Two respectable wives.
MS SHANKS
Ellen, Bristol
I woke up with a thumping headache and a sick feeling that highlighting my retirement party speech with, “I really, desperately want to fuck that fabulous Ms Shanks”, had been a bad idea. I lay in bed the next morning after and groaned because I felt awful. Fifty two year old women aren’t supposed to say that they want sex with their younger boss, but I had.
Too much drink or not, I had said it in front of everyone. That’s the way to go, Ellen, I groaned to myself as I lay in bed with arm across my eyes. I had probably given everyone the shock of their lives and I would like to say I was too drunk to remember anything, but I could still clearly see the blank looks of all the people staring at me, open mouthed. Their silence spoke volumes.
My supposed big send-off – after taking early retirement to avoid the prospect of redundancy – was meant to be a special occasion. Maybe even dignified. A dozen colleagues, or, to be exact, ex-colleagues, gathered at a restaurant on a Friday night to enjoy a farewell meal and a few glasses of wine. “Speech!” they all chorused, so I gave them a speech. A little slurred, perhaps, but with heart. Oh, I was careful not to slag the company off too much, tried hard not to say that the MD was a shit and his directors knew nothing. But then none of the higher-ups were there so I accept I may have let slip the odd expletive about them.
I suppose that’s why Ms Shanks wasn’t there, too. That’s not her name, of course, but everyone in accounts called her that. As department manager she gave her apologies for her absence well before the event, no doubt having been to worker leaving events before and having witnessed badly behaved people like me, she knew it was best to avoid embarrassment. She may agree that the directors were ridiculous but better for her career prospects not to be suspected of agreeing.
So no Ms Shanks there to ogle, but I still fancied her. That must be why I let my feelings get the better of me and revealed my masturbation fantasy to all my former colleagues. Perhaps it would have been safer, publicly, to stick to the likes of fancying Brad Pitt or George Clooney. My friend Joanna in the office always said be careful who you fancy and what you say. She always said it’s best not to upset women like Ms Shanks and never, ever let her hear you call her that name.
Her. Ms Gorgeous Shanks. Oh, God, why did I say that about her in front of everyone else? On my last afternoon she had come and perched on the edge of my desk and wished me all the best, saying I was a good worker and she was sorry to see me go. Yeah, right, I always say. But I did appreciate her saying something to me, even though all the time she was speaking I had to fight the urge to stare at those long, slim legs of hers and the way her stockings gleamed in the office lights and that expensive suit skirt she wore that gave the merest hint of the curve of her thighs and the way it creased a little across the top of her legs, below her more or less flat belly. I used to think more than 60 per cent of her height was legs. Improbable, but it excited me.
You wouldn’t believe the number of times I had watched her walk across the office, pause at some fellow-worker’s desk, and tried to get as much of a glimpse of her legs as I could. But she always dressed soberly and even if I dropped my pen and got down to retrieve it, I couldn’t see as much of her legs as I wanted.
But yes, she wore stockings, and their sheen told me she knew she had good legs. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, and while business didn’t let her flaunt it too much it was clear she knew what her assets were. Good nylons made her pins look better, and I was in love with them. I wanted to run my hands up her legs, up her expensive skirt, find the silky smooth bare flesh above her stocking tops, brush the taut suspenders, find her hot, damp pussy and show her how skilled an older woman can be at making love. Make her mine with busy fingers and eager tongue.
It was supposed to be my private fantasy and I had blasted it out in public. I felt sick with anxiety at what I’d said at the party, but then I told myself that it would get better. I was an ex-employee and they weren’t my people any more, and just as my headache would fade so too would the gossip and giggles among my former colleagues – eventually. I might not be able to face my friend Joanna again but I’d get over it. She would, too, probably distancing herself from me, calling me a crazy old bitch even though she was a year older. Thus I would slide into history and for those who remembered anything about it, I would be just this sad, middle-aged woman with no one in her life so she had to rely on lesbian fantasy. An old woman desperately fancying a female twenty or more years younger than her would be worth a laugh for a while, but it would be replaced in time with some other scandal or crisis. In an office of so many women, another one would be along soon enough.
Despite my pounding head, I got up and went to start the day in the bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and thought that for a woman of my age I didn’t look too bad for a drunken bitch. A way-too-talkative drunken bitch, but my tits were still OK and my waist hadn’t thickened too much. I showered and rubbed my pussy idly as I did so, but then I always do. Warm water does that to me. And as I rubbed I imagined that maybe it wasn’t too bad after all. Perhaps Ms Shanks would never hear about my drunken gaffe and even if she did, all she would do was laugh that some crazy old bag wanted her. Probably tell her fiancé as they had sex and he’d chuckle and say, “Would she finger you like this?” or “I bet she has a dildo but it isn’t as good as my cock, is it?” or some such nonsense.
I had seen his picture on Ms Shanks’ desk. Handsome man, and she had a lovely engagement ring she had shown us all a few months before. I’d oohed and fussed over it as everyone else did in the office, and privately wondered what she would do on her wedding night, whenever that was. No doubt, I reflected, it wouldn’t involve me or a strap-on.
But I didn’t have a dildo either. My electric toothbrush is for my teeth alone. I might live on my own but I’ve always been happy with my own fingers. I have lain awake at night before, playing with myself as I thought of Ms Shanks and her amazing legs. Shit, she could wrap them round my waist anytime. I patted my waist a little, glad I hadn’t put on too much weight over the years; the woman’s long legs would certainly go round me if she ever did make love to me.
I stopped fantasising long enough to go and think I would be late for work if I didn’t hurry. But it was silly. Not only was it Saturday but even if it was Monday, I didn’t have a job there. So I climbed back into bed and snuggled down with my hand back between my open legs. Time for some serious play here, until I drifted off into a doze, thinking of Ms Shanks.
A bell woke me up. It was a little after ten and I stumbled out of bed, hauling a silk dressing gown round me, still under the weather from drinking so much the previous night. It would be, I thought, a sales call offering me something I didn’t want at a price I couldn’t afford. But if it was by any chance one of the girls from the office it would probably be Joanna or even Rita, calling to see how I was and if I remembered what I had said last night. I rehearsed my pretend loss of memory and then a quick survey of my supposed shock. “Surely not,” I’d say. “Well, how unlike me. Must have been the drink.”
But it wasn’t Joanna or Rita or even that cow Wendy, who would really enjoy my discomfort. I had got out of bed stupidly thinking it was the phone, but it wasn’t. I stood in the hallway of my house and realized it was the doorbell that was ringing.
I opened the front door gingerly and peered out. I even gave a small gasp and my eyes widened. There was Ms Shanks, on my doorstep. Looking at me with a mix of cool displeasure and curiosity. She was neatly dressed in a blue business suit, her long legs still as glorious as ever. But I wasn’t looking as much at her legs as I used to. Her face told me that this was no courtesy call.
“Can I come in?” she asked, and without waiting for answer stepped smartly into the hall. “We need to talk.” She pointed towards the living room. “I presume this way?” she added as she marched off.
I followed the woman I adored into my own living roo
m, and my heart was pounding. But of course I had the right to ask her to leave. There would be no problem as I no longer worked for the company. She wasn’t my manager now. I didn’t, however, say anything. I was, I admit, in awe of her.
“If it’s about last night,” I began, only for Ms Shanks to interrupt me.
“Of course it’s about last night,” she said as she settled into a chair without being invited. I was still standing and wasn’t quite sure if I should sit too, so I didn’t. I just stood like some awkward teenager being told off by her teacher. “It’s about what you said.”
“Oh that,” I nodded as I spoke. “It was, you know, just the drink.”
She shook her head. “No, Ellen, it wasn’t drink. It was you speaking, irrespective of how much alcohol you’d had. You said you wanted to do something to me.” At that Ms Shanks crossed her incredible, nylon-covered legs. Her high heels looked razor sharp, her ankles so perfect, and I admit I gulped. There was no flash of upper leg, no tantalising hint of taut suspenders or even a slip; the woman is too classy to let such things be revealed. I know because I had watched her so often at work and even in my fantasies she was always so elegant, so in control. So above me. “You said you wanted to fuck me, correct?”
Her voice jolted me out of my brief reverie. I couldn’t think of what to say in my defence so I pulled my silk robe across me in a defensive gesture. I also desperately wanted to sit down and shrink back into a chair, but that was out of the question. I stood, my face burning. Women of my age shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I was.
“Answer me,” she said. Not sharply, but with authority. She could do that at work, asking someone in a quiet but strong voice what they were doing, or not doing.
“I didn’t mean it.” I gulped as I spoke and wished I hadn’t been so stupid at the party. No one needed to have known what I was thinking. Then it hit me and I looked at her. “Who told you, about what I said?”
A smile played on Ms Shanks’ face. She leaned back in the chair and re-crossed her legs, slowly and deliberately. Where it was left over right before, she now put her right leg over her left. This time I saw a faint glimpse of stocking top. Deliberate, I knew. The woman was teasing me because she knew.
“Please,” I gasped, but I wasn’t sure what I was pleading about.
“You really have to learn to keep your mouth closed,” she said. “Unless it’s busy doing something useful for me.”
“What?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Oh, Ellen,” she re-crossed her legs again and even eased her skirt back as she did it. More shapely thigh. Definitely stockings, too. I glimpsed the welt of them. “It’s time I think for you to be honest.”
“I am,” I mumbled, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her legs. My face was burning and she was laughing gently.
“I want you to apologize to me, but in a heartfelt way.” The woman paused and stroked her own thigh with her long, elegantly manicured fingers, lightly making out the small bump of her suspender clasp. The gesture was obvious. “If you get on your knees and kiss my toes, perhaps you will find out.” Ms Shanks’ foot – her right, in a black polished stiletto shoe that was teasingly catching the light – waved invitingly. “But you have to be very good.”
I have no idea why I didn’t protest my sensible revulsion or express any pretend reluctance, but I got on my knees and carefully removed her shoe. No, forget that: I know exactly why I did it. I was in love with her legs, and so why not her feet too? Up close there was a faint aroma of sweat as I eased the shoe off and I took a deep breath to catch the scent of her foot. Her toes, perfectly painted, were visible through the fine nylon. I put my mouth to her feet, opened my lips and began to suck her toes, carefully and lovingly. I sucked them one by one, running my tongue over them, around them, tasting her flesh through the fine fabric. I heard her say above me, “If you bite them, you will be sorry.”
I didn’t bite them, even though I suddenly wanted to nibble all she had. Everything. Every part of her superb body. I had my hands on her feet as my lips and tongue paid homage to her toes, and I slipped one hand a little up over her ankles, but she leaned forwards and tapped me – not hard but firmly enough – on my head. “No,” she intoned. “You do not have permission yet to worship my legs. You must earn that.” My hand dutifully returned to cradling her foot.
I had to earn her trust, yes. I had to earn her permission to love her. I knew that. I licked and tongued and sucked and kissed and was so overwhelmingly grateful I was having the chance to do this. My pussy was in little spasms and I yearned to touch myself, but though my robe had fallen open, I didn’t dare. I held Ms Shanks’ foot in both hands as if it was precious. One day I would reach up her legs and she wouldn’t stop me. One day I would slide my hand up her skirt and touch the places I wanted to. One day, if I was very good.
Behind me the door opened and I heard someone come in to the room. A chair, the one I had thought I might sit in earlier but didn’t dare, creaked under someone’s weight. It was, of course, the person who had told Ms Shanks about what I’d said. A colleague. A lover of Ms Shanks, probably. One who had kept her passion quiet.
Of course I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t have been the only one to admire this young woman’s legs. There was someone else, I now knew, who cared as much as I did for the touch of them, wanted to fuck her as I did. But they had kept their mouth shut because they got to do it, or had reasoned the way to Ms Shanks’ heart and cunt was in being careful and cautious. The chair creaked again as the figure rose. I guessed, without pausing my worship, that Ms Shanks must have indicated that the newcomer could move. I didn’t break my adoration and was aware of my friend Joanna kneeling next to me. Joanna, who was older than me, quiet and married and utterly loyal to her dull husband, joined me. Joanna pressed her lips to Ms Shanks’ foot, her tongue vying with mine as we explored and caressed the woman’s smooth, beautiful stockinged foot between us.
Our lips touched, but Joanna and I weren’t there to have pleasure; we weren’t there to kiss each other. We were there to serve Miss Shanks’ wonderful foot and toes. And I told myself that Joanna was probably just as determined as me, I imagined, to get to be the first one to caress this elegant woman’s wonderful legs and reach up and touch that deep, hot place that I was sure was between her sexy legs. Or we’d do it together, running our tongues up her nylon-clad legs and kiss that smooth flesh above her stocking welt and smell the rich scent of her wet, aroused cunt.
All Joanna and I had to do was keep our mouths shut and out tongues out, ready, and take it in turns to satisfy Ms Shanks.
And when we’d done that, when we’d explored ever curve of her fabulous legs, we would worship and caress her firm breasts and perfectly rounded rear and, above all, delight in her pussy. I was sure we would do anything to please her, whatever she wanted, whatever she demanded. Because she could demand anything she wanted.
As I sucked Ms Shank’s beautiful toes with my face pressed cheek to cheek with Joanna’s, I imagined us kneeling and carefully painting her toes in whatever shade pleased our mistress. And when her toe nails were dry we would ease stockings up her legs and clip waiting suspenders to them, checking the nylons were perfectly smooth and wrinkle free and then adjust the woman’s skirt. Briefly I even fantasized that Joanna and I would be there on Ms Shanks’ wedding day, helping to dress her in her gown. And if her husband was half the man I hoped he’d be, my friend and I could be kneeling at the end of the honeymoon bed, caressing this wonderful woman’s majestic legs as she lay on her back with her happy husband on top of her.
But then I drove that thought away. There would be no wedding. Joanna and I would perform so loyally, do so well that Ms Shanks would call it off. No man could give her the pleasure we could, no man could worship her so passionately or so thoroughly. We might not be permitted to fuck her as I wanted but our tongues were more than capable.
And then I grinned, because there was something about the picture of the man on her desk that had
troubled me. I realized it had been clipped from some magazine; he was a foreign actor and her “fiancé” was purely for show, as was her engagement ring. And indeed, the hand that had tapped me on the head earlier had no ring. It was all illusion. I smiled and lapped harder, sucked more eagerly.
I was in love, finally.
COUNTRY ROADS
Melanie, Forest Hill
Mrs Rose called me a late bloomer because I was nineteen and still hadn’t learnt to drive. I had my learner’s permit, but driving seemed scary. All my friends had either gone out with their parents at fifteen, or else had no inclination to drive, like me. But Mrs Rose said I must. She drove a pick-up truck and claimed driving was the key to a woman’s independence.
And Mrs Rose was by far the most independent woman I’d ever met. My grandparents lived way out in the country, and she was their neighbour. She wasn’t actually a “Mrs” at all, since she’d never been married. Mrs Rose always told my cousins and I to call her Jan, but my grandparents were sticklers for formality and they didn’t think it proper to call a woman her age “Miss” anything.
So “Mrs Rose” it was, and Mrs Rose she stayed.
I don’t think she was actually as old as the lines around her eyes suggested. She had that colour hair where you couldn’t tell if it was white or blonde, but she always wore a straw hat over it. I’d gone to her place to buy snap peas, since she sold produce to anyone who might stop by, but we got talking about driving, and soon she was set on teaching me.
Since I couldn’t imagine learning in her big old pick-up, we walked back to my grandparents’ property and my grandma reluctantly allowed us borrow her old-lady Toyota. Scared as I was to learn, I’d always heard it was easiest on country roads. Less traffic than in the city. Also, there was something about Mrs Rose that made me feel safe. If we broke down or whatever, she’d know what to do.
I was so nervous when she got me to start up the engine that I thought I might pee my pants. I couldn’t remember which was the gas and which was the brakes, and no matter what I did, I second-guessed myself. I felt so dumb.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions Page 18