Mrs. Ogawa

When I went to town with Mother for a few days, we regularly stayed with Mrs. Ogawa. The mysterious stranger must have come from the Far East, was tall, slim and elegant. I did not know how old she might be, but it seemed to me that my mother was a little younger than she was. At that time I was not yet able to judge her true age correctly from the fine wrinkles. She was always very well groomed, nicely and fashionably dressed and made up, and always looked like the models in the photo magazines. My memory for names is not very reliable, so it could be that her name was perhaps not Ogawa at all, but just something like that, but that is not so important. What was important was that we had a neat, clean room, two floors above Mrs. Ogawa's apartment.

Once I was walking down the stairwell, Mrs. Ogawa was just coming in, carrying many bags and stumbling on high‐heeled pumps over the old tiles of the entrance hall. All at once she stumbled and a bag fell to the floor. I immediately rushed down helpfully and picked up the bag. As I was about to hand it to her, I realized that she couldn't possibly carry that much at once, so I offered to carry it up for her. In her thin, high‐pitched voice, she thanked me and led the way. I was amazed, as always, at how well she spoke our language.

Even today I remember how she walked ahead of me with her hips swaying, under the thin silk dress that was highly fashionable at the time, a slit silk skirt, the outlines of her panties were clearly visible. As she climbed the stairs, she lifted her skirt so as not to trip. I glanced up furtively and saw the white glowing under her skirt. As she set the bags down in front of the apartment door, unlocked it, and bent down to pick up the bags again, I looked along her legs and again that whiteness flashed briefly. Mrs. Ogawa smiled inscrutably at me and my ears went hot and red.

She went to the refrigerator and squatted there to put away the groceries. I stood in the kitchen doorway, sweaty and heart pounding, while she stowed milk, butter and cheese in the various compartments, moving gracefully back‐ and forth — I had never seen so much beautiful leg before! Yes, I saw again that white panty that had flashed at me a few times before. My heart was pounding and my pants bulged suspiciously. Mrs. Ogawa looked with her eyes on my short black gym shorts, which I always wore in the summer; I'm sure she also noticed the naughty bulge caused by the cheeky fellow, but she turned back to the refrigerator smiling.

Then Mrs. Ogawa came to me, so close that our bodies were almost touching, and took the remaining packets from me. Under the thin blouse her nipples stood out clearly and yet dimly, one did not wear a bra at that time. "Why don't you sit down," she said, gesturing kindly with her head to the seating area, "I'll bring you a glass of lemonade in a minute." So I trotted obediently to the sofa and sat down, on the little table were newspapers and magazines, but also an envelope with photos, some looked out of the envelope. I looked again at Mrs. Ogawa, who was tending to the kitchen boxes with her back to me, sometimes bending down very low, showing a lot of leg and panties; it was the time of slit Japanese skirts and sheer chiffon blouses and I could see from a distance wink into Mrs. Ogawa's cleavage a bit when she bent down low enough.

When I had sat down, the envelope with the photos had slipped a little, and now my gaze, which I was bashfully trying to get away from Ms. Ogawa's long legs, round buttocks, and delicate breasts, fell on the black‐and‐white photos, some of which had slipped out. The top one showed an otherwise invisible photographer's cock poking into the cleft of Mrs. Ogawa's small, sparsely hairy black triangle, and Mrs. Ogawa smiled into the camera, at me, wonderfully open and lovely. My face immediately turned flaming red and my little hard‐on became a big hard‐on, I thought I would have to suffocate, so violently now my heart began to beat and my cock to throbbing. At the same time I panicked, because the light fabric of the gym pants not only bulged violently, but also began to get wet.

Mrs. Ogawa must have finished now or noticed my final inflammation, because she came over to me, followed my gaze to the photos, and smiled mildly. Then, without further ado, she sat down next to me, put an arm around my shoulders, and asked if everything was all right. I barely made a sound and tried to croak out a "yes" with a ghastly dry mouth and swallowed hard, almost choking on my own breath and feeling my Adam's apple roll violently up and down. Mrs. Ogawa pulled my head soothingly against her bosom and said only: "na, na," while she stroked my hair.

How to describe it, there I am sitting next to Mrs. Ogawa, who towers over me by at least a head length, gently pressing my face against her bosom; my eyes squinting into her décolleté and I see how the delicate fabric stretches around her bare, flat chest. I squint through the gap between the blouse buttons at what little of the bosom is visible there. Mrs. Ogawa's arm embraces and presses me once again to her bosom, she kisses me on the hair and murmurs "na, na," while her hand rests on my thigh, my God! and right next to it my hard‐on, standing like a queen's guard and erects a small tent roof under the pants All at once, Ms. Ogawa reaches under my waistband elastic and grips my wet, throbbing cock with her warm hand, from above, like a curler grips the handle of an ice curling stick. She just holds it tight and I freeze. Freeze, even though I would rather have run away or died. She very gently pushes my pants down more than a bit.

So a short eternity passes, just a small heartbeat long, then Mrs. Ogawa moves her hand gently and rhythmically up and down and strokes my foreskin up and down in infinite slowness, pulls my head to her bosom in the same rhythm and I see how her small, round breasts under the blouse quiver in the rhythm of her hand and the small light brown teats of the nipples protrude pointedly. Only a tiny further heartbeat later, I gratefully squirt myself into Ms. Ogawa's hand, my semen running in hot waves over her wrist and sticking to her thighs. I spill so quickly and surprisingly that Mrs. Ogawa stops and raises an eyebrow in indignation as I continue to squirt violently into her hand, eyes wide open like a calf. "Ouch, that was quick," says Mrs. Ogawa, while little droplets still spilling into her hand with a quiet throb. "You don't have to come so fast, you can delay the squirting," says Mrs. Ogawa, but doesn't tell me how to do it or what for; she strokes and squeezes my glans with a gentle hand and waits patiently until the thrusting throbbing slowly ebbs away and nothing more pours into her hand. I had squirted, but it wasn't a real orgasm, somehow.

Then Mrs. Ogawa slowly pulls away her hand, with semen clinging to it like long, thick spider threads, and takes a handkerchief with two pointed fingers to wipe herself off. With light, gentle pressure, she also wipes my pants and cock clean. "I don't mind if you squirt in my hand," Ms. Ogawa says as she does so, gently pulling back the foreskin and dabbing dryly at the glans, "but I'd rather you didn't." I sit there dumb as an ox and have red, burning hot ears. Stare at the tabletop in front of me, not daring to look at Mrs. Ogawa. I don't understand what to do, how to splash and yet not splash at the same time.

Later she fetches a lemonade and places it in front of me, I still dare not to move or look up at her, I have sinned just as I did when I was with my mother and I feel miserable. Furtively, out of the corner of my eye, I see that both teats are now stiff and firm through Mrs. Ogawa's blouse as she leans over and puts down the lemonade glass. We sit there for a minute or a quarter of an hour, both keeping our eyes lowered. She looks with lowered gaze at my half stiff cock, I look at her beautiful pointed breasts under her gauzy blouse. I feel miserable because I'm sitting there so stupidly with the half‐stiffy and don't dare to tuck it away, to touch it in front of her. I feel funny at the same time, because I had almost felt no orgasm, although I had squirted after all; that's why the semi‐stiff cock, which does not shrink as usual. Time passes slowly, embarrassingly slowly.

My gaze wanders further off and falls again on the photos. Mrs. Ogawa sees it, now calmly picks up the envelope and flips through the pictures. Says that it is quite all right, her husband — since when has Mrs. Ogawa had a husband? — would like to take such pictures with her (and only much later I was to meet the old photographer who photographed the beauties of the night — and of course Mrs. Ogawa — too). She shows the one or the other briefly here and looks inquiringly at me, sees my increasingly reddening face and smiles, because I get a little excited and embarrassed, because I have never seen such pictures before.

The minutes pass as she shows me the pictures. "That was funny," Ms. Ogawa says, "there's his cock right between my breasts," and she presses the picture into my hand, puts her hand on my thigh and then lets it wander up, briefly touching my semi‐stiff cock, which, tucked into the waistband of my pants like a little garden gnome. Then Mrs. Ogawa takes the other pictures, sorts out some that she doesn't want me to see apparently, and hands me some again, one after one by one, commenting on what was so funny with or about Mr. Ogawa; lisping a little when she says the word dick. She points with a finger to where it is stuck in her hair triangle, deep inside in this picture and pulled out further in that one and feels again and again for my cock, which gradually begins to stir. I see very clearly that the cocks were all different and instinctively know that Mrs. Ogawa lives without a man, but she talks all the time about Mr. Ogawa's cock and that it is so nice and stiff and firm and what they both do together. I still look and listen and swell more and more.

"Let's make you more comfortable," she says and starts to take my gym shorts all the way off. I have to lift my ass cheeks as she slips my pants off, then I sit back with my arms crossed over my lap, trying to hide my already stiff cock as she carefully folds my pants and puts them aside. My heart is pounding up to my throat again, I have a dry mouth and still don't dare to drink the lemonade. Mrs. Ogawa caresses my thigh again, her long red fingernails lightly scratching my skin, and she gently pushes my arms aside. I sit there unprotected with naked lower body, arms hanging down willy‐nilly, and my cock now lies sideways on my sack like a thick, ripe banana. Ms. Ogawa strokes my thighs and cock again, very finely and very delicately, and says she will stroke and rub it again finely to make it nice and stiff again, but she'd rather that I should stop squirting on her hand and hold it back, please!

I don't understand the meaning of her words, but nod and once again my gaze flits shyly to her cleavageé, catching a glimpse of her breasts briefly and immediately looking away again, lowering my gaze to the table. Mrs. Ogawa smiles very mildly and slips the strap of her blouse over her shoulder with one hand. Under the falling fabric, a beautiful, small and circular breast becomes visible; ah, that is already something different than with Anni! My cock becomes even stiffer, the thick banana begins to stand up, heart pounding. Mrs. Ogawa smiles again, gently and slowly stroking her nipple with one hand, watching my little one stiffen with a smile.

I probably would have sat there like that for hours if Mrs. Ogawa hadn't moved again. She now strips off the blouse completely and lets it slide carelessly to the floor. From sleepy, half‐closed eyes I look at her beautiful upper body, the beautiful round breasts, the sharp protruding teats. Then she slides back towards me and gently strokes my cock, pulling the foreskin back from the glans and teasing it with her fingertip. Mrs. Ogawa is now very restless, her dark eyes burning like Mother's eyes did back then when she watched me masturbating, and she slowly strokes my glans in a circular but infinitely gentle manner, then says she wants to be careful because otherwise I will cum on her fingers again.

Mrs. Ogawa lets go of me and says with burning shiny feverish eyes, we might do this later and I make myself comfortable in the meantime. Then she starts fiddling with her skirt, undoing the button and side zipper; skirt and panties sink to the floor next to the couch. I catch a brief, unchaste glimpse of her short, black pubic hair before she places her hand over it. My heart is pounding in my throat, I'm lying naked next to a naked stranger!

Mrs. Ogawa nods to herself and says, "I'm just playing like this now, with no Cock rubbing, only with the tip of the glans, otherwise you squirt again so fast!" and presses a hand between her thighs. She makes gentle, circular finger movements on my glans and presses her hand firmly between her closed legs, and I look at her pointed breasts and suspect that she is jerking off a bit, because her breasts gyrate rhythmically in front of my face. Then her hand creeps with infinite slowness to my cock again, grasps it firmly and vigorously pulls the foreskin back from the glans, rubbing now with a gentle, slow rhythm as I stare at her breast bobbing up and down in time with her hand, at her fingers gently caressing her pubic area. Then Mrs. Ogawa, who is rubbing my cock slowly, gently and carefully, says "that's it, I can feel it getting firmer, but don't squirt any more into my hand, please!" I nod and involuntarily thrust my pelvis forward a little, my cock towards her hand.

She becomes more and more restless with her other hand on her pubic between her tightly closed legs and mumbles with half‐closed eyelids a "not" with each hand movement that you must not not not not not squirt, no, please not not not not squirt! Mrs. Ogawas hand glides thereby with gentle pressure over her pubic area and I have to think of Hildegard's and Anni's jerking off, and Mrs. Ogawa's eyes are getting darker and feverish. Her hand becomes more erratic, uncontrolled and then makes a clumsy movement and pinches my glans, so that I have to wince involuntarily painfully.

As she does so, one of the magazines on the table slips out of place, and underneath are the pictures she really didn't want me to see. Mrs. Ogawa now gently strokes my glans, while the other hand massages the cunt with slow and gentle movements. On top a rather blurred and out of focus picture, on which a laughing Mrs. Ogawa spreads her pubic with one hand and at the same time sticks a candle deep into her slithole. This image races through my retina straight to my brain and from there somehow immediately back down to my cock; in the same split second I feel that I am about to squirt. Now, right now.

Mrs. Ogawa is completely surprised at how quickly I come to squirt again and stops abruptly so that I do not splash; but she notices immediately that it already pulsates and throbs too violently and already squirts out a little between her fingers. "Oh my, if it must be," murmurs Mrs. Ogawa and clasps briefly my cock to jerk me very hard, but fast and very well. She seems to be indifferent to the fact that a a bit of semen splashing on her chest as she jerks my cock vigorously and brutally; dazed, I look at her chest, which bobs wildly along. She pulls back the foreskin painfully tight a few times, causing the semen to spurt up high — another another thick, viscous jet spews over Ms. Ogawa's beautiful, naked body, then jets squirt and shoot out in wild bursts over her body. She rubs me brutally, jet after jet on her body!

As the cock goes limp, she stops and waits patiently again while I gasp and wince, letting the last droplets spill into her hand. Forgive us poor sinners, Amen! I whisper silently the incantation of gratitude.

She spreads the semen with her fingers on her belly first, but then takes the cloth again to clean herself and her hand. She dabs with the cloth the splashes of her breast and her belly and means, "I rubbed nevertheless so easily, so that it would again become strong again, but not so that you can splash me all over again right away!" She angrily pushes the photos aside and says they upset you too much and goes on to say, "you're not allowed to cum so quickly, so give yourself more time, we do squirt later!" I look questioningly down at me, felt no more excitement arise and obediently shake my head, because today I would certainly not cum on her anymore.

For minutes we lie silently next to each other, Ms. Ogawa holds me embraced and caresses with the other hand infinitely gentle her own cunt. I am totally confused and exhausted, because to jerk off somewhere alone and secretly or in a strange apartment of a beautiful adult woman to be jerked off properly, that's something different! However, I do not understand, why you should not squirt when you have to, but only when she wants it, and why at all only later, and: When later? I keep my eyes closed and doze off, fearful and lustful, but in any case infinitely tired. The first, gentle outpouring could perhaps have been followed by others, but with this wild, brutal rubbing she had jerked my soul out of my dick.

Mrs. Ogawa, who had been quietly stroking herself, suddenly stops and looks at me with a strange expression on her face. "You may squirt again in a moment, my little one, squirt very finely," she coos hoarsely, "I'll just make you a little comfortable — you may lie with me, won't you?" I move away a little and must panic‐stricken thinking of my mother, when I see how Mrs. Ogawa bends the legs slightly and opens, so that I can see her opened cunt.

Sighing deeply, she lifts her buttocks, opening and closing her legs as she does so, like long spider fingers, and murmurs, "you sure like to make love to me, make love really fine with me!" My throat is like constricted, while she cooing with pleasure slowly caresses her labia. "Come on, make love to me," she mumbles all at once suddenly and pulls me on top of her with her other hand. Panic fills me as my soft cock touches her warm wetness.

I was insanely afraid of what could have come and fled. I jump up, grab my gym shorts and slip into them, then I quickly run towards the door. Before I close the door very quietly, I catch one last, cowardly glimpse of the small, pink slit in the sparsely wooded black triangle, and of the finger that was moving slowly in the slit.