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Everything in the garden was lovely. My mother, Karla, the randy 50-year-old, was in a sensationally steamy affair with my former lover, bikini model Sharon. I, equally randy as mom, was having a similarly steamy affair with Karen, another bikini model, who Sharon had introduced to me.
Looking back on it, the introduction was obviously a ploy so that Sharon could satiate her 20-year-old lusts on my mother’s still statuesque figure. It didn’t worry me, Karen – also 20, bikini models have a “thing” about being 20 – was a pert- blue-eyed blonde with a 36-23-35 body to die for, as they say.
At 32, my figure’s not exactly dusty, either. My part-Hawaiian, part-French looks were superbly complimented by a gym-toned 38-26-36 figure that also got a lot of work outs in bed, courtesy of the lovely Karen. And some of the moves she used in between the sheets she didn’t pick up at high school in her native Wisconsin, I can tell you.
It was, of course, all far too good to last. I got the bad news one Monday afternoon. I had shut my art gallery early and called Karen’s mobile.
“Hi, I’m hungry,” I told her. “Get your pretty little body up here.”
Karen made some feeble joke about “running” to her car, equating it with the way her pussy became lubricated when I talked bossy to her. She also became lubricated when I played my favourite Hawaii 50 flogging game with her. She was now an ardent devotee of being lightly whipped prior to our lovemaking sessions.
I walked through the trees up to my home, stripped nude and lay back on the bed, my fingers flickering over my pussy, thinking how Karen would soon be worshipping me down there with her inventive little tongue.
I heard her crash into the house, and then there was a pause. I heard her panting outside the bedroom door. Then she moved into the room and stood, posing at the foot of the bed.
She was a vision of sheer “Suck me, fuck me” eroticism. She was wearing one of those monokini things, made of shiny green metallic material. It was really just thin strips of material which covered her strategic bits – her lush little nipples and her pudenda.
And it was her pudenda that caught my gaze. The green material gleamed on her mound, it was amazing that the strip between her thighs did not reveal her labia lips. She twirled around and I saw just a sliver of green between her gorgeous buttocks.
“Leave it on!” I gasped, casino oyna “you utterly divine little bikini model harlot. Get up here.”
I patted the bed beside me and Karen dived onto the bed. Our mouths met in a mashing, crashing kiss, and my hands roamed over her suntanned, toned, taut young body. Then I slipped the upper straps aside and went for her erect, rosebud nipples.
Karen moaned as I sucked strongly on them, trying to fill my mouth with her breasts. Then, aware that she was even hotter lower down, I traced my tongue over her chest, down across her lovely little navel and on to her pudenda.
I kissed eagerly on her mons, the metallic material making a slight scratching noise as it rubbed against her little blonde thatch of pubic hair, the wisps of hair crinkly to the feel of my tongue.
“Oh migod, you smell divine,” I said, licking now lower, along the outlines of her sex lips through the garment. Then, with a rough grab, I jerked the gusset – if such a small strip of material could be given that name – aside and gazed at her oh-so-perfect pussy.
The lips were glistening with the dew of her sex juices and I lapped it up, hungrily. Then, as I really started to make her writhe, Karen pulled from me and sat up.
She was looking radiant, oh-so-fuckable, but she placed a finger to my mouth. “I have some news,” she said. “I think it’s great, but you’re not gonna like it.”
I sat up, instantly aware that this was going to be “Good-bye”. “You’re leaving me,” I said, in what I now recall was a flat monotone.
“I’ve been offered a job in Los Angeles,” she said. “I know I’ll hate LA, especially after here, but it’s to work with one of the major bikini photographers. He shoots in locations out in the desert, and in Nevada and Arizona, sometimes down in Mexico.”
I must have looked dreadful, because Karen fell onto me and hugged me. “Oh, Darla, my darling Darla, it’s too good a career move for me to refuse,” she said, stroking my hair, our breasts rubbing together.
I tried to pull myself together. “Of course, you must take it,” I told her, although another part of me was screaming “No, fucking no, stay, stay, please!”
“It’s great pay, and I can become really famous, he says,” Karen told me. “He’s even go to set up a website for me,” she said.
“And when does all this happen?” I asked.
Karen looked a little ashamed. “I’ve got everything packed, slot oyna my flight’s in three hours,” she said.
“And this?” I asked, pointing to her disgustingly erotic monokini. “What was all this about?”
“I just wanted to say good-bye in a really sexy outfit, something for you to remember me by,” she said.
“That’s nice,” I said, as calmly as I could.
Then Karen stroked my breasts and asked in a hushed voice: “You know our little whipping game, Hawaii 50?”
“Of course I know it,” I said, tersely, “I taught you to love it, remember?”
She nodded. “Well, I want to play it on you,” she said.
“Why not?” I said, rather remotely and then I couldn’t help my sarcasm dripping as I added, “after all, you must have something to remember me by, as well.”
Karen leaped up and went to my bedside drawer, extracted the four silk stockings I used to tie her down spreadeagled on the bed before her whippings.
She deftly tied me to the bed’s four corners, then stepped out of her monokini and picked up the five-tailed lash from the bedside table. Clambering back onto the bed, she straddled my face, hers pointing down to the foot of the bed.
For the last time I inhaled her glorious pussy perfume as her sex slithered across my face, then I felt the flogger’s caress along my crotch. Then again, then another and then there was silence.
That silence was soon broken by the sound of sobbing. Then Karen climbed from me, lay down between my spread wide thighs and I heard her whisper: “I can’t do it, I’m a floggee, not a flogger.”
Then her tongue was flickering all over my anus, my cunt, my labia lips, my clitoris, my wetness down there mingling with her tears as they dropped onto my pussy. Soon I was again carried away by her inventive mouth, lips and tongue, until I crashed through to a tearful orgasm – by the time I came, we were both bawling our eyes out.
Karen stood up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and untied my left wrist from the bedpost. Next she draped the gusset of her wicked little monokini across my face, the wonderful perfume still strong.
“I’m leaving now, darling,” she whispered. “You can free yourself when you hear my car go down the drive. Please, don’t call me – and don’t come to the airport, I hate good-byes at airports.”
Then she leaned down and pressed her mouth against the gusset of the metallic green garment, canlı casino siteleri pushing it harder against my mouth.
“I love you,” she whispered, and then she was gone.
I lay back, tears still sliding down my cheeks, but I didn’t care. I heard her old car banging down the drive but I did nothing to release myself from the bondage. Instead, my fingers strayed down to my pussy and I began to touch myself. I was soon working my way to another climax, but I wasn’t thinking of my fingers, I was thinking of the way her glorious mouth had driven me to the heights of passion only a few minutes before.
For the rest of the week I moped around the house. Mom and Sharon called, expressed their regrets, but soon left to continue their steamy affair. I couldn’t blame them, I wasn’t very good company.
I worked in the art gallery, desultorily going through the motions of trying to be interested in selling paintings to people, when I really didn’t give a damn.
Finally, the week-end dawned. I worked out in the gym on Saturday, had a hugely sweaty hour and a half, felt ravishingly hungry and went down to a Mexican eatery I love, just off Kuhio.
Then I called into Sharon’s apartment, interrupted her and mom in a mid-afternoon passion session, told them I was “over her” and was getting on with my life.
Sunday, just after dawn, I climbed into the Porsche and drove down to Waikiki, then decided to move further along the beach, past Fort de Russey to the almost deserted Ala Moana Park.
I sprinted into the surf, wallowing in the water, thrashing around wildly, before calming down and doing lengths up and down just past where the breakers were banging down.
On my return to the beach, I picked up my towel and walked about 50 yards to one of the cold water shower stations.
There, standing in the middle of the large concrete slab, water cascading smoothly all over her dark brown flesh was a woman like me – obviously part-Hawaiian, I mean.
She was wearing a little black bikini and the water from the shower nozzle gave it a sleek, wet look appearance. Her breasts were full and firm, her thighs toned, with rippling muscles.
Her hair was long and jet-black. She was pretty and I estimated about my age, if not a little older.
Then I saw the anklet.
I placed my towel on a nearby table and waited for her to finish.
She stepped out from under the cascading water, which she left on for me, and flashed me a million megawatt smile.
“Hi,” I said, smiling back at her. “Tell me, is that a slave anklet you’re wearing, or simply a fashion accessory?”
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