[MF] A Little Christmas Cheer

I catch the bus occasionally to work – the 8am in, 5pm out (on those rare days that I finish vaguely on time) office crowd. My office is right in the middle of the Central Business District of my city, and one of the small joys I can take away from the bustle of the office crowd is the pride and joy people take in what they wear to work.

That is, in a corporate and government environment, people whose identities are distilled into titles, positions, departments and roles love the opportunity to express their core individuality through fashion. In particular, I absolutely adore the women I see everyday going to and from work in an amazing array of sharply cut dresses, intensely intricate stockings, and lip-bitingly hot heels.

It’s hard to keep it cool sometimes, and harder still to fight the temptation of breaking that workplace focus and anonymity. Although I don’t find hard to break the ice in any social situation, I’ve always erred on the side of caution when it comes to spaces where really it’s people just trying to get through their day.

There’s this woman I see some days on the way home, and she always catches my attention. She’s a bit older – I’ve always presumed in her early 50s. She cuts a fine figure, slim and athletic, obviously still goes the gym, blonde once upon a time and now indulges in colour. Her hair is what I call 70s wild – the kind of hair that I assume Farrah Fawcett would have in 2018. Her face is immaculate, with makeup just enough to accentuate all the right things.

I always find what she wears captivating, whether it’s a vintage summer dress or a sharp black skirt and superbly hot and detailed stockings. As she stands there, my eyes always trace her figure, from her heels, up through the curves of her calves, and along her exemplary ass, and always in awe of her waist.

We’ve progressed in the last year from silent half smiles and lightly murmured hellos, and we’re now at animated waves of hellos and goodbyes through to “It’s been a long day at work – how’s yours been?” small chat.

It’s been a thrilling process, but how far can you really get to know someone in thirty seconds bouts at a time, before we would get on our respective buses. We still don’t know each other’s names, but we refer to each other by our bus numbers (at least it makes us sound like the agents in Get Smart).

I had my office work party the other day, and so I caught the bus back home much later than I was expecting. It was a dim 8pm by this time, and so my usual rogues gallery was absent, but I was surprised to see my sometimes bus stop friend there.

She smiled warmly as I came along to take my spot standing near her. The buses come a little less frequent at this time of the evening, and so we finally got to chat beyond our usual banter.

“Good evening 312 (numbers changed to protect identities), I’m guessing you must have just come from you office Christmas party, right?” she asks, perhaps smelling the telltale scent of whiskey amongst me.

“That obvious, is it, 54?” I smile back.

She then points at my my shirt collar, and then reaches back behind my left ear. I follow her movements and see the lipstick on my collar, and the fake little mistletoe branch in her hand, which was tucked behind my ear. She laughs as she no doubt sees the look on my face transform.

“Oh, THAT! That’s a souvenir from my Work Wife”, I explain.

“I wish I had a Work Husband”, she replies immediately “At least my Christmas Parties might be a little bit more fun”. She reaches into her handbag and produces a candy cane coloured whistle party blower and gives it a quick go. It hits me in the face, and she starts to laugh some more. I take it that she’s had a few drinks herself tonight. I decide to take the opportunity to be bold.

“What’s the rest of the weekend hold for you then? More pre-Christmas shenanigans?” I ask.

“Actually, it’s kind of quiet – minimal social engagements in my diary, so the potential for non-Christmas shenanigans is high. Or, rather, potentially nursing a delibitating hangover tomorrow morning as there’s a bottle of tempranillo at home with my name on it.” This is about a long a sentence I’ve ever had from her in one go.

“Well, 54 … I’ve heard a rumour that my bus is on it’s way to my house, which is potentially a venue for both Christmas and non-Christmas shenanigans. Invite only”. I manage to out that together on the spot myself, which I’m quite proud of when I’m five whiskeys deep.

“And how many people are you expecting over for these shenanigans?” she asks, and she curiously looks at her watch as she says it.

“Two. Including me and you”.

“That sounds like the right kind of shenanigans” she answers, and takes a step or two next to me, so our shoulders are touching. “When does this party bus arrive?”.

“We can skip the bus and just get a ride”, I offer.

“Let’s do that, 312”, and she hails down the next cab to come pass. She gets in first, and I tell the driver my address – it’s all of a five minute cab ride back to mine. “I think it’s going to be a fun little Christmas”, she says to me – we sit in the back of the cab together, and she links our arms together for the quick ride, and don’t say anything else. I watch the cab driver through his rearview mirror, and he looks puzzled. She just looks out the window as the city blocks pass her by. She squeezes my arm every so often, like she’s pinching me out of a dream.

We get to my place, and sit on the floor of my living room. I hunt down a suitably amazing bottle of wine (a 2006 Cantine San Marzano, if you’re wondering) and pour it for us.

“Merry Christmas!” we toast.

“Do you really mean that?” she asks.

She kicks off her heels, and her skirt rides a little high as she tucks her legs to the side. She is, of course, wearing one of her amazing pairs of stockings. I lean in for a kiss, and to stroke her leggings in that space above her knee and below her skirt’s hem. She reciprocates the kiss with no hesitation, and immediately plunges her hand to my chest, deftly undoing the buttons on my shirt. Maybe she is some sort of secret agent after all.

I kiss her ina manner that drunk Casanovas do, my hand cradling the back of her head as our tongues twist in unison. I can feel the heat rising in her body, so I find the small zipper that rests on the back nape of her neck, a quick tug and her tight top loosens, and I can feel the fine lace of her bra at my fingertips.

She tries to say something, but she’s caught up in my lips. I pull back from the kiss, expecting her to say what she said again. Instead she just looks at me with a fierce visage, eyes wide and dark, like a cat about to pounce on prey.

And she does.

With a push at my chest, she is suddenly straddling me, and I watch helplessly and voyeuristically as she unfurls herself from her top, and with a few twists and flicks, peels her skirt from herself.

She sits astride me, and my eyes take in the sight of 54, bound only by her exquisitely handcrafted lingerie – and those fucking amazing stockings. What I love about women of this age is the unmatchable pride and sense of self she can carry. 54 knows, that right now, I am drowning helplessly with the sight of her.

Furthermore, she knows she’s in control, and gets to call the shots.

She pins both of my wrists down with one hand behind my head and the other digs her nails hard into my chest. She takes me from 1st gear to 5th in that moment, and now I’m achingly hard. She dances with her hips on me, grinding her pussy against my cock, separated only by lace and cotton.

“Do you need to fuck me?” she asks, the question escaping inbetween her little flirtatious yelps of joy and her gritted teeth.

I keep it simple.

“I do”, I manage to breath out, as I concentrate on not cumming immediately at the question.

She moves her hand from my chest – I undo my zip, while she undoes my button and belt, and she grabs my cock immediately from underneath my underwear. I wonder for a quick moment what she intends to do with her stockings before she answers it a mere few seconds later.

She tears a hole at the seams, right where her pussy is.

She moves her lace underwear aside and sits on my cock. I love the extra pressure of both the leggings and the underwear on the side of my cock, and she grinds hard and carelessly into my cock. She tightens her grip around my wrists, and moves her other hand up to my mouth, and she flits between covering my mouth (so it’s harder to breathe) and making me suck her fingers.

She rides me with full abandon, and she moans louder and louder, as she concentrates on the sensation of my cock filling her pussy. The combination of her moans, and her control over me, drives me mad. Her hip movements are sharp and powerful, and she knows the angle she needs to hit inside of her with my cock, and she keeps digging to try and reach it.

I can tell by the sounds she makes that she’s almost there. I try to help by thusting my hips up towards her, but she pushes down harder with her ass, tightens the grip around my wrists even further, and coversy mouth again to put me back in my place. I don’t have much say in this matter – but I’m so close to releasing myself.

Then, all of a sudden – it happens. She changes the angle of her hips ever so slightly, and her moans turn into exclamations of “Fuck!”. She shifts her left leg a little, and she swears a little louder. Her grinding turns into shivers and quivers.

“Can I cum with you?” I ask – and I hope she hears.

“Yes. Cum. Cum. Now.” She orders and approves.

I thrust my hips up again, and this time she doesn’t stop me. My sperm shoots into her immediately. I feel her whole body shakes, as she lets one more ferocious “Fuck!” from her lungs.

She grinds extremely hard for another few more seconds, and for those few seconds I swear I go blind from the sensation, right after I’ve cum.

She starts purring happily, pleased at the outcome, and her hips swing like she’s dancing to a happy song. Her purrs turn into giggles, and she finally let’s go of my wrists, and she’s content with me sucking fingers on both of her hands.

“I think you meant Merry Fucking Christmas”, she says.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/a55n2e/mf_a_little_christmas_cheer