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“Err…sorry to trouble you,” I began with a rather unconvincing stutter, standing holding an empty bowl, like Oliver Twist, on my neighbour’s doorstep. “Would you, by any chance, have any dried pasta?”Barefooted and stocking-less, rangy and unkempt, Madeline was wearing a loosely-fitting floral-print housecoat, which barely covered her breasts. She shook her head. “Hate anything Italian. Have done since World War Two. Good job they strung up Mussolini from a lamp post, that’s all I can say,” she barked. Never before had I heard such a virulent condemnation of cooking with pasta. I was about to beat a hasty retreat when she added: “I’ve got a home-made cottage pie you can have. But its tofu, not beef.”“Thank you. That would be wonderful.” Supper sorted, I accepted my neighbour’s invitation to share a drink in her kitchen, ‘A drink’ turned out to be two half-pint goblets of a fiendishly strong Hungarian burgundy, with a kick like a mule. In no time at all, we’d seen off the bottle. She. On this night, her breasts were particular sensitive, and I noticed a definite degree of arousal each time I enjoyed them. "Just my luck not to be at home where we could really enjoy this," I thought.We soon arrived near the school, behind a clump of trees and bushes, where we could easily see the softball players through the leaves. We resumed kissing and fondling, with my hand now inside her shirt, and a couple of buttons undone. Inside her bra, I soon found my goal, her nipple stiffening with every stroke of my fingers, her breast warm and yielding to my touch. Her mouth opened and her tongue shot excitedly into my mouth. I continued gently squeezing her tits, and running my thumb across her nipple. My hand soon moved down, untucking her shirt, and moving into the front of her skimpy G-string. A sudden moan escaped from her as I found her very wet pussy and slid my fingers easily into that heavenly flesh between her thighs. She moved her legs a bit further apart, allowing me the.
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