she replied, “Mr. Scanlon, isn’t it?”
“Please call me Michael,” I said
“Michael” she complied
After which we chatted about
the Golf Club and the upcoming Ladies Day
“You must be in with a chance
of a medal” I said “A player of your standard”
“Oh, dear me” she said all
flustered “I don’t know about that”
And having duly flattered her
to the point of blushing I invited her to lunch which she graciously accepted.
I was confident that she
would, after all a woman of her age would always be at the very least flattered
by the attention of a younger man especially one 9 years younger.
I’ve always been attracted to
older women, not too much older five or ten years normally.
But of course, by the time I
reached my 50s there seemed to be an overabundance of suitable candidates for
my lust, widows mainly, which kept me gainfully employed.
We had had a very pleasant
lunch, which consisted of three courses, two bottles of wine and an abundance
of flirting, at a very decent restaurant from where, after plying her with
liberal amounts of wine I drove her home.
“It was a very nice lunch
Michael,” she said as I pulled up on the drive outside her very large house.
“Thank you”
“My pleasure” I said
I had further pleasure after
she’d invited me in for coffee when I liberated her from her expensive leggings
and then to our mutual delight, I tugged the big black knickers off her classy,
widowed arse.
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