JuneFest
The air hung like damp velvet fog that Friday evening in
early June . . .
it was too damn humid, and hardly any breeze . . . it felt like
summer
already. Thank God for the rotating fan clattering away
in the small Arts
Council office. "It's always hot for JuneFest!, "
I thought to myself. "They
ought to move the thing to April, but then I guess we couldn't
call it
'JuneFest!' anymore."
I was doing my civic duty for our community s Arts Council.
"JuneFest!" is
a weekend-long arts festival annually sponsored by the
Council, and
exhibitors come in from several states to show their latest
pieces and to
hawk their wares, as it were. I had signed up to work the last
shift, 6 to
8 p.m., at the Arts Council office. My job was to sign in the
exhibitors,
accept their $50.00 registration fee, give them directions
to the
exhibition hall or their motel, and generally answer any
questions they
might have regarding the exhibition, which was to begin
early Saturday
morning and would run until late Sunday afternoon. I had
learned from
working in years past that most exhibitors would register
between 1 and 5,
so I was pretty sure there would not be a lot to do but sit in
the office,
read a magazine and maybe slip on a Coke for a couple of hours.
Sure enough, when I relieved the guys who had worked before
me, I learned
that 54 exhibitors had already registered and picked up
their packets . . .
since we were expecting at most only the 62 who had pre-registered,
I
figured my shift would be a snap.
I didn't know who was supposed to work the shift with
me. Usually we have
two people -- one to get the forms filled out and the other
to put together
the exhibitors' information packets in the manila
envelopes. I had assumed
maybe they also wanted two people there since money was
involved, but this
always seemed a little silly to me -- I mean, the people volunteering
their
time to help the Council weren't the sort to risk going
to jail for a few
hundred bucks, most of which was in checks anyway. Besides,
with the light
work-load I expected, I could handle things easily even
if my unknown
partner didn't show.
The Council office is located in the larger senior citizens
building; in
fact, an old school house. The office itself sits right
off the lobby by
the front door. It has a single desk facing the door, a chair,
a stool, a
rusty filing cabinet, an old typewriter which they don't
even use anymore,
and (thank God!) one old metal rotating fan. The office
room itself is
small and cramped (maybe 15 feet by 20), but then, the Council
president
does the real work out of her home. They use the office mainly
to store
records and brochures, to supervise the monthly craft
shows for the senior
citizens, and as a contact point for participants and volunteers,
such as
once a year for the JuneFest! exhibit. Beside the single
door to the room,
and to the left side of the desk which faces the door, there
is a counter
which is situated behind a large glass window -- you know,
the kind with
the little round circle cut out in the middle, and another
space cut out at
the bottom, kind of like a movie theater's ticket booth.
The registration
forms and the info packets were on the counter waiting for
me; the money
box was tucked safely underneath.
I had just settled in behind the desk when I looked up to see
Karen coming
in the door. She got my attention immediately. I stood up
and smiled when
she walked into the small office. "Hi, Greg, "
she said. "Guess we're
partners tonight?" "I guess so, " I replied,
"although it looks like most of
the work has been done already."
Karen and I were casually acquainted; we'd see each
other at the monthly
Arts Council meetings. I didn't know too much about
her, other than she'd
gotten divorced a couple of years ago from a doctor who apparently
had
turned out to be a creep. Karen is 30ish, but she carries
herself like a
college coed -- bright, active, vivacious. She's
a knockout, and although
we'd sometimes sit together at the Council meetings
around a big table with
20 or so others, I had always tried hard not to gawk or otherwise
be
obvious with my attentions. Karen invariably was warm
and friendly,
especially to me (or at least, so I imagined), but she was
always prim and
proper, and I had never sensed any tease in her. Her sexuality,
which was
palpable, was innate, not overt. And, after all, she is
a beautiful woman
who automatically activates the testosterone of any man
she's around; but
who wants to get caught looking? Besides, I'm married,
as she knew.
Karen walked to the counter and began flipping through
the registration
papers while I returned to my seat at the desk. Karen's
back was to me, and
since there was no one else around, I hungrily allowed my
eyes to drink in
her lovely form.
Karen is a rather petite lady, not more than 5'4"
or so, but very well put
together, if you get my meaning. She has gorgeous red hair
and a pale
complexion, with the hint of a few freckles which to me (as
I adore
redheads) only accentuate her sensuality. Her breasts
are well-proportioned
and firm (I remember fondly the forest green Christmas
sweater she wore to
the Council meeting last December . . . the one with the reindeers
. . .
now that little job really showed off her figure!) Although
by no means
fat, Karen is not particularly skinny; in fact, her tummy
pooches ever so
slightly at her waistline, but for some reason I think this
is especially
sexy. She has wonderfully long, delicate fingers, warm
green eyes, luscious
and inviting lips, a rather large mouth with gleaming white
teeth, a
slender (very white) neck with sexy collarbones, and a
particularly
attractive (and don't ask me how) chin. There is no
doubt, however, that
Karen s best physical features are her ass and her legs,
which are world
class. Her hips are just the right proportion, her soft
buns are curvy in
all the right places, with just a hint of the sweet love crevasse
dividing
her butt cheeks. Her legs are long and very well shaped --
her thighs are
firm and muscular, and her calves and ankles (oh, what ankles!)
are
tremendous -- probably the best set of legs I ve ever seen.
As you can
imagine, I leaped at the opportunity to let my eyes graze
over this
incredible specimen of womanhood as Karen stood at the
counter, facing the
check-in window and away from me.
As I've said, the night was hot, and Karen was dressed
accordingly, though
certainly tastefully. She was wearing a light green jumper
of some sort (at
least, I THINK it was green -- I am a little color-blind);
the kind that
almost looks like denim, but is of a lighter weight. Her
beautiful legs
were bare below the mid-thigh hem of the jumper, but she
wore short white
socks, and white sneakers . . . a decidedly "cute"
look which I think is
very, very inviting. Underneath the jumper she wore a white
collar-less
blouse, or maybe a tee shirt. I couldn't see any hint
of straps (and
believe me, I looked hard), so I guessed (and hoped) that
she was braless.
Not that it really made any difference since with the jumper
you couldn't
see much anyway; I guess it was just the thought of her full
tits hanging
free that gave me that peculiar yet familiar twinge deep
within my scrotum.
"Are these the only ones left?" Karen said as
she suddenly turned around
holding the eight or so manila envelopes in her hand. I flinched
when she
turned, having theretofore been totally absorbed in contemplating
her ass
and thighs, and I think she must have suspected what I had
been up to,
because her puzzled look was instantly replaced with what
I took to be a
knowing grin. Thank God I was sitting behind the desk . .
. at least she
couldn't see the bulge that had begun to grow in my crotch.
"Yeah, that's pretty much it, " I recovered.
"We may not get but a couple
more in; there are always a few no-shows."
Just then the front door opened, and a middle-aged couple
walked into the
lobby. Sure enough, the man was a rustic sculptor who had
exhibited at
JuneFest! before; the lady, his wife, apparently was along
for the ride. I
immediately recognized the sculptor, and he seemed to
remember me too. I
chatted with him while Karen busied herself with the registration
forms and
the information packet. The whole thing took less than
five minutes -- this
guy was a "regular" who knew the drill; he didn't
need any directions or
any lengthy explanations of the rules. Pretty soon, Karen
and I were alone
again.
"That's fifty-five, " Karen said matter-of-factly.
"How many did we have
last year?" "Forty-nine, " I said, "but
only thirty-seven the year before
that. JuneFest! is growing every year."
I offered Karen the chair behind the desk, but she smiled
and said the
stool by the counter was just fine. This was good news for
a couple of
reasons -- first, my back always bothers me when I sit on
a stool, and
second, the desk would hide the erection that I was sure
would return
momentarily.
"Could I read that?" Karen asked, pointing
to the evening newspaper that
someone had left behind. "Sure, I read it at home before
I came. I thought
I'd look over this 'People' myself, "
I replied. I sat down and picked up
the magazine, and pretended to begin reading. Actually
I was hoping that
Karen would turn around again. The fan was clattering away,
but the
temperature was definitely on the rise.
Karen sat on the stool about four feet away, directly facing
me at the
desk, and opened the newspaper in her hands. She held the
paper in such a
way that I could not see her face (nor her, mine) or her torso,
but I had a
great view of her body from the waist on down. As the stool
was one of
those high, school-house jobs, Karen sat with her knees
slightly bent and
her heels hooked over the bottom rung of the stool. The high
stool placed
her knees just a little lower than the level of my eyes. Obviously,
she
could not cross her legs, nor did she try. She just sat there
reading the
paper.
As you might suppose, my eyes immediately sought out the
folds of her lap,
as I hoped against hope that I might see something interesting.
I was not
to be disappointed.
Karen's knees were slightly parted, and I had a lovely
view of the inner
sides of her legs about three-quarters of the way or so up
her thighs. The
shadows underneath the jumper concealed everything above
that, but I found
myself staring anyway. Curiously, as she turned the pages
of the paper, she
fidgeted (involuntarily?) on the stool a little, and the
result was that I
was gradually afforded an improving view of her intimacies.
Although I
continued to pretend to read my 'People, ' I couldn't
take my eyes away.
Sure enough, after the turn of a few more pages, I was rewarded
with the
sight of a couple of square inches of white cotton at that
very special
spot where her two gorgeous thighs joined together. Needless
to say, I was
by now rock hard beneath my khakis, and I was very grateful
to be behind
the desk.
"Poor girl, " I thought to myself. "She
doesn't realize she's giving me this
nice shot up her skirt." I wasn't so filled with
pity as to look away,
however. To the contrary, I stared all the more, and soon
began to feel
that soft warm throb of rushing blood pressing the flesh
of my manhood
against my pants.
Just then the lobby door opened again and two attractive
ladies in their
early 40's walked in. I didn't know them, but they
soon identified
themselves as registrants 56 and 57 -- both were primitive
landscape
painters from the same town out-of-state. I reluctantly
stood up, not
looking at Karen, afraid that she couldn't help but
notice my raging
hard-on. These artists were new to JuneFest! and had all
sorts of questions
about how, when and where they were to set up, how to get to
their motel,
etc. As I was taking their money from behind the glassed-in
counter, Karen
dropped one of the packets right at my feet, and knelt down
under the
counter right in front of me to pick it up. I kept chattering
away at the
women and didn't acknowledge Karen at all -- she fumbled
a little for the
dropped papers, not rising right away, and unless she was
blind, she'd
couldn't miss the enormous bulge between my legs.
When the artist ladies finally left, I carefully avoided
looking Karen in
the eyes (I knew I'd blush if I did) and quickly sat down
to pick up my
magazine. Maybe she hadn't seen anything after all,
because she just
plopped back down on the stool and picked up her newspaper
again.
I very soon became aware that there was a difference, though.
Karen now sat
easily on the stool, directly facing my chair, her knees
bent and heels
propped up as before, but her knees were now a good three
inches apart! She
continued to browse through the paper, but her more relaxed
posture gave me
a clear view of her entire crotch, the white panties shining
like a beacon
beneath the dimness of her jumper. Slowly, subtly, and
over the course of
several minutes, she turned page after page of the newspaper,
never letting
me see her face, and never looking at mine. With each page
turn her legs
parted further . . . ever so slightly. Within ten minutes,
her heels were a
good foot apart, and her knees were opened up to a corresponding
width.
There was no more shadow at all . . . the light from the florescent
fixture
over the desk shone all the way up her thighs -- I couldn't
have seen much
better had she hiked the thing over her waist! There was
no mystery
anymore, only a glorious exposure of her sex.
I realized that I was breathing heavily as I gazed at her
barely covered
love bush. Surely she knew what she was doing? I wanted to
speak . . . but
I didn't dare . . . I just kept staring. Karen's
panties were of the very
sheer, thin white satin kind . . . everything except the
narrow cotton
middle of the crotch was virtually transparent. The thin
material did not
hide the dark hairs (were they red?) covering her upper
vulva . . . she was
now spread so wide that I could even see most of her lower
tummy, if I
hadn't been so fixated on her pussy, that is.
As Karen sat there, literally spread wide enough now to
take a cock had she
been naked, she twitched slightly as she turned the pages
of the newspaper
that I was now quite sure she wasn't reading at all.
Her hips rocked back
and forth almost indiscernibly, as if she had an itch that
she was demurely
trying to scratch. Then I saw it: a dime-sized dark spot,
right in the
middle of the narrow opaque cotton covering, toward the
bottom . . .
exactly at the place where the material touched her cunt
hole itself. Karen
was wet, and she was showing it! As I stared in lustful wonder,
the dark
spot enlarged. What had first been a circular area the size
of a dime
quickly grew into an oval, pointing downward, getting
larger and larger,
until the damp area was about an inch across, and at least
three inches
long, covering the entire area from her vagina to her asshole.
The delight
of it was that the dampness made the cotton area almost transparent
itself
. . . as I strained to look, I could just make out the slicky
inner folds
of her cunt pooching out from the middle of her already visibly
swollen
outer pussy lips. Karen was soaked with her gushing love
juice, and her
little pelvic movements became more regular and more pronounced.
As for
myself, my dick felt as if it were about to explode . . . I longed
to touch
myself, or better yet, to reach out and caress the beautiful
pussy not four
feet from me.
What to do? My mind raced . . . although I couldn't see
Karen's face, I
could now hear that she was breathing hard too. I had to make
a move, but
how?
At that moment the front door opened, and in strode Mrs.
Donovan, the Arts
Council president. "Yoo hoo!" she called loudly.
Karen immediately closed
her legs, brought down the paper, and stood up off the stool.
For just an
instant our eyes met . . . I discerned an expression of frustrated
lust in
her cloudy green eyes, and a beautiful face that flushed
a deep red,
highlighting her sexy freckles . . . God knows what she saw
in my eyes!
"What's the count?" Mrs. Donovan cheerily
inquired? "Fifty-seven, " I
responded, in a dry, unfamiliar voice that seemed to come
from someone
other than me. "Fifty-seven! That's tremendous!"
gushed Mrs. Donovan.
"That's our all-time best!"
As Mrs. Donovan came into the Council office and started
gathering up the
registration papers, I realized that it was already 8:15.
Our shift was
over . . . no more registrants were expected. I picked up
the money box and
put it on the counter, and began trying to clear my head so
that I could
show Mrs. Donovan the final tallies. "You kids must
be tired, " said Mrs.
Donovan. She was only sixty or so, but anyone younger than
that was always
"Kid" to her.) "We sure appreciate your
hard work."
"It wasn't work, it was fun, " Karen exclaimed
as she moved out the door and
down the hall toward the ladies room. "I had a great
time!" "Yeah, me too, "
I managed to sputter, clever guy that I am.
Mrs. Donovan and I gathered up the papers and the money box
and walked out
to her car. As we were closing her trunk, Karen walked out
of the building
to join us. "I'd better lock up, " Mrs.
Donovan said, heading back toward
the office. "Thanks again so much for your help. Remember,
the exhibition
booths open at 8 tomorrow morning."
As Mrs. Donovan strode toward the front door, Karen looked
at me, her green
eyes now shining and full of mischief, and handed me one
of the unused
manila registration envelopes. "This is something
special just for you, "
she said quietly in the sweetest and sexiest tone of voice
imaginable.
"Call me." Before I could stammer out anything,
Karen turned and quickly
walked toward her car, and Mrs. Donovan was coming back
out to the parking
lot.
I took the envelope and sat down on the seat of my car. First
Karen, then
Mrs. Donovan, drove away, and I was alone in the parking
lot. I looked at
the envelope, and could see that there was something written
on it:
774-0435; obviously Karen's telephone number. My
fingers trembled as I
opened the clasp of the manila envelope and reached inside.
I knew at once
what it contained, even before I removed Karen's soaked
drawers from the
envelope. The panties felt as if they had just come from
the washer, they
were so incredibly damp. As I held the moist material to
my face, I was
almost overcome by the seductive aroma of her love tunnel
. . . my balls
throbbed and my dick thumped convulsively as I savored
the sweet cunt
smell.
"Call me." Her words were still in my ears. "I'm
married, " my mind raced,
"but then, Karen knows that . . . . I would have to be
careful . . . . I
have a decision to make." But even as I sat there, alone
in the dark
parking lot, I knew what my decision would be . . . what it
would have to
be . . . .
|
|
