dress, she realised with a start that this time Michael hadn't even told her he was going away. She bit her lip quickly, feeling the familiar tears springing to her eyes.
This was a new development — he evidently did not intend to inform her of his comings and goings. She wasn't considered that important any more!
Fighting back the helpless crying which was threatening to engulf her, Jean pulled the wardrobe door open and dragged a dress off its hanger. She threw it onto a chair and was about to shut the door again when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full length mirror.
Her hand dropped to her side and she stood quite still, staring at the woman who was facing her. She was amazed at the attractiveness which confronted her: the waist-length black hair which Michael had loved so much was untidy and rather dishevelled, but it seemed to add to her beauty rather than detract from it.
The shoulder straps of her nightdress had fallen away and the swellings of her large breasts would have been completely visible if it hadn't been for the shimmering cascade of hair which streamed across her bosom. Through the tresses, however, she could plainly see the tips of her ruby nipples — poking through the silky hair as if they were determined not to be hidden.
Jean ran her eyes slowly down the rest of her body, unable to move an inch; fascinated by the sexiness which she saw in the mirror. It had been so long, so very, very long since she'd examined her figure so carefully. Now she saw the fine slimness of her waist, accentuated by the tightness of her nightdress. She gazed on the shapeliness of her thighs, the slim line of her legs…
Thoughtfully, Jean turned her body so that she could admire her rear view. The thrust of her buttocks under the clinging silk of her nightie was arousing and intriguing. She put her hands on the cheeks, pressing them softly. The flesh moved easily under her touch — lifting with a firm, supple grace as Jean pensively rubbed her fingers over her bottom.
She really didn't look like a woman of 34 with a daughter aged 15, she thought proudly. Her figure was as voluptuous as ever: no sign of fat anywhere, and the flesh was soft and smooth to her hands.
Jean turned back again to face the mirror. Perhaps I should take the nightie off, she murmured. I ought to be really critical before I start to feel too pleased with myself. Let's see if I still look as good without any clothes on at all…
She pulled the bow at her waist and allowed the nightdress to rustle down her body to the floor. It fell slowly, giving her plenty of time to savour the sensation of the silk as it slithered off her flesh. Raising her feet demurely, Jean stepped out of its folds and once more returned her eyes to her reflection.
Her beautiful hair still partially covered her breasts and she shook it impatiently out of the way. As it moved off them, her breasts shook delightfully, wobbling freely in a sexy, bouncing action. Jean ran her hands up her body to encompass them, taking the orbs in her palms and raising them gently.
Preciously, she held the warm melons — though they were firm enough not to require the added support of her hands. Jean swayed her hips softly, raising her eyebrows slightly and adopting a legsapart stance. She let her fingers move up over her breasts until they released the full white globes, letting them fall back heavily into their normal position.
Then her hands travelled up her neck, lifting her hair and bunching it in a thick pile on top of her head. She pouted at herself. “You sexy bitch!” she whispered. “You sexy damned bitch!”
Although she had scarcely touched them, Jean's nipples were already thick — the tight little petals flowering quickly under the urge which had suddenly seized the woman. Jean stared at them in the mirror, deliberately shaking her shoulders so that her breasts swung slowly from side to side.
Childbirth had left them even larger than they had been before and they now measured a generous 39 inches. Jean posed brazenly for herself, adopting first a shy, demure attitude with legs pressed tightly together; then, as if weakening in response to a plea from her audience, she let her thighs open a little — just enough for the pink and prominent lips of her cunt to be glimpsed.
Warming to her performance. Jean shook her head silently and admonishingly. She bent one knee slightly, dipping her thigh so that her sex was again hidden.
“Naughty, naughty!” she teased. “I shall have to turn around if you're going to peek!” And she coyly swung herself on her heels until her back was facing the mirror. Her knees bent forward fractionally and she thrust her buttocks out, looking over her shoulder so that she could see what sort of picture she was now presenting.
Jean's bottom, cheeks snowy white and curved in a beautiful pair of fleshy hemispheres, stared out of the mirror at the woman — looking so desirable that she couldn't resist the temptation to reach around and stroke them. Her fingers moved all over the succulent cheeks, glorying in the rich creamy texture of the skin. They strayed to the base of her spine, then crept slowly down the globes again, now opening them so that the crease of her arse was brought into full view.
Craning her neck, Jean could just about glimpse the bush around her sex as it peeped from between her thighs. But try as she might, it was impossible for her to see the cunt itself from this angle. Sighing, she straightened up and let her hands slide around her hips until they covered her abdomen.
She crossed her fingers modestly, intertwining them so that they hid the cluster of tightly-knit hairs around her crotch. Then, a pretty sigh escaping her lips, Jean very, very slowly turned back to face the mirror.
Her fingers were pressing quite firmly into her cunt-lips and the proximity of her digits to her long-neglected quim made the puffy labia pine for a closer, more intimate contact. She studied herself, keeping her eyes fastened on her loins, as her fingers gradually came away and loosened their possessive concealment of her quim.
When they were almost exposing the entrance to her sex, Jean curled them inwards so that they could take hold of the lips. She felt an immense thrill pass through her body as her fingers closed on the fat slickness of her cunt and drew the folds of protective flesh away. She allowed her thighs to open widely, stooping a little so that she had an uninterrupted view of her activities.
Gently, her fingers pulled the lips open, peeling them as far apart as possible and revealing the red wound which they normally concealed. Unable to stand any more self-teasing, Jean dipped one long feminine finger straight into the centre of the deep slit and pushed it as far as it would stretch up inside her cunt.
Her other fingers released the lips, letting them snap back into place around her fully buried digit. Straightening up into an erect position. Jean met her own eyes in the mirror and stared into them defiantly. She began to frig herself boldly, without the slightest trace of embarrassment or shame. Her finger described a rhythmic circular action, turning around and around inside the tight hole of her cunt. It felt so sweet, so perfectly beautiful, this firm but gentle pleasuring! Not since she was in her teens had she experienced this sort of leisurely self- stimulation, but Jean found that she knew instinctively just how quickly and deeply to fondle herself.
She let her other hand hang limply at her side, fingers brushing lightly against her thigh. A faint but unmistakable sucking noise had started from between her legs and Jean increased the rhythm of her frigging, feeling her finger being anointed with that familiar hot juice…
She squashed her thighs tightly together, making the ministering finger seem even more firmly wedged inside her cunt. Her buttocks clenched and unclenched in quick, urgent spasms and — tickling as frantically as she possibly could — Jean shuddered out her orgasm; the spunky fluid pumping sweetly out of her over-eager quim and moistening the heated softness of her thighs.
She stood there, panting harshly, finger still tightly imbedded in her sex, eyes glazing over. And not until she heard the sudden gasp from the doorway and realised that Monique was standing there did Jean come back down to reality, a deep blush spreading over her face as she turned sideways to the bedroom door, her finger still crooked into her cunt…
2
Monique turned to go, backing out of the room in confusion, her hand at her open mouth. “Excuse me', she mumbled. “I didn't know — ”.
Jean never knew what exactly it was that compelled her to go to the girl and draw her back into the room. She acted on the spur of the moment, feeling she had to convince the au pair girl that she wasn't really ashamed of what she had been doing. But, much later, she would see a considerable ambiguity in her action — as if she decided at that precise moment to set in motion a plan which her unconscious mind had been formulating for many
