1. Angie's Love


    Date: 3/22/2024, Categories: Femdom, Author: maxinexx 

    ... Do what I say, what I tell you to do. Pretend you have just come home late after a hard day at the office. You find me waiting for you in our bedroom, getting undressed for bed. You love to watch me undress. You love me to wear satin for you. I dress in my silky satin slip for you. Pretend for me? Please? Then let your imagination run wild. Is that any help?'

He swallows hard, 'I think so.'

She reaches behind her back, fiddling with her bra clasp, 'One more thing. Call me Angela. My husband always called me Angela when we made love.'

Made love. Such an old-fashioned expression. We're about to fuck and she wants me to make love to her as her dead husband. He remembers her payment, the cost of hiring the lover's suite for the night, Moet & Chandon, train tickets. Sian awaiting his return, none the wiser. What would she do to him, to herself, if she found out? The consequences of his infidelity, his fake life, don't bear thinking about. He re-focusses, checks his watch. If he gets his skates on, he might just catch the 16:43 back to Paddington. He could be home with Sian by eight, pretend he's had another tiresome day selling financial investment proposals to bereaved women.

He hears Angie's refined voice articulating in the background (she hasn't paid him yet), 'Shall we make a start?'

She has his full, undivided attention.

He grasps her slender waist, 'Yes, where do we begin?'

She sweats profusely. She makes a start, 'You're home late tonight, ...
    ... darling.'

'I had a hard day at the office, Angie.'

'No, not Angie,' she chides, 'Angela.'

He removes his hands from her midriff, realizing he shouldn't be touching her there just yet, 'Sorry, I meant Angela.'

She unclips her bra, 'There's no need to apologize. Being in love means never having to say sorry to each other, doesn't it?'

He nods his understanding. The truth finally dawns on him. This fantasy, this roleplay of hers, isn't just make believe. This is for real. He watches her, dry-mouthed, in the mirror as she casually slips the bra straps over her shoulders, letting the straps hang off her elbows, easing the cups off her breasts.

She lets her bra fall on the carpet, reaching for him, wanting him to touch her. He gasps at the sight of her buoyant, floppy breasts, her flat round beige nipples, her tiny teatlets speckled with sweat. She cranes her head. They kiss deeply pausing for breath.

When she manages to speak, her voice is hushed, 'You can rub my breasts, if you like, Michael. Would you like to rub my breasts?'

He cups her breasts in his hands, loving the feeling of the soft undersides, her sore bra weals, kneading her rounded, doughy breasts, flicking, bending, teasing, rubbing her nipples until her teats are full, erect.

'Love that, don't you? Love it when you rub my breasts. I love you, Michael. Do you still love me?'

He gasps, lost for words. He's never felt, touched, caressed, loved, a woman like this before, a beautiful woman like Angie. ...
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