without offending his sensitive apparel care issue. He smelled the seafood gumbo at the top of the steps. Lowcountry Boil was a mixture of fresh local shrimp, sausage, red potatoes, onions and old bay seasoning and it was Jonathon’s all time favorite. His jaws clenched and a pang of hunger shot saliva through his mouth as he reached the top step. Opening the door he called out to Ellen. “Ellen! Where are you? Damn that smells good!”
He was answered with silence. Feeling at home in the kitchen of his childhood summers, Jonathon stepped to the stove, lifted the lid, and moved his face over the boiling pot. “Hmmm...” he said to the absent room. He replaced the lid and saw that saltines and raw oysters had been prepared for snacking. Jonathon snatched one of the saltines and scooped an oyster from its shucked shell. The salty luxury filled his mouth and he let it linger there for a moment before reluctantly swallowing. He opened the icebox and retrieved a cold beer, using the wine bottle opener left on the kitchen table to open it. Stepping into the dimly lit living room, he again called for Ellen. Then he caught sight of a foot. The naked, pink toenail painted foot, slithered past the length of a lounger on the front porch. Jonathon heard her moans before he could take his first step towards the double glassed, open front doors facing the ocean. His heart raced and pounded in his chest, had she forgotten their date? First instinct told him to run. Avoid this awkward moment at all costs, and beat his trek back downtown as fast as he could. For the second time today his curious nature took control, stepping as silently as he could across the creaking wooden floors, he edged towards the doorway. With one eye closed, he peered between the door and the jam to try to catch sight of Ellen and her alternate guest. He held his breath until he saw the truth of the matter, only Ellen resided in the lounger along the wall on the screened porch. She was lying on the cushioned cast iron beach lounge with her blue dress above her waist. Her hands caught in the wetness between her legs, her face turned upwards towards the fan that beat noisily on the ceiling. No wonder she hadn’t heard him come in. Jonathon watched as the fingers of her left hand pinched, tugged and pressed against her rosebud. The fingers of her right hand were delicately forcing themselves inside her. A gust of wind from the ocean shot the scent of her lust through the crack in the doorway. Jonathon’s jeans suddenly tightened their fit; his own hand desperate to adjust his balls as they now became too cumbersome for the cloth that bound them.
Her fingers felt the bumpy texture of her insides, and he imaged them as his own. He’d touch her, finding the single spot she was searching for and pamper it. Other fingers pressed hard on her clitoris, pressing it hard into the bone below, he could see the muscles in her forearms ripple. The deep sensations caused her legs to shiver and he battled the urge to rush to her, hold her, and soothe her need.
His hand pressed tightly against the front of his jeans, the pressure was unbearable, and his cock pushed against the fabric in desperation. His hips bucked against the force of his hand. He humped his hand with fury and his prick responded with dampness that marked his palm through the jeans. His motions were urgent, crucial. Sweat dripped down the center of his spine and he felt it slide under the waist of his jeans and trickle into his ass cheeks below. There was no pretention of holding back; it was a race to the finish. If Ellen finished before him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from taking her. It would ruin the gentleman persona he intended to use to win her over; he would appear as a childish boy unable to control his desires. He saw Ellen’s hand tighten between her thighs, her muscles tensed, her back arched, she
He was answered with silence. Feeling at home in the kitchen of his childhood summers, Jonathon stepped to the stove, lifted the lid, and moved his face over the boiling pot. “Hmmm...” he said to the absent room. He replaced the lid and saw that saltines and raw oysters had been prepared for snacking. Jonathon snatched one of the saltines and scooped an oyster from its shucked shell. The salty luxury filled his mouth and he let it linger there for a moment before reluctantly swallowing. He opened the icebox and retrieved a cold beer, using the wine bottle opener left on the kitchen table to open it. Stepping into the dimly lit living room, he again called for Ellen. Then he caught sight of a foot. The naked, pink toenail painted foot, slithered past the length of a lounger on the front porch. Jonathon heard her moans before he could take his first step towards the double glassed, open front doors facing the ocean. His heart raced and pounded in his chest, had she forgotten their date? First instinct told him to run. Avoid this awkward moment at all costs, and beat his trek back downtown as fast as he could. For the second time today his curious nature took control, stepping as silently as he could across the creaking wooden floors, he edged towards the doorway. With one eye closed, he peered between the door and the jam to try to catch sight of Ellen and her alternate guest. He held his breath until he saw the truth of the matter, only Ellen resided in the lounger along the wall on the screened porch. She was lying on the cushioned cast iron beach lounge with her blue dress above her waist. Her hands caught in the wetness between her legs, her face turned upwards towards the fan that beat noisily on the ceiling. No wonder she hadn’t heard him come in. Jonathon watched as the fingers of her left hand pinched, tugged and pressed against her rosebud. The fingers of her right hand were delicately forcing themselves inside her. A gust of wind from the ocean shot the scent of her lust through the crack in the doorway. Jonathon’s jeans suddenly tightened their fit; his own hand desperate to adjust his balls as they now became too cumbersome for the cloth that bound them.
Her fingers felt the bumpy texture of her insides, and he imaged them as his own. He’d touch her, finding the single spot she was searching for and pamper it. Other fingers pressed hard on her clitoris, pressing it hard into the bone below, he could see the muscles in her forearms ripple. The deep sensations caused her legs to shiver and he battled the urge to rush to her, hold her, and soothe her need.
His hand pressed tightly against the front of his jeans, the pressure was unbearable, and his cock pushed against the fabric in desperation. His hips bucked against the force of his hand. He humped his hand with fury and his prick responded with dampness that marked his palm through the jeans. His motions were urgent, crucial. Sweat dripped down the center of his spine and he felt it slide under the waist of his jeans and trickle into his ass cheeks below. There was no pretention of holding back; it was a race to the finish. If Ellen finished before him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from taking her. It would ruin the gentleman persona he intended to use to win her over; he would appear as a childish boy unable to control his desires. He saw Ellen’s hand tighten between her thighs, her muscles tensed, her back arched, she
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