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Mrs Fascione

"Mrs. Fascione" copyright (c) 1997 by BillyG - All rights

reserved

The Lady Next Door, Mrs. Fascione

by BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)

I was twelve-years-old and just starting to be nudged

around by the first stirrings of my testosterone storm.

Oh, I was no stranger to my sexual fascination nor to

those impossible-to-describe delicious feelings I'd come

to seek after, touching myself under the covers at night.

But I'd not been pushed to that state of sexual hunger .

. . that hormone-induced state of arousal that my father
referred to as "an ingrown hard on." At least not until

age twelve.

My sexual history to that time was marked more by

enthusiastic interest than experience...if you don't

count my indefatigable voyeurism. I'd been taking every

opportunity to look at girls - usually in my family -

for several years. In the last several years, I'd worked

at developing the appearance of the "dumb kid" who hangs

around - nice, but without a clue. My mother's friends

who'd come over to try on clothes - my mom was an amateur

seamstress of some talent - would change in front of

"the kid" playing off in the corner. As a boy in the

presence of disrobing ladies, I knew my presence would be

tolerated only if I appeared to be totally disinterested.

Without realizing it, I improved my peripheral vision

remarkably before the age of ten.

While sneaking sidelong glances at women in their

underwear may have worked at age ten, by age twelve, I

was moving into that period of being hyper aware and

horny as a toad. I wanted...no, I *needed* something,

and I didn't know what it was. Except that it had to do

with girls and sex.

At this point in my burgeoning adolescence, I'd have

been insulted at the requirement for a baby sitter, but I

accepted that the lady next door might just "look in on

me" when my parents were away. Mrs. Fascione was the

divorced lady who lived next door with her three

daughters and one son, a pimply-faced nerd of a kid my

age with a high-pitched, whiny voice who picked his nose

and who I could barely tolerate. In contrast, his older
sisters were clear-skinned, vibrant and terribly sexy

girls. If they noticed me at all, it was to dismiss me

with an offhand contempt.

On the other hand, Mrs. Fascione, their mother was a

knockout. She had long, black wavy hair, an olive

complexion and uncharacteristic light blue eyes. She

exuded sex, I thought, and she had me bewitched.

Mrs. Fascione - I don't think I ever knew her first

name - visited my mother almost every day. She said our

house was so much more peaceful than hers. She was

right! My mother said she made wonderful coffee and she'd

almost always bring a pot with her.

One of my first sexy memories of this lady was of her

walking across our backyard in a light house robe that

the wind had whipped about her thighs, pressing against

her body. She was a little younger than my mother, but

still "an older women." She might have been in her

middle to late thirties.

Because I noted things like this, I was aware that

she was a little bigger than my mother. Even then, I

thought her figure was a bit exaggerated. She had a slim

waist, wide hips and large, swaying breasts. I remember

the breasts well, for they moved in a languorous fashion

under her house robe, well accented by prominent nipples.

As she walked across the yard, I was watching

through the window, wondering what she had underneath her

robe, wishing it were nothing! I was almost certain she

didn't use a bra, because I knew what my mother's breasts
looked like when she didn't wear one. Puzzling the state

of her lingerie, I was startled when a gust of wind

picked up the hem of her robe and carried it well away

from her, exposing one thigh to her hip and a pair of

bloomers. I suppose that's what they were called

then...or step-ins...you know, the full, loose-legged

silky shorts that "older" ladies wore (or so I imagined).

I remember she was carrying the coffee pot in her

right hand and when her gown was blown open on the same

side, she couldn't immediately reach it with her free,

left hand. Swinging her body about, trying to grab the

flapping gown, it opened more. Time slowed down. I can

see her yet, about eight feet from the house, her white

step-ins with lace on the legs, pulled into her crotch

and cushioned by a mass of dark pubic hair. My world

constricted down to my view of her pantied crotch.

She had to set the coffee pot down first and then

pull her robe across her legs. She looked around as if to

see if anyone had noticed. I remember she was laughing as

she re-tied it and picked up the pot. At that moment, our

eyes met. I was frozen, entranced, and incapable of

pulling my eyes away. There was never any doubt that she

knew I'd seen her...that I'd seen her underwear. She

smiled at me, easing any concern that she'd be angry and

say something to my mom. I just knew it was okay between

us. We had a secret...the first secret I'd ever had with

an adult women.

Over the weeks and months, she and my mother became

close. I'd often catch snatches of conversation between

them that hinted of "naughty things." I continued to

make myself available without, I thought, being too

obvious.

Mrs. Fascione, it turned out, had several different

house robes. They all shared a common sleekness that

hugged her body and accented her breasts and nipples.

We'd grown increasingly chummy and I availed myself of

her loving hugs each day.

In experiencing those total body hugs, I learned

that I needed to concentrate on one thing at a time. The

feeling of all her body was too much at once. If I

remembered to concentrate on one thing, say her breasts,

I could savor their weight and fullness as we hugged.

Another day, I'd try to get close to her hips and feel

her crotch against my thigh. My schemes didn't always

work, but when they did, I was there. I had no notion of

her awareness of me, but I supposed she didn't pay much

attention. I was wrong.

The summer I was twelve, my parents were to go away

for the weekend. I welcomed the chance to be alone and

to prove what a grown- up guy I was. Mrs. Fascione was

"to look in on me" from time to time.

mom and Dad had left early Friday afternoon,

intending to be gone until Sunday, and a note assured me

that Mrs. Fascione would bring over something to eat,

but that it'd be later in the evening. That was okay

with me. I knew when she visited my mother later in the

evening, she tended to stay later into the night.

Around 8:30 in the evening, she came over with a

bowl of hot pasta. She was wearing a floral summer dress,

buttoned down the front, the top three buttons undone. I

remember that part well. As she bent to place the bowl

on the table, I got a glimpse of her breasts, hanging

heavy in her dress, swaying and without a bra. I was

accustomed to her braless in the mornings, but this was

the first time I'd noted it when she was wearing a dress.

I tried not to stare. Have you ever attempted not

to look at something that fills your mind? It was all I

could think of. "I won't look, I won't look," I thought

to myself, as I found myself staring at the rounded curve

of her breast. Snatching my eyes away, I pretend a keen

interest in the tea pot. My eyes might have looked like

I was watching an erratic tennis game.

We'd turned off the kitchen lights as we usually did

in an attempt to feel cooler on a hot summer evening.

The soft light from the street lamp cast an orange glow

inside the kitchen, pushing back the deep shadows. Mrs.

Fascione sat half in light, half in dark. Her southern

European features were made more prominent by the soft

contrast of the half light.

We fell silent and I could hear the crickets in the

garden. I was aware of my breathing and then became

aware of hers. Her breasts moved up and down, the

nipples prominent and rubbing the inside of her dress.

Did she know that I was looking at her tits? Did she

remember my looking at her legs, at her underwear that

morning?

Suddenly uncomfortable and self conscious, I rose

and took the dishes to the sink, saying, "I'll wash. You

dry?"

"It's a deal," she agreed in a husky voice as she

came to stand beside me.

I'd had a growth spurt that summer, but still stood

several inches shorter than she. I passed a washed dish

across my body to her. She reached for it and her heavy

breast pushed into my arm. My entire awareness narrowed

down to the weight of her tit touching my bare arm. The

process repeated itself. Each time as she dried, her

breast rubbed against my arm. Now I could feel her

nipple, hard and, I thought, urgent.

The image of her bare thigh and underpants filled my

mind. I realized we'd fallen silent. She slowly moved

her body, brushing the weight of her breast across my

arm. I leaned into her a little to press closer and felt

her left hip against my leg. We stood there for long

minutes as a sexual tension became almost palpable.

In a soft whisper she said, "You're such a nice boy,

Billy . . . so grown up...so manly." Then with a husky

laugh she added, "Give me one of your hugs, won't you?"

"Sure," I said, turning toward her and moving to

slip my hand around her back, but she'd moved at the same

moment and I suddenly had her breast in my right hand.

"Yes-s-s-s," she hissed in my ear, "that feels so

good."

Looking down into the partially opened neck of her

dress, I could plainly see the swell of her breast as I

pushed upward on her tit. She stepped into me,

straddling my left leg, pushing her mons onto me and

slowly grinding her pelvis.

I could feel my cock, almost painful in its

hardness, pushing into her belly.

We made eye contact for a moment and then she opened

her lips and began to mouth my lips, her tongue snaking

into me. I was lost. My world was spinning. The

indescribably exciting feeling of her full body pressing

against mine, her breast in my hand, her pubis rubbing on

my leg.

We didn't speak...I simply couldn't. I could barely

breathe.

I became aware she'd been unbuttoning the top of her

dress. Pulling it open with her right hand, her other

breast was suddenly free and hanging there, inches from

my mouth, like over-ripe fruit...I leaned down and took

her nipple in my mouth and began to suck.

The memory is frozen in my mind. I remember the

whiteness of her flesh and the weight of her breast.

There was a little sag that was off put by the upward

tilt of her areola...a dollar-sized brown circle,

protruding in its own right. He nipple was thick and

hard and she moaned when I nipped on it with my front

teeth.

As we ground into each other, I dropped my left hand

to her buttock and pulled myself tighter to her, feeling

the size of her thighs against me. Emboldened, I reached

down and inched her skirt up slowly.

Inside my head I was saying, "See, Mrs. Fascione,

I'm pulling your dress up. Can you feel my hand on your

thigh? I'm running my hand up under your dress Mrs.

Fascione...can you feel it? Now, I feel your panties!

Are you gonna just let me feel you up all I want?"

Her answer to my unvoiced question was to reach down

and pull her dress to her waist. Looking down I could

see she was wearing brief panties, must like those I

found of my mom's in the dirty clothes hamper. And much

like mom's, I could smell her sex. The odor hit my brain

like a sledge and if it were possible, I became even

harder.

I ran my left hand inside the back of her waist band

and down to her fleshy buttocks. I was surprised how

firm they were and how deep the valley of her buttocks

felt to be. She spread her legs a little, giving me more

room. I tried to reach way down into her crotch from the

back, but couldn't quite get there. As if understanding

my problem, she angled her hips away just a little and

opened her legs another few inches. I pulled my hand

around to the front, under her panties, and down to the

base of her rounded belly. I remembered the prominent

cushion of hair I'd seen under her step-ins weeks before.

I'd once caught a brief glimpse of my mom's public hair

and I thought Mrs. Fascione's was much thicker. The

dense tangle of luxuriant growth I entered confirmed that

fantasy.

Cupping her pubic mound, I was half-mad with desire

and uncertainty. I paused, afraid to continue. More, not

knowing what to do. Again, she helped me. Pushing my

hand with hers, I suddenly felt a pulpy-warm and

sodden-wet place.

"Yes-s-s-s," she whispered again. "There... Do it

there!"

I stepped back again and looked at her in the

half-light. She stood, legs parted, dress open at the

top and one breast exposed, her hand holding her skirt up

to her waist and her panties now bunched down around my

hand cupping her sex, a forest of dark hair at the base

of her belly, running up to her belly button.

There was something terribly thrilling about this.

It was as if I were saying to her, "I'm looking at you.

Not just nude. I'm looking at you with one breast
hanging out and your panties down with my finger in your

pussy. You're mine, aren't you!"

Again, reading my mind, she said, "Look at me,

Billy. Yes, touch me... There. Put your finger

inside...please...now!"

Out of control now, I pushed my hips to her pelvis

and began humping her. We were both moaning. I was

trying to fuck her pussy with my hand. My fingers and

hand were soaked with her wetness and the smell of sex

was almost overpowering.

We were slamming into each other, almost brutal in

our need.

She suddenly stiffened and let out a long groan,

"Ohhhh, I'm commminngg...I'm commminnnggg."

On the heals of that, I felt that runaway train of

pleasure rise from deep within me and jet out my cock,

still inside my pants and jammed against her thigh and

hip. spurt after spurt of indescribably pleasure shot

from my dick as I mindlessly grunted, "Unnnghhh . . .

unnnghhh...unnghhh"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilog: More than anything, I wanted to fuck her then and

for months later. It was never to happen. It appeared

to have been a one-time thing. While we had a special

bond from then on, I was never to feel her up again. Oh,

she'd wink at me after flashing me now and then and would

give me sexy hugs and brush her tits against my arm, but

she never allowed us to be alone together again.

Once, when I complained, "You don't love me any more,"

she just smiled. She replied, "Yes I do, more than you

know, but you need to be with young girls."

I moved away a few months later, never to see her again.