A Taste of Cherie - Sex Stories

A Taste of Cherie

... you love someone, little stuff like that is hardly any work at all. Anyway, I finish up around two thirty, which is perfect—she'll be home in about 45 minutes, if her ride isn't late. I spend the rest of my time sitting in a chair in our front yard under our maple, with a glass of wine and a book. Time goes. Not too quickly, but it goes.

Like clockwork, at 3:15 a white car pulls down the cul-de-sac and rolls to a stop. The passenger door opens, and a blonde head pops out. She says goodbye cheerfully and shuts the door, then hikes up her dress and struts across the yard up to me. Mrs. Doblini drives off.

"Hey honey. How was your day?" I ask.

"It was very nice, thank you."

"I've got some wine."

"Oh! Perfect."

She stands in front of me expectantly, waiting for me to undo her skirt. Her dress is actually in two parts, with the skirt secured to the upper part by several buttons, which are in turn covered by a sash. The sash comes off easily enough, and I reach around to unfasten the buttons. It slides off, and I ball it up and toss it on the grass.

"Oh, that feels nice," she gushes, sighing away the day's frustrations. She stands there in her underwear and pantyhose, though she frowns as her skirt lands in a pile of leaves. "Do you really have to toss it on the ground like that?"

I pull her onto my lap and hand her a glass of wine. "Yes. Yes I do."

Her look of annoyance changes into a quiet smile as she takes a sip of wine. It's a warm day early in the ...

... fall semester, and the leaves are a mix of red and orange. Our eyes meet. She leans in gently for a kiss, offering me her soft lips. I accept. We spend the next five minutes or so just making out. It's passionate, but not like in the movies. There's no urgency. A light breeze caresses us, running through her hair and ruffling her dress. I begin to touch her intimately. She squirms. It's time for us to head inside.

We stand up together. She immediately struts off to collect the lower half of her dress, then dashes back to me. A certain touch on her shoulder instructs her to go down on her hands and knees, and she obeys instantly. She crawls ahead of me into the house, casting a backward glance just as she crosses the threshold. Dinner is cooking. It doesn't smell nearly as nice as when she cooks, but it's still a welcoming scent.

"What are we having?" she asks, her voice floating gently through the autumn air.

"Lasagna and asparagus. There's a little cake left too, if you want it."

"Oh, you can have it. I'll just have the lasagna."

"Babe, the cake is for you."

"Really? It's sooo good. Are you sure?"

I ruffle her hair. "Yes, I'm sure. If I have any, I'll just have a bite."

She smiles and nuzzles her cheek against my calf affectionately. "May I stand, master? And get washed up?"

"Yes. Wait a minute."

She knows what's coming; she bends so that I can smack her ass, and then scampers off. I hear the sound of running water, and I focus on getting the ...