As I lowered my denims and breeches, I felt the cool, dark air assault my previously unexposed area of the body. I felt anxious.
She was facing away from me, now, clad only in her blue, satin panties with their white, lace, trim. She had her right knee drawn up trying to remove her white, thigh-high stocking, using the nightstand to steady herself. Her body was composed of fair skin, a relatively flat abdomen, substantial, weighty breasts which undulated mightily while she performed even the most delicate of movements. Her sturdy hips providing the framework for her full backside which — although perfectly proportionate to her voluptuous body — would have been out of place on a younger, lesser woman.
She turned toward me with the distant, weary expression which only appears to affect large-breasted women, either from the responsibility of their weight, or the burden of man’s attraction to them. She carried this expression with her always, but it was distant now.
She placed her hand on my shoulder and stepped toward me — my firmness pressing against the satin of her panties as the nipples crowning her magnificent breasts pressed against my chest.
I was an eighteen-year-old of average height, but she was two inches taller and seemed more. I had only been with girls of my own age and who were shorter than I. In comparison, Miss Tanner was in her mid-forties and much larger, albeit Junoesque. But she never flaunted her body, on the contrary, her appeal was in her plainness. Never dressing down in order to hide herself, but, she never intentionally showing her anatomical gifts. … And if one were to see any cleavage, or draw any conception of her substantial and perfectly formed backside, it was only by mere chance.
She slid her hand down the length of my arm from my shoulder to my hand — which she took in her own and dragged upward along her body until my palm was on her breast. My hand felt small as it explored the grand curves of her fleshy globe. She watched me intently and I began to feel self-conscious, not sure how far she would let this go. Girls I had dated were often flighty when it came to playing around, often getting me aroused then changing their mind when confronted with what they felt were crude or abrupt advancements. This left me tentative and often kept me from fully letting go in such situations.
But as Miss Tanner — her right hand still holding my left to her breast — reached her other arm around the back of my neck and drew me in, the last image of her mouth — before disappearing against my own — was of a barely perceptible smile. She began light pecks, occasionally taking my lower lip between hers and sucking it gently. Then she placed her mouth fully onto mine and introduced her tongue to me. I had French-kissed a few girls before, but somehow with a woman as old as Miss Tanner, and as mature as she, it felt almost forbidden. I became aware of the time of night and realized that I was alone with this woman in her house, closed away in a secluded room in the home’s basement bedroom, and that there were hours in which anything could happen in this place, at this time, far away from the awareness of others… And the feeling of this was electric in my body. I felt as though everyone in the world was asleep, even God, and this woman and I were allowed total privacy to explore our primitive desires fully and without repercussion.