1. Note To Self


    Date: 11/27/2014, Categories: Bisexual, Author: blin18, Rating: 6, Source: LushStories

    all that add up to? Jack shit, that’s what. But ‘x’ ? Not an initial, so a kiss? People sign-off like that … I think. Cops don’t. Nobody I know does. Maybe teenagers. But doctors? What does that mean? Want to get some drinks and finish up with some hot tongue action? Shit, I just read that back … I didn’t mean … I just meant kissing. For fuck’s sake, who blushes when they’re on their own? I can’t think about it now; I still need to write out what happened. ~~~ I’m a cheap date. At 114 pounds, one beer is about as much as my system can handle, and ten minutes after I put it in, it wanted to come out the other end. Seems like the only time I can control my bladder is on patrol – because I have to – but any other time …? It started when I was pregnant, peeing every ten minutes, but Jimmy was nearly five years ago, so things should have returned to normal. It’s a bitch to be me. Pity party for one. Surprisingly, the kinder actually has a decent adult bathroom. The building isn’t new, so it probably wasn’t always a kindergarten and the two-stall ladies bathroom is a legacy of a previous age. I did my thing and then stood washing my hands in front of the long mirror, looking at my reflection and checking for lines and grey hairs, making sure nothing was sagging that should be firm. I was washed and dry and everything else was five-by. I still looked great. I was looking at my breasts – hey, I had to keep up with the guys who had been staring all afternoon – and realised they ...
    weren’t tender. I’d never had pre-menstrual breast-pain until recently, but probably from the beginning of this summer I’d noticed it, the last day or two before my period. It had returned right on cue the day before the barbecue, but it was gone again and that was weird. I felt them to make sure; gingerly at first, but there was no pain. “Don’t mind me, I just need to pee.” Holy fuck, where did you come from? Stealth-Mom! I didn’t even hear the door. She was early thirties like me, about my height or an inch taller, and a similar compact shape without the muscle-tone. But that’s where the similarity ended. She had styled blonde hair that she wore down, just past the shoulder, and she was dressed in a white, sleeveless blouse and soft-pink skirt with pantyhose and a pair of white, wedge sandals. She looked at me holding my breasts and I saw a slight change in her eyes, a mix of curiosity and maybe concern. “Do you want a hand with that?” she asked without inflection. What the fuck? Do I want a hand feeling my tits? Jesus! “Do you want to go fuck yourself?” I shot back deadpan. It was out of my mouth before I could take it back; it was the sort of thing I’d say at work if a crack-whore made the same offer, but this middle-class Mom had surprised it out of me. That same look of curiosity and concern stayed on her face for a two-count while she processed what I’d said, then her blue eyes bulged comically for a second and her face dropped in horror. Poor thing had probably never heard ...
«1...345...1314»