I met Sharon at the markets, and that's how we became friends. She'd sell clothes and old toys (she was a single mother) from suitcases, and I started hanging around chatting with her. She was cute, what can I say? She always had a floppy, pink fringe which stood out in stark contrast to her sleek dark hair. I could spot her in the crowd a mile away because of that fringe. It was her signature look.
Sharon was a little younger than me, with big dark eyes and a beauty mark perfectly placed on her cheek. Wide, child-bearing hips and thick thighs, always dressed in black. It was Winter the day we talked about getting a coffee after the markets. I'd gone to the markets this day with another friend who I'd left to wander the stalls alone while I chatted to Sharon, and that friend had seen the dynamic forming and left me to it. So, when the punters had all left, Sharon packed her suitcase of stuff and I carried it for her up the road to a local coffee-house, where we ordered hot chocolates. The wind was bitterly cold, though, and I hadn't come dressed to be out all day. Sharon lent me her hoodie, claiming she wasn't affected much by the cold anyway. I drowned inside it, the folds of the sweater enveloping me like a blanket. Sharon said I looked cute wearing her hoodie. It smelt of her: sweet, a hint of intoxicating perfume. We locked eyes and fell silent. That was when we decided to drain our hot chocolates dry and catch the bus back to my place.
We were nervous as hell, and isn't that the best way to begin these things? That anticipation, the flutter of butterflies in our bellies, the shy glances at one another until we're unable to look away from the hunger in the other's eyes?
Soon we were on my bed making out, our cold lips raising goosebumps where we kissed each other's necks. It didn't lake long for our passions to warm us, however, and when Sharon lay flat on her back to shuck up her skirt, I tugged her black tights and panties down until her bush was exposed. We weren't shy any longer. My fingers slid through her pubes until they found her vagina and began gently exploring. I was kneeling beside her, so I undid my zipper and shoved at my pants until my dick sprang into view, half-erect already, and repositioned myself beside her head. With my free hand I cradled her head, carefully angling my hips until my dick was hovering over her face. Dutifully, she opened wide and swallowed my dick, just a little at first, testing its length.
So good. It felt so good. By now my finger was caressing her labia, lubricating her pussy. I pressed my finger deeper, her pussy lips folding around and enveloping my fingertip. Like a hoodie! I pushed in deeper until I was steadily fingering her, pistoning my finger down to the last knuckle and back out again. I was swaying my hips in rhythm, angling so my dick was sliding between Sharon's lips and poking her cheek out to one side., the mole undulating as if a boat on rough seas. I cannot recall cumming, on this occasion; I suspect I didn't have time. I remember wanting to fuck her badly, but we'd let our stay at the coffee-house extend too long, and now Sharon's ex wanted her to pop over and pick up the kid earlier than expected. So, we straightened our clothes and I saw Sharon off at the bus-stop, handing her the suitcase through the rear door.
Naturally, we scheduled a dinner date after this. The following week I arrived at Sharon's place, late enough that her kid had been put to bed. She was cooking pasta when I arrived, and we ate in the loungeroom while watching a stand-up comedy special on the TV, quaffing a glass of red wine. With the meal finished, we snuggled together on the lounge, my head resting against her chest, using her boob as a pillow. I was barely focused on the TV, thinking only of getting Sharon undressed and wondering if I should wait for the program to end to initiate something. Sensing my disinterest in the TV, Sharon enquired if everything was okay. She was worried I hadn't been laughing at the comic.
"Your boobs are distracting," I confessed.
She glanced down at her cleavage, made more prominent by the lazy way in which we were slouching on the lounge. I leant across and kissed the swell of her breast a few times. When I glanced up, her lips were parted and her eyelids heavy. I angled my face upwards and we began making out.
"Let's go to your bedroom," I suggested, lest we be disturbed.
