Teen
2004-05-20
Kitty, Kitty 3 (or It's SHOWTIME!)
Then, as a teenager, Saturday night became something we fussed about all week. Would we do this, or that, or go somewhere or not or what film was at the cinema or maybe there was a dance or a group of us would go to the beach or a carnival. Then we would talk about whether we would be doing anything at all. Or, hopefully, a date. Someone might ask us somewhere, almost anywhere would be okay. We might even turn down a date just to take a position. We could tell our friends we had a date, went on a date, and we could make up what we did or didn't do, that part didn't matter. The date was the thing just so we didn't have to stay home and be bored and embarrassed. Girls with dates on Saturday were "popular" and "important. " It didn't matter how popular, just that we were in that "popular" group, you know.
Well that was then and this was now. I'd had my share of dates, carnivals, cinemas. Now a job took my time during the week but that left Saturday night, the only night I really felt like a date. During the days of the week, I had to get ready for work the next day and that was true on Sunday because the next day was work.
Friday I was tired from work. A trip to the local with friends was the usual thing.
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Sometimes we got off work early. And Friday had unexpected excitement and drives to the beach--but that's another story--another Kitty tale! Tail!
But Saturday, well, I had all day to rest up, get bathed, dressed, clean house, do a few errands, some personal things, get ready for a little fun on a Saturday night and now I had a "steady" guy who was full of fun and ideas and innovations and I always had something to anticipate. I never knew, from one Saturday to the next, what that might be.
One night we went dancing, another the cinema, or a new restaurant. Another night we stayed at my place, had supper and played cards, on one occasion we played strip poker (I lost! but got a prize anyway. ) and then games apres strip poker. . . we were in the mood you know. We were often in the mood before, during, after. . . even in between. . .
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our games and adventures. Sometimes on the way to the cinema, or in the parking lot at the restaurant. I never knew the surprises he had for me so I let them come as they would. He was full of ideas and I was willing to play.
He said we should have a French night. French cuisine, a quiche Lorraine, French wine, of course, endive salad, vinegarette dressing, and. . . a French maid (that was my part in the French night) and a "French" movie. I spent all day getting ready: candles lit, vinegarette and endive, quiche ingredients--he was bringing the wine--and then my role--the "maid. " That took some thinking. What did a maid wear for supper--waiting at supper and waiting (eagerly) for after supper?
I put on a short skirt, hemline way above the knees, short sleeve blouse with decolletage, obviously. A lace apron, a frilled wristband, hair up with a Spanish comb--and--to top (or bottom) it off, stockings and suspenders, you could just see the suspendersd at the hemline, no knickers and I was ready for the meal and embarrasingly wet just getting into my outfit and the evening hadn't started. I wondered if we would get to the main course or make our own, skipping the food. May be "I" was the real main course.
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It was in my mind. Making me wet. You know. But it's usually in the mind, isn't it. The thoughts and expectations. He would say: What's under her dress? What are her breasts like after seeing her cleavage? Breasts released to my grasp, caress and touch. I want to suck your nipples and run my tongue over them, feel them tense, grow stiff. But it starts with the idea of the thing. What will come out of his pants when unzipped? To hold John Thomas in my hand and feel it stiffen because of me. The idea. . . in my mind. . .
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making me wet. . . thinking of release, orgasm. . . thinking and, not just thinking, making more feelings when I walked or sat.
My guy arrived, roses in one hand, bottle of wine in the other, greeting me with a kiss and much admiring look. "You are alluring you hot French maid," he said. I was already hot and lubricated as I was, walking to the kitchen was getting me hotter. He could have taken me at the door. But prolong it. I quickly opened the wine and stood still for a minute--hoping to cool down a little. We were having a French evening and I at least wanted something to eat before the rest of the expected events.
The table was already set, candles lit, salad waiting, white linen table cloth.
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My guy was usually on time and I was prepared for our hot and sexy French fantasy evening in this quiet part of England. We had a little wine, relaxing in my lounge as he looked me over. Admiring me. Talk about reading his eyes. He liked the garters and the short skirt and the low neck line--without bra--and he knew it was stockings, suspenders--nothing else to be in the way of our evening. It was the kind of Saturday evening we both had in mind.
I'm glad we had no dessert, it would have been a waste! While serving the salad: a little cuddling--it's what French maids do, the dirty girls!--and kissing--they do that too--and some feels to be certain of my nakedness. His fingers, just touching, were making me so hot my ears throbbed. Of course they slipped right in and made my knees move. I felt very French and dirty and excited. The cooking bell sounded. It was hard to stop for dinner but I forced myself. The quiche was ready (so was I) and even though quiche is not my thing, it was the ambience, and good.
I don't remember the conversation--it was in English--but I remember the wine soothing my throat and I was opening another bottle--and his hand behind me as I bent to pour it--and his damnable fingers again--making me weak. I sat on his lap and fed him a mouthful--of quiche.
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He kissed me and his English hands were between my "French" thighs again, fingers in and out, thumb on my clit, and me squirming on his lap. Hot!
Then he slapped my bottom and I was off to my chair for a breather. Thank goodness! I was about to come on his lap. My face was red. My breath short. The wine cooling, soothing, drizzling down my throat. I needed a break. He took my hand pulling it to his lap. He was excited, too, John Thomas ( or Juan Pierre?) was stiff and I gave him--John T. --a warm squeeze. I knew where John T. wanted to be--embraced, enveloped, concealed, revealed, enclosed and released, entering and exiting--I squeezed him again.
The wine was gone by the time we stumbled to the couch for the competion of "French Night. " We were both lubricated--me doubly--him too--but it was the floor for the finale, and I was ready for that even if it was on the brief side. I was almost coming when he arrived and after the wine and cuddles well.
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. . John Thomas took little time to finish me off. I'd been ready and eager all evening. And when he entered it made me come too quick but I couldn't hold it back. It had been in my mind from the beginning and ready to happen. He fucked me again later that night.
But, then on another Saturday his ideas were too much even for me and I didn't want to "Play" his game, this night. I made him a nice supper and picked out a special wine, which we drank. He put a tape in the VCR and we sat down to watch, whatever it was, and it was well. . . another surprise.
He had put on a French movie--a dirty movie, dirty girls and all that they do and so I got up and opened another bottle. He asked me back to the couch but I washed the dishes instead.
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I couldn't help taking a peek, of course. It was the Dallas Cheerleaders trying to raise money for a team trip to another city.
It was the mental thing again: cheerleaders--both male and female. My mind saw them as exuberant, scantily dressed, jumping and leaping, showing their knickers and legs, maybe some cleavage. Spreading their legs, leaping in the air and landing in the boys arms, knickers exposed. Usually cute girls and cute guys. The whole thing was in the imagination and very sexual. Imagine how they'd look naked. Rip off the knickers, or the buys' shorts for that matter from the female point of view, how would they look and spread those legs now, sweetheart and let's see what happens. Let's see your dicks and balls. You're all excited. Let's cool you down as only a good Rogering will do to a willing girl and guy. I wondered about taking down the athletic guy's shorts and getting a good Rogering myself as I peeked at the show on the telly. These weren't ordinary cheerleaders they were cheerleaders from imagination.
Soon these "Cheerleaders" were doing unmentionable things to raise money-- licking dicks, giving hand jobs and getting fucked by cocks and groaning and all that.
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My guy sat and watched the show and I caught a glimpse between dishes. They were fairly ordinary-looking, but pretty girls and I peeked more as the movie went along, finally joining my guy on the couch. I'll admit it was interesting. And watching the situations and the fucking was making my cheeks warm. They looked like they were enjoying it for real.
While I had done some of those things, most of them actually, I hadn't watched someone else doing it, except quick reflections in the mirror or the telly screen of me and my guy doing it and that was sexy. Even if it was ourselves I was watching, it made me hot.
My girlfriends said: "They're all the same. Seen one seen 'em all. " But this movie was different. They didn't seem like actors. They seemed like people. Like us. It was fun checking what other people did. And they were much more free in their sex and the more I looked the warmer I got and went for more wine.
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By this time, I was also being "checked out. " My guy was stiff as a board! The wine had gone to our heads and I was receiving some head of my own and feeling juicy and wet anyway. The movie helped a little, too. It was the idea of the thing. The hot sexual atmosphere in our room infected me. I got wet fast, even before he took off my knickers. He was working me over.
Funny that. . . I looked at the telly now, at that movie, and one of the cheerleaders was getting a good working over with another cheerleader holding the guy's balls as he was fucking her. I didn't think they were acting. She wasn't acting, anyway. Not the way her fingers clutched at his back and her knees jerked up and she pulled him deeper.
I thought how I would feel in that situation--on a movie set, a cameraman and a director watching, some members of the lighting crew and sound crew watching--looking at my pretty body.
My nipples would be hard, I knew they would be. Looking at my soft skin and pretty legs, spread open. I bet the crew would be hot watching me. But it was not just them watching. . . or the quiet ticking of the movie camera. . . ticking. . . ticking. . .
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the actor would move up my thighs with his tongue and kiss my mouth. I would spread my legs, just a little at first, more later. I didn't want him to think I was easy. I was a reluctant cheerleader, not a porn actress, and he had to be careful with me, not push me too far, but I was getting hot now and looked up at all the stage crew. All quiet except the camera, ticking. . . ticking. Many eyes, intently searching my nakedness and openness. Iwas really hot and my lips wet. . . waiting. My cunt was pulsing. .
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. ticking. . . After all, he was kissing me, feeling my legs and he said a few words of dialogue about how pretty and wet I was. My eyes began to glaze under the hot lights of the studio and I was somewhere else, enjoying the moments, the lights warming my already warm body. I felt human. I needed holding, touching.
This was a job for me at first and I had already been paid for my "work. " But I felt his cock bump my fanny as he stood over me. I looked at him. Behind him were lights and anonymous faces, waiting, wanting, all of them wanting me, and him ready. I reached out and he took my hand. I held his stiff cock. It flexed in my hand and the actor smiled.
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I said my lines: "You're going to help our squad, aren't you Mr. Jones?" He replied: "You do your part--I'll do mine. "
He leaned over and kissed me again and worked his way down between my legs. I was trying to prolong it. I didn't know if I could. I needed to hold back. I didn't want to spoil the scene and have to do it over again. At least not that day.
I focused on other things--on gardening. . . on getting in my car and driving to work. . . on washing dishes.
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. . on eating ice cream and licking the spoon. Then I was in a shower, the water streaming over me and I felt his licking over me up and down and all over. . . and tried to focus mentally on the lights, the cameras, the crew, the. . . action but my legs were being held and he spread my lips with his cock on me, poking at me, opening me. . . slipping inside. . .
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inside! And I realized how big was his cock and it was gradually going into me all the way. I got tense and held myself. Waiting. I forgot my lines. He pushed a little and I felt the head enter again. He was a "good" actor--well-designed for his role. He pushed cock further in, withdrew, was wet from me, slippery, pushed further in, spreading me apart, hurting a little. I was hot. Forgot my lines. Resigned to feeling this Thing in me.
I looked at the scene and was away from the scene watching this pretty woman spread herself for this well-built man with the large penis. . . he was made for the part. .
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. and parting the woman's lips, entering her, stroking her, the camera crew very quiet now. . . he was stroking more and I saw her hands reach down to measure. . . And then I was on my back and feeling him, resisting the feeling as best I could but I couldn't, I just. . . could. . . not. .
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. h. . h. . help. . . my. . . self. I began to let go. I hoped they were getting this on film. .
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. I was letting go and couldn't stop and grabbed him. "Hurt me, you bastard. . . . " (it wasn't my line but I said it anyway) "Hurt me! Fuck me!" He was all the way in; rammed me again and was entirely into me. I was choking on it. . . fucking and bucking on it and looked up.
My guy was smiling at me, kissing at my mouth. . . pushing into me, working me over, working my up, way up and fu.
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. . fucking me good. I looked over at the telly. The same thing happening in the movie was happening to me on the floor in my place, beside the couch and I let go and opened and called him "bastard" and "hurt me" and it was real and I couldn't stop coming and clutching his back, lifting to his strokes that made me choke and gasp for air.
I had played my part. I couldn't help it. I was good at it. He told me so between kisses and strokes and lay breathing hard beside me. I nuzzled in his chest and felt a coolness and pulled a throw over us. Just like the movies. The French movie.
Maybe it's true if you've seen one you've seen 'em all but I was actually in this one! And I wasn't just playing a role. I wondered what my next "role" would be like. I couldn't wait to find out!
One thing I liked about my life now: I didn't have to wonder what I was going to be doing on Saturday night.
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When I was growing up, Saturday was that time before Sunday and Sunday dinner. Almost "another" day. .
