The second part of the Mrs Jizm tale. It ends midway through a sex scene so I hope people are not put off by that. That's the hook to get you to read Ch. 3 *wink*.
If people like it, and send me feedback, I'll keep on going with this.
GA - With a bottle of Hobgoblin ale - At home - Nov 11.
Mrs Jizm
Two: A date.
IT WASN'T OBSESSION, not yet, but my second visit to Robyn came only two days after the first. At that stage of our relationship, the relationship that would grow and evolve between us, I was more fixated on the glamour model than obsessed – The obsession would follow. The first visit had only given me a taste of Robyn Chisholm, whetted my appetite, and I was hungry for more. Robyn's maturity, her voluptuous body, her intelligence and casual exhibitionism stirred a primal urge deep inside me. I wanted to see her again, was drawn to her. During the first session with her, in her home of all places, Robyn had teased me with her sexuality, slowly and deliberately stripping before my camera lens until lust and desire boiled within me. Eventually she relented, relaxed her rule of no physical contact and offered her breasts to my touch. That was it though, that was as far as she'd let me go. Until things got so heated that I wanked in front of her while she masturbated with her pink vibrator.
Robyn had come, the dildo crammed into her sex, thighs clamped tight over her wrists, which in turn trapped her hands against her heaving body.
"Robyn ..." I'd warned.
"Are you going to do it?" she'd asked, panting.
"Soon," I'd grunted and, with self-control gone, leaned forward to suck at her long nipples.
"No," Mrs Chisholm had squawked. "You can't do—" But I'd cut off her objection by kissing her.
At first she'd resisted, turning her head to break contact but had then relented and opened her mouth for my tongue.
"You're so sexy," I'd said, gasping into the woman's mouth. "I can't help it. You turned me on so much ..."
"It's OK," Robyn then replied, panting. "Just this once though, next time, no touching."
I'd kissed her again. "You do it," I growled when the kiss broke. "You wank me off ... And I'm doing it on your tits."
And I had indeed come on her breasts, spattered the big round tits with my outpouring.
Afterwards, at home in my flat, I'd stared at the images of Robyn in her various stages of undress. I'd stared hardest and longest at the pictures of Mrs Jizm's face and tits smeared with my goo.
What kept coming to mind was her tentative suggestion that I could do it to her again, that I alone, out of all the photographers who visited her, could touch her, kiss her, taste her ...
And I wanted, so desperately wanted, to fuck her.
"Back again," Robyn grinned as she allowed me across her threshold.
Somewhat abashed, I offered my own self-conscious smirk. "Couldn't stay away," I quipped as I held up an envelope. "The pictures," I explained, "on a CD. You said you wanted copies."
Robyn took the envelope. "Thanks," she said. "Coffee?" We walked into the kitchen. Robyn put the envelope down and filled the jug with water. While she went about this simple domestic chore I wondered at her odd state of dress. A dressing gown and slippers but with what appeared to be tights or stockings under the robe. "I've got some lingerie on under here," Robyn enlightened me, answering my unspoken question. "Thought it best to be prepared ..." She grinned mischievously, eyes sparkling with devilment, adding: "After last time." Blushing at the reminder of our last meeting I was grateful for the distraction of the electric jug clicking off. Robyn poured the boiling water into the mugs and added a splash of milk to each before handing me one. "You're not married then?" she asked in her direct way.
As we sipped coffee I told Robyn my story. Married, divorced, but a stroke of opportune luck had given me financial security when, a week after the divorce, I pulled up five numbers in the lottery.
"It wasn't millions," I informed Robyn. "But it meant I could buy a new flat in a decent area outright. I'll have to go back to work sometime too, but for now I'm just drifting along."
"I work part-time," Robyn told me as we continued to exchange histories. "The modelling gives me a bit of breathing space, brings in a few quid." She sipped at her coffee. "And I own the house too. So we're both doing OK." I nodded agreement and slurped at the coffee. Robyn pointed towards the living room. "You go in there. I'll be a few minutes applying the finishing touches."
I noticed details that I'd missed in the excitement of my first visit. The pictures of family were a bit off-putting, having Mrs Chisholm's children smiling out of their portraits at me was a touch disconcerting; I did think about turning their visages to the wall but the flushing of the downstairs toilet reminded me that Robyn would be ready soon. I still had to set up the camera.
She walked in with the look, confidence, and style of a bordello whore. There was nothing sophisticated about the costume, a corset, red, naturally, black stockings attached by suspenders, and black shoes that shone like mirrors. The red, dangerous looking heels spiked into the carpet as Robyn moved slowly towards me. She stopped and struck a pose, hands on hips, head tilted enquiringly to one side.
The effect, in her unremarkable suburban living room, was jaw-dropping.
