The Adult Story Hub

Unwillingly, he opened the door and backed out. And he thought he actually saw the undervest slip and expose the top of her breasts, right along the upper half of her big soft creamy mounds, slipping down to where her brown areolae began -or was it just a shadow? Then the heavy door shut in his face. He felt like Adam and Eve being driven out of paradise by the angelic guard with the flaming sword.
He stood there with the door in his face for two minutes, in an utter daze, before he could even move. Inside the room he heard the soft splash as she stepped naked into her bath. Then he ran to his room and masturbated, beating his hard, dripping phallus furiously until he had spent three times.
He was her favorite, that term. She never asked him to help her undress again. She continued to enjoy sometimes seeing him (and the other boys) stripped down half-naked on bath night, though.
Some boys were athletic, some sunken chested. Some had healthy tans and some were a pale, bloodless white. One was tall with a lantern jaw, one small and thin with a receding chin. One youth was fat, another lean, but she and cook did their level best to fatten the skinny ones up.
Sometimes the boys looked at her, in a manner that no boy would look at his mother. Sometimes they pressed her hand softly, the way they might have pressed the hand of her daughter, had she a pretty daughter their age.
"Please! I'm old enough to be your mother!" she laughed, gaily.
After she caught one of the boys looking at her like that, she would sometimes go to her room and look at herself in the mirror. She saw an ample, womanly bosom filling her corset and straining at her shirtfront, a waist that had lost only a few inches in the battle with the years, a pair of pink, rosy cheeks that had regained their luster after the pallor of the first year of her widowhood, and a pair of soft, warm brown eyes. Nature had given her a second breath of youth.
She wondered if another man would ever hold her in his arms the way her late husband had. She thought of the warmth of his body, his hot breath on her neck, his naked loins pressed against hers, her nipples pressing hot and stiff against his strong chest, her legs rising up in the air and clamping around the small of his back, and him plunging his hard dick into her trembling pussy, as her hips rose eagerly to meet his thrusts.
After the first few months of her widowhood she began to have a recurring strong desire to feel a strong cock inside her. About once every four weeks or so the urge came on so strong she would bite her lips and clench her small fists in frustration.
She lay awake at night sometimes, dreaming that a young stud male was mounting her.
"My pussy needs a cock," she whispered to herself as she sat alone by the fire, and then she was amazed at the naughty thought she had uttered. A nice woman did not "need a cock", surely! What was the matter with her?
Once a week she would take a hot, perfumed bath, and then, clad in a warm flannel nightgown, she would retire to bed. And then her fingers would seek out her soft, hungering womanhood beneath her nightgown. She remembered that first night, when he had hurt her and the blood had run and spoiled the sheets and how she had shamefully wrapped them around a weight and thrown them overboard into the sea, rather than let the ship's housekeeping clean them. Well, she had given the trophy of her lost girlhood to the sea -that was not so bad.
She remembered the night later on in the voyage out, when he made her utter that ecstatic little cry the purser heard. That was a night to remember and relive. No matter how many more times she felt that sensation down there she could never forget how it felt that first time. Unforgettable!
She thought of that night in Paris when he had whispered to her in the darkness, huskily, that there was a delicious, naughty, secret way of doing it that the French women liked, if she would like to learn it. And she did. Afterward she thought that American women might like it too, if it ever became known in the States.
"It feels better than your fingers," she said primly. Later she discovered it felt better than her fingers, too.
She remembered that weekend, after they had been married about a year, when something had gotten into him and they had not gotten out of bed until Monday morning. After the first four times she had kept score on a string of beads on the nightstand by the bed, and when the weekend was over, 22 beads had been moved. She was sore down there for days, but it was a proud soreness that made her blood race.
"What's the most any man and woman ever did it, do you suppose?" she asked.
"I have no idea. Now pass me the liniment."
She remembered the kiss she had given her soldier boy, the night before he had gone off to the war and never returned.
"I won't kiss anyone ever again until you come back," she had said.
She remembered the woodcutters who had surprised her once while she was bathing naked in a mountain stream in the Schwarzwald, and how she seized her clothes and fled, red-faced and breathless, secretly thrilled.
"Bitte, fraulein, bitte!" they hooted after her, admiring her bare bottom as she ran.
And sometimes...sometimes. Sometimes she let herself think about the handsome young boys who boarded in her house, and how their respectful gaze would sometimes turn bold, and how their eyes would sometimes settle on her ample bosom, or a glimpse of her ankle. And she thought of the times she had seen their naked arms and legs, their young boyish chests. Once she had even glimpsed a boy's buttocks by accident, and later she replayed that accident in her mind.
Inadvertently she had walked into a boy's room one morning while he lay asleep on his bed, stark naked. Between his thighs hung a long, thick, erect penis. She gasped at the sight of his naked member and quickly turned and left. Later, she wondered what it would have felt like, if she had dared to touch it. And that reminded her of that time she had dared herself to touch the horse's penis in the stable. So big! She was startled breathless when it suddenly grew longer, pouring out of its sheath like a thick rope of molasses, inch after inch after inch until she fled, frightened out of her wits. She never went into that stable again until that horse was gone.
Sometimes she imagined allowing a muscular youth into her bedroom, undressing him, and discovering him to be a confident master of the arts of love, virile and powerful beyond even her late husband's ability. She imagined the long, steady, patient stroke she missed, like a coxswain on a rowing scull (cock-swain indeed!, she thought), lifting her slowly but surely to a great height. A few times she even awoke from a dream, in which she dreamed she had been getting that same very steady stroke, over and over, until it was so intense she awoke startled and looked around to see who was in bed with her. But it was always a dream.
Sometimes she awoke with her hot little pussy so damp and swollen that she had to relieve herself with her hand, stroking her mound hard and fast until she came with a stifled gasp.
Boys came and boys left. There was often one who was her favorite, and sometimes there was one who very clearly favored her.
A boy ripped a seam in the crotch of his trousers once, bending over to put a log on the fire. She offered to sew it up for him. They were alone in the parlor on a chill autumn night. She knelt in the firelight at his feet, took the needle and thread from her sewing basket, and began to stitch up the seam with his trousers still on him.
"I can take care of it myself," he offered.
"Oh nonsense. I'll do it. Here, stand still."
The trousers were made of a heavy woolen cloth like you would wear on a shooting party. The boy was 19, fair skinned and well-built. She placed a hand on his thigh to steady her aim and she threaded the needle around the edges of the seam.
As she sewed she felt her hand brush against something, soft flesh under his trousers, and she knew that she had felt his limp member under the cloth.
That's his dick hanging there! she thought to herself in wonderment.
She let her hand brush there again, by accident, as she sewed.
She felt guilty and shameless. That was his bell-clapper hanging down his trouser leg, alright. Oh, her pussy needed a dick so! She could smell his sweaty, manly smell. Her face was inches from his crotch. She bit her upper lip, frustrated. So close!
She looked him in the eye, just to prove that she could.
"I'm not hurting you, am I? I haven't pricked you with the needle?"
"No ma'am." He was scarlet faced. He would not meet his gaze.
"That's good -I thought I felt a prick there." She giggled to herself. She hadn't said it out loud, although she was tempted.
The edges of the cloth came together and the crotch of his trousers fit snugly against his body. The soft bulge of his manhood was quite clearly hanging there between his legs, and as she finished sewing the seam she couldn't help brushing it a third time and letting her hand press against it. It was right under the last inch of the seam and she could have impaled it with a careless stitch.
His dick stirred in his pants, growing larger.
She jabbed his swollen member, deliberately, with the point of the needle.
"Owww!" he howled.
"Oh, dear goodness, I've stabbed you with the needle. Are you hurt?
Let me look at the damage."
She pulled his trousers down around his knees, with a quick hard tug.
She saw his linen drawers distended by his half-erection as he tried to cover himself.
"Nooo!" he yelped. He grabbed at his trousers and hobbled out of the parlor and lurched up the stairs to his room, impeded by the difficulty of fleeing with his trousers bunched around his knees. He couldn't pull his buttoned trousers back up around his waist because they snagged on his protruding, downward slanting hard-on, so he fled up the stairs in a ridiculous hopping, wobbling manner.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She could barely contain her amusement, and part of her wanted to laugh out loud at the sight of the timid boy running away, running from the very thing he most wanted in the world (if he only knew it -she certainly had no doubt). Part of her was frightened at her own boldness and the possible consequences of her rash act.
She reviewed what had just occurred. She had refrained from making the ribald joke about "feeling a little prick" when she thought of it, and that was to the good. And he had run off before anything more could occur. She had not seen his member. Just as well. When she tugged his trousers down it had been covered by a thin pair of linen drawers and a long shirtfront, so that she had briefly glimpsed a mass of soft tumescent flesh wobbling under the linen as he turned to flee. That was all.
She didn't think it would make much of a story to tell against her. She thought she had jabbed him in the thigh. She looked to see if there was blood. She didn't want the blood to stain the trousers, blood is hard to get out, so she had pulled them away from the skin first. He was fully covered by his drawers and his shirtfront, she had seen nothing. And that was true. That was all.
A timid boy who ran away would not be the sort of boastful boy who would brag about it later.
She let him calm down for an hour, and then she went upstairs and knocked on his room to make amends. She carried it off easily and with a smile. He passed the trousers out to her and she finished off the mending -a few more stitches and a knot to be made and tied off. She apologized for injuring him and inquired coolly as to the extent of his injuries. He was fine.
"You're sure you aren't hurt?" she asked.
"I'm fine."
"Well, goodness. I am so sorry. It's a good thing you didn't bleed on your trousers."
If he had only played along, he would have been in her bed at that very moment. Or at least -she wondered if he would have been.
That night she replayed the whole episode in her mind and imagined what would have occurred next...if he hadn't run. She would have pulled down his linen drawers -would she have asked permission or would she have just tugged at them? She would have seen his penis... and she would have picked it up in her soft hands to inspect it and find the red pinprick where she had stuck him.
"It looks fine," she would have said. One hand cupping his testicles, another holding his shaft. "I don't see anything wrong. Just a little red mark."
She would have looked him in the eyes to see if he met her gaze, or averted it.
"You remind me of my late husband," she imagined herself saying, while looking pointedly at his manhood. Then, in her fantasy, his penis began to grow stiff.
"Yes, you remind me a great deal of my late husband," she imagined saying, stroking his extension as it grew.
It grew to full firmness. "Would you like to come sit on the sofa with me?" she imagined saying. "I have something I want to tell you."
The door. The door wasn't locked. Should she do something about it?
In her fantasy she decided to just ignore it.
They sat on the couch. Her hands were on his erection, tugging gently at the foreskin, back and forth. She leaned in close to him. She put her lips up against his ear. She took one hand off his member and reached for his hand, placing it against her soft breast and holding it there.
"Kiss me," she whispered in his ear. His warm mouth pressed on hers and his hand felt her breast through her rigid corset stays and she pulled at his prick.
She hiked her skirt up and her underskirt came off and her drawers came down and then he was pressing his naked loins against hers. And then she felt his hard pipe pushing into her, inside her, her wetness flowing to meet it, and then they did it. They did it again and again for hours and hours, until she was panting and gasping with relief and he was wrung out like a sponge, pints of his hot seed boiling inside her and spilling out of her and running down her utterly fucked thighs.
He fucked her to exhaustion. Satisfied, satiated, orgasmic exhaustion. She sighed in relief.
Imagining him filling her with his young cock, she stroked her wet and needing pussy as she fantasized about the boy screwing her.
He couldn't really have fucked me like that, she told herself. He's only 19. He's probably a virgin. It's just as well it didn't go any further.
Locked in his room, under the blankets of his own bed, the gaslights turned out, the boy she had just failed to seduce was enjoying a very similar fantasy about what might have happened.
While he dreamed this little fantasy his hand worked vigorously on his thickened, stiff member, under the blankets, until he spurted all over his nightshirt. Ahhhh...he slept peacefully after that.
In her own room the widow brought herself to orgasm with her own fingertips and let a little satisfied sigh drop from her lips. She slept peacefully, after that.
No further flirtation passed between them, after that.
That spring a new boy arrived.
"Rooms to let?" he asked laconically.
He was a damn handsome boy.
"I think I can rent you a room," she said.
"Capital. Can I have a look?"
"Right this way." She showed him the room, and he moved in the same day.
The shy boy she had failed to seduce lost his cherry that winter, on Christmas Day in Boston, in a house of prostitution, to a girl who hadn't been in the life long and who liked polite young gents. Later at school he took a local shopgirl who was reputed to be a bit of a whore on a buggy ride. They stopped at a reputable inn and had a sumptuous meal, and when he pointed out that it was too late to drive back she didn't object to spending the night. He gained some useful experience that night, and somehow avoided obtaining a case of the clap, although there were other fellows who got a dose from her later.
On the ride home he bought her a nice little silver brooch and when she pointed out that he had made a rip in her dress (a very, very small rip to be sure, and he was not sure he had made it) he offered her enough cash to buy a new one. She didn't turn it down.
He faced the new semester a more confident fellow. He began looking at the college widow more boldly. But she was completely flustered by the new student and he couldn't get anything more confidential than a landlady's brusque, cheerful efficiency out of her.
The new student made a big impression on her. He was a Greek god, in her eyes. Tall, muscular, athletic, intelligent, with piercing steel grey eyes. He was cheerful and popular with the other students, the sort of boy who would make class president or captain of the football team, or both.
She swooned for him like a freshman girl. Something about the way he smelled when he came close to help her move a bed or carry a heaping basket of laundry. Of course those were the servant girl's jobs, but she liked having excuses to ask him to help her with something. When she learned he was studying Latin she decided she had always wanted to learn Latin, herself, and asked him to tutor her.
"Didn't they teach you Latin at your college?"
"It wasn't required. I took four years of French. Voulez-vous?"
"S'il vous plait."
Well, he had boundless energy and was happy to oblige. He could easily find the time to tutor her. At night, in the parlor, just the two of them, in the dim gaslight, or maybe even just the firelight, huddling their heads together over the book.
They sat very, very close together. He was a big strong fellow, and he wasn't afraid of girls. Or anything else. He had a deep sense of personal honor and discretion and she knew he would never say anything about her to the other boys.
One night it happened. "Amo, amas, amat," she read. "What does that mean?"
"Why, you know what it means," he said, surprised. "It means love.
That was the first conjugation we learned."
"No," she said in a soft husky voice, "what does it mean -to you."
She looked up him with her soft brown eyes, and what he saw in her eyes made his head swim, and then he knew he was supposed to do what a man is supposed to do and his face came closer to hers, and her face turned up towards his and she closed her eyes and their lips met and it was like thunder crashing through the room and a flash of lightning and waves booming on a distant shore. They read no further, that night.
It was never clear to her what the extent of the Greek god's sexual experience was. He wouldn't talk about it. He touched her with knowing hands. She knew she was a goner when he slipped his hand into the slit in her drawers and touched her gently on her fat little vulva. Oh, she needed that. She needed to be touched there, just like that. He touched her softly and her thighs grew damp with her need.
Her clothes came off -they were just in the way. His clothes came off, and under them he was muscular like a marble statue, with a thick proud penis standing up for her.
His perfectly shaped cock reared up like a stallion as she worshiped his body.
She stripped off her remaining clothes and lay before him naked in the firelight. She parted her thighs invitingly.
A red flush of excitement suffused her chest down to the her nipples.
He was tall, and he had to kneel before her to kiss her breasts.
"They're beautiful," he whispered. They were. Heavy, round and full. He held the soft flesh of her warm breasts in his hands, and they filled his hands and spilled over. His mouth fastened on one hard eager nipple like a strawberry and his firm lips teased and sucked at it. His mustache tickled her breast, as it glided over her silky skin.
He reached down to feel her. Her pussy was engorged with blood.
He kneaded her tight small hole with his fingers. His tongue flicked over the hard little buds of her nipples.
Electric waves of pleasure streamed through her body. Nipples stiff, panting, short of breath, she was on fire with arousal.
His fingers plunged into her wet and quivering pussy.
He kissed her navel. Then he kissed her thighs. Then he placed her back on the sofa and reared over her. She trembled like a nun and he entered her.
The college widow, 43 years old, parted her legs and received the Greek god between them.
The thick head of his manhood found her and the tip of it touched her wet crease. Her trembling little hole fluttered and opened for him.
He thrust in, between her swollen lips, and her tight little pussy surrounded him like a tight silk glove as he buried his erection to the hilt.
Inside she was all yielding softness, like a tissue. She was tight and she thrilled to the sense of him forcing her open and coming in deeper inside. Oh, deeper, she thought. Deeper!
His thick cock spread the lips of her snug little pussy as he took her.
The muscles across his shoulders strained to ram her wet pussy deeper with each stroke.
"Fuck me! Harder!" she whispered in his ear. "Make me climax!" she begged.
She felt her pussy tighten convulsively. "Oh!" she gasped. "OH!"
Her nails raked his muscular ass.
Wild with passion, she almost fainted with pleasure. Her body tensed and spasmed as blissful release flooded her. It was her orgasm, drenching her with warm ecstasy, shivering her from her toes to her crown, leaving her limp.
With a series of final powerful thrusts he came inside her, kissing her mouth as his penis pumped the thick seed into her womb.
Entwined, they sprawled, hot and sticky and panting, on the sofa cushions.
The river of semen running down her thighs ruined the sofa upholstery, just as she always feared it would.
The college widow had three orgasms that night. The first came after ten minutes of deep vaginal thrusting, with the sure steady rhythm that her husband had once employed. She came with a spasm and a feeling like a bright light was shining in her eyes. Oh, I am yours forever, she whispered to herself.
"I've never done this with any other man," she said. "Except my late husband."
"Do you miss him?"
"Oh terribly. And I miss this most of all."
"Is it good to be doing it again?"
"Oh, my goodness, how can you doubt it."
He fucks like a stallion, she thought to herself. Actually she had been on a horse farm once and from what she had seen she thought the stallion's powers of fucking were rather overrated, compared to the human male. Of course she had only sampled two human males to go by.
"I'm glad I can make you happy."
"Oh, you have. You have no idea. Hard again? Oh, good!"
He sucked her breasts and touched her with his hands, while his cock was recovering its stiffness, and then he demonstrated a knowledge of the thing the French did. Oh, you've been to Paris too, I see, she giggled delightedly to herself, but it was too sacred and serious a night for much giggling, even quietly to herself, and in a little while she threw her head back and let slip a soft moan and she was there again, with his handsome face buried between her quivering, glistening thighs, tickling her clitoris with his soft mustache.
His cock was hard and proud once more. He stood up in the firelight, and she spread her legs wide open and let him know by a sign where he was wanted, in the damp soft brown-haired wet thatch glistening between her thighs. He entered her again, and they fucked hard and long, bouncing on the soft horsehair couch. Her arms and legs were wrapped around him, her hungry lips pressed against his. She came with a gasp and then he filled her womb with his hot sperm and it boiled inside her and spilled down the slick sides of his cock and ran out onto her thighs.
They lay panting together, their bodies pressed hard against each other, as she stroked his hair and his warm semen stained the couch.
She could feel his taut, strong muscles against her sweating, glowing body. She was happy. She did not care a fig for anything, for what the world thought or would think.
"Will you come to my bed -tomorrow night?" she whispered.
"Yes," he replied, in a low tone.
She kissed his shoulder, and stroked his manly chest, and in a little while the fire started to die down and she thought it might be dawn soon if they did not get dressed and return to their rooms. She had a moment of panic when she saw the big sticky damp stain on the sofa.
The last act of their little comedy that night involved taking the ruined sofa down the stairs and hiding it under a horsehair blanket in the cellar.
She acted with a landlady's efficiency, and they smuggled the sofa down to the cellar, as quietly as they could. He was quite strong and could lift the entire sofa without her help, so it was not as difficult to accomplish quickly and quietly without any help as she would have feared.
Later, it had to be chopped up and burned. She couldn't ask anyone to reupholster that sofa for her. They would know what that stain was.
Well, she had been wanting a new sofa, anyway. That one dated back to the Civil War and was getting old.
They replaced the parlor sofa with two stuffed chairs from another room, and the disappearance of the sofa passed without much comment from the other boarders, who had classes to attend and were rather oblivious to household details.
He came to her bedroom every night, after that. She left the door to her room unlocked and he slipped in as the old grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chimed twelve times at midnight.
She lay naked in bed waiting for him. Eager to start and feel the deep throbbing pleasure inside her.
No one else lived on the back hall where her room was, and he could easily slip down the back stairs to her hall and open her door without being seen. It was dark and all were long abed, except for those who were studiously burning the midnight oil in their own rooms.
It was necessary for him to keep a sharp eye and ear for his fellow boarders who might be returning from a visit to the outhouse and coming up the back stairs, but if another boarder crossed his path he was simply on the way to the outhouse himself. He had a private room and it was no one's affair whether he slept there or at what hour he returned. Often he came back to it as the cock crowed dawn.
The rising of the barnyard cock meant the setting of his own, of course, and sometimes dawn caught them still at it, he still hard, she still damp and eager.
Every night was a honeymoon. At the end of the term, his grades suffered for it -he whose grades had never been in any other rank than the first. He went off for the summer, back home to his parents in the city, and promised not to write -writing would just arouse suspicion, but just to come back in the fall.
Over the summer he met a girl his own age and, well, you know. Getting married, having a family and children of his own, and all that sort of thing, began to seem to be in the cards. And she was a deuced nice girl, from a nice family, a family of the first rank which would settle a fair amount of property on her when she was settled.
She was not the sort of girl who deserved a fiance who had a mistress. He had enough energy for two women, himself, but of course a girl wanted a man all to herself and he was too honest to lie to her.
He came back to the college widow in the fall, but only to get his things. They had a long talk in her bedroom which ended with a torrent of tears. Both of them were crying. She was in love with him, by then, although she would never say it out loud.
He found another room, at a fraternity house with some fellows he knew. Some days later she put a sign out: ROOM TO LET.
That fall a new boy arrived. One goes, and a new one arrives, she thought. She dried her tears and imagined what the handsome new boy might look like in the nude.