I played with the seamstress on a summer afternoon.

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

Loading... She was about thirty-six or thirty-seven, and I was thirty. After we met, we took her measurements. We agreed to have two sets made in different colors, and in the following days, I often went to her shop. Our conversations became increasingly lively. She wasn't tall, with the fullness of a middle-aged woman, and her face had a kind and sweet charm that was easy to like. So I also made time to visit her, sit down, and chat.

One time, we were chatting like that. I was sitting, and she was standing. She was wearing a light-colored short-sleeved top and a fitted gray skirt that reached just above her knees. Her slightly protruding belly and full thighs looked particularly alluring. I suddenly felt a flirtatious urge.

Her shop's front facing the street was about two and a half to three meters wide. On the right was a door the size of an average house, and the rest of the space was a large glass window; there were curtains and some unfinished clothes hanging there, so it was probably difficult to see inside from the bright sunlight outside. Inside this front facing the street, next to the large glass window, there was an iron table. To the left of the iron table was the sewing machine, and further to the left was her seat where she used it. To the right of the table was a chair for guests. I sat in that chair. She stood in front of the table, at a 90-degree angle to me.

Her lower abdomen was pressed against the edge of the table, less than half a meter away from me. Both my hands were on the table, my left hand even closer to her lower abdomen. I forget what she was saying, but she seemed a little engrossed in her conversation, her body sometimes moving away from the edge of the table, sometimes back. I took advantage of the brief moments when she moved away to place my left hand on the edge. Then she leaned back against the edge, her navel and genitals pressed against the back of my left hand.

She froze, stopped talking, her lower abdomen immediately jerking away from the edge, glanced at me; but didn't react, continuing her conversation as if nothing had happened. She remained standing, but her lower abdomen always kept a distance from the edge of the table. That was the end of that contact.

The next time I went to see her, she didn't stand on the edge of the table; she sat in her work chair and talked to me across the sewing machine and the iron table. But the conversation was more private and inquisitive, with questions like: "You must have a lot of girlfriends, right? Are you a womanizer?

" I also asked her about her relationship with her husband. She said she rarely saw him; he had another shop, and the couple were both exhausted when they got home, and so on.

We chatted about all sorts of things, and this time I stood up to speak. She was still sitting in her work chair, and I stood by the iron table, my lower abdomen against the edge, and we were still at a 90-degree angle. Because of the sewing machine between us, the distance between us was a bit wider, but still less than a meter. I forget what I used to flirt with her, but I got an erection from talking, so I deliberately pressed my lower body against the edge of the table, my erect penis looming horizontally in my summer gray trousers, its outline clearly visible through the fabric of the trousers pressed against the table. From her seat, I could see her just below eye level; her shape, length, and build were all clearly visible.

She tried to continue as if nothing was wrong, but seeing me listening with a grin, she finally said it wasn't appropriate, while glancing back several times at the large glass window to see if anyone was passing by. It was nap time, the hottest time of day under the blazing sun, and the streets were deserted. The surrounding shops were all small, like hers, and as usual, very quiet.

She looked at my self-important, deadpan expression, then at the outline of the monster I was clinging to the edge of the table, wrapped in my trousers, and continued her conversation. At this point, it would be too suspicious to ask her to close her shop. Seeing even the old dogs lying panting under the eaves, and noticing she showed no anger, I grew bolder. Without warning, I unzipped my pants, pulled down the waistband of my briefs, and pulled out my "monster," displaying it proudly right in front of her. I felt my head throbbing, and my penis was twitching, as if greeting her.

The buildings here are all hastily constructed, so-called illegal structures. Afraid the neighbors would hear, she whispered urgently, "This isn't good, Tong, this isn't good, quickly put it away, quick; what if someone passes by?" As she spoke, she glanced at my throbbing, purplish-red glans, and kept looking back at the door and the glass window.

I said, "It's okay, I'll watch out for footsteps, if there's any noise I'll hide in the back room." She kept saying, "No, Tong, no, what if someone passes by," while her eyes darted back and forth between my genitals and the glass window.

I held the stick between my fingers, trembling a few times. It was only about 60 or 70 centimeters from her face. Just as she looked flustered, I asked her, "Want a bite?"

By then, her face was already flushed. She neither laughed nor cursed, but nervously glanced at my penis, then looked out the window. After repeating this several times, she said, "You'll kill me." With that, she leaned in, lowered her head, and opened her mouth, taking my entire glans into her mouth.

She smacked it four or five times, then pulled away, looked back at the window, and then came back to eat me again. Then, she sat back in her chair, smoothed her hair and temples, wiped the fine sweat from her forehead, her eyes bright, and smiled (not shyly, but more like a satisfied smile), saying, "Okay, that's enough for today."

She then reached out and stroked my glans a few times, sometimes lightly, sometimes heavily. I guessed the light strokes were from lingering affection, and the heavy strokes from unquenchable lust. Seeing that I wouldn't put the monster away, she repeatedly said, "Really, don't mess around, someone will see." How could I listen? I was still blinded by the scene I'd just witnessed; flaunting my manhood in front of the married proprietress, making her stare intently, and then, without my prompting, she willingly offered herself up—in broad daylight, with the shop still open—and actually licking a male customer's genitals? I even performed a sword dance with my penis, but she just sat there, pleading softly. So I retreated to the doorway of the inner room, standing diagonally opposite her. From her seat, she could see a male customer standing sideways on the edge of the doorway, his strange red and black thing teasing her. At that moment, I wanted her to understand: if someone suddenly came in, I could still dodge, taking a step back and hiding behind the wall inside; as long as no one came in, she could stay where she was, and my wicked thing was available for her to admire as she pleased.

Silence spoke volumes; neither of us said anything. She looked at me, I looked at her, and she looked at it. This silence lasted less than a minute before she got up and came over, saying: "Come in." She pushed me away from the doorway, closed the inner wooden door, and said that probably no one would come. Then, she leaned against the wall, straddled a low wooden stool with her left foot, grabbed my penis with one hand, and with the other, pulled open the crotch of her loose cotton panties under her short skirt, guiding my penis to her vulva. My hand, holding my penis, touched her genitals—a thick patch of hair, with a wet, hot, greasy cleft in between.

We were both standing, her arms wrapped around my neck, and I thrust upwards, penetrating her, then uncontrollably pumping rapidly.

She let out a loud, low growl, and my penis slipped out several times from her wetness. I gripped her plump buttocks tightly, fucking her like a shameless male dog.

Later, we had sex several times, upstairs at her little shop and at my place. One time, I remember vividly: she closed her eyes and growled, her whole body trembling, and I felt as if many tiny tongues were rapidly taking turns licking my glans deep inside her vagina. Years later, it occurred to me: what is meant by a "famous vagina"?

For some reason, this only happened once. Another time, we were nearing the end of our intimacy, and I was about to ejaculate. She was breathing heavily, and as I ejaculated, she kept calling out, "More, more, more." I remember it clearly; I thought to myself, "Oh no, I'm done for, what am I going to do?" But as soon as I finished, she quickly calmed down. A few months later, I realized: she probably wasn't saying "more," but just moaning during sex: "Ha-yo, ha-yo, ha-yo."

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I played with the seamstress on a summer afternoon.

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