1. In The House of Forgotten Cameras


    Date: 9/16/2015, Categories: MILF, Author: Jason_NYC, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    there was Jillian. I had a sinking feeling that if I took the camera, I might never see her again. "I can come anytime? Take the camera whenever I want?" He agreed with a nod. "Well," I paused, sneaking a look at Jillian. With her smile, all doubts evaporated. "OK," I said. He took a sheet of stationary and with a magnificent old Mont Blanc fountain pen, wrote out a short receipt in the kind of flourished cursive script that even back then was rapidly becoming a lost art: Sept. 17, 1965 The House of Forgotten Cameras acknowledges the temporary loan of a view-finder camera that was custom made in the late 1860s by American Optical Co., New York, NY, and equipped with a 4" back-focusing Peerless lens and accessory rangefinder. The House of Forgotten Cameras is responsible for the good care of said view-finder camera and agrees to return said camera to its owner immediately upon the verbal or written request of of said owner. Later, as I gathered up the dry-glass plates, Jillian handed me a phone number. "Whenever you want to visit, call this. The carriage will meet you by the turn out on Lincoln Boulevard." Jillian accompanied me to the driveway. On the return trip, I tried to make out some streets signs or other landmarks, but it was a dark, moonless night and I didn't see anything familiar until we turned onto El Camino del Mar. For the next week, I went to The House of Forgotten Cameras every day as soon as school was out, and usually stayed past midnight. On the weekend, I ...
    arrived by early afternoon. I never saw the Collector again, but Jillian was always waiting and even now, I blush at some of the things we did. On the first Saturday, she gave me a hand-job in the carriage and a blow-job under the table of an Irish pub on The Haight. After that, we made love on the lawn behind the colonnaded bandshell in Golden Gate Park. And that was just an appetizer. Ironically, Jillian did have one phobia. She hated cars and most other modern devices except, of course, cameras. When we went somewhere, it was always by carriage. Ironically, she was also no fan of the electric-guitar driven style of psychedelic music that was starting to boom from the bars and clubs around the Haight and North Beach. Jillian initiated me into the art of making love as the carriage swayed and shuddered and the landscape rolled past the the curtained windows. Not one to restrain her passion, she would gasp and moan and cry out in joy. I marveled at the impassivity of old Mutton Chop, until Jillian clued me in that he was deaf, "but a very accomplished lip reader." She loved being outrageous. One evening she failed to meet me when the carriage arrived in the driveway and I raced to her room in concern. She was on her bed, eyes closed and hands pressed tightly between her legs. While I looked on, she fingered herself to orgasm after orgasm. She thought nothing of plunging her fingers down the front of my jeans and bringing me to a messy climax in public places. Or lifting her ...
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