The Dream Never Dared Ch. 01

The affair with Mrs. Lambert began easily, sweetly and comfortably, and just got better after that.

Jerry Lambert is by best friend. We go back a long way, clear back to the third grade. We were each, for each other, the special friend who knows just how to get you into trouble and then back out of it again, help you through heartaches you'd never let anyone else even see, helping you with homework, girls, sports, girls, dealing with parents, girls, money problems, girls, and--girls, in that particular capacity pretending that we actually had enough wisdom about that particular subject to be able to offer each other advice and support that were worth anything. In fact, what really happened most of the time is we helped each other with damage control.

I was all of twenty-two when Linnie, my girlfriend of about four months, and I lost our virginity together. There was maybe a little awkwardness, just because of how monumental an event it was, but that's about all you could say was much less than perfect. Age twenty isn't exactly ancient, but it was a little older than a lot of our friends, and maybe being a bit more experienced and wise to the world left us better prepared than a lot of others. Without even mentioning we had just let it happen when it happened naturally. No pressure, no performance expectations, just sweet, loving sex with a sweet loving girl, and she--I hope, honestly--said it was just the same for her.

Linnie was far away now, at a college in another state, and we were realistic enough to not try to lock ourselves to each other by long distance. If we were meant to be together, we'd know it when it was time. So, now you could say I was between girlfriends, and left me with all of the physical pressures most every guy gets when he's been getting his share and then hasn't for a while. My experience with Linnie left me uninterested in superficial relationships just for the sake of a willing pussy, but I had contented myself with Rosie Palm and her Five Daughters longer and more often than I cared to think about.

I remember the day Jerry told me about his dad's death. Aneurysm of some kind. He was away on business, and they had found him in his hotel room. It devastated Jerry. His dad wasn't any closer to perfect than anyone else, but he was a good man, and he would be missed.

I wasn't just Jerry that would miss him, though. Karen Lambert was the kind of wife Linnie will probably be some day to some lucky dude, maybe me, maybe not. While she and Jerry did what they could to help each other through the time of grieving, I spent a pretty fair amount of time with them, one or the other, or together, just to do what I could to help. There wasn't much, but sometimes it's just that someone cares enough to take time to be there that does more good than anything else.

Time, as usual, did the real healing, and the smiles returned to their faces. As they did, I was surprised to discover how Jerry's mom had taken on a subtly different place in my thoughts. Probably a lot of things went into that. The time I'd spent helping her through her pain had the natural effect of drawing us closer, getting more personally connected, more emotionally intimate. Then there was the way that a pretty regular stream of fantasies about her stretching back several years, formerly moderated by simple respect for the fact that she was a married woman, got a lot stronger now that she no longer was. Nonetheless, they were still just fantasies that I enjoyed like a familiar movie and, just like a movie, they would forever remain confined within the boundaries of personal fiction.

It wasn't long before I could see that this shift in the way I saw Karen wasn't only on my side. She was an exceptionally attractive widow, a free woman, and was behaving like one. Not that she had fallen into the trap of complacency as a wife, but the instinctive drive to attract a mate had led her to make those subtle changes in dress, her behavior and the like. And they were not lost on me, even if I didn't exactly notice at first, not consciously.

Then came the day that I was over visiting Jerry while she was busy with some project calling for a lot of lifting and crawling in the basement--more of a crawl space--under their home. She needed some help and called out to Jerry. Jerry had other obligations, though, so I volunteered to help out instead. Jerry drove away and I headed down to the basement to help Karen with her project.

"Hey, thanks Brad," she said with a sweet smile.

"No biggie, Karen," I replied. For some time now I'd had a pretty pleasant feeling being in her company for whatever reason, so I was grateful for the circumstance that had taken Jerry away. Little did I know that my gratitude for that little happenstance would one day be multiplied by hundreds.

"It's just these three boxes here," she said, grunting slightly as she lifted one of them. "Just help me move these over...there," she continued as she pushed that box into place. The other two were a good deal heavier; she could never have handled them alone. It was a fairly tight space, and it took a little maneuvering to move ourselves, much less those boxes, where we wanted.

"Of course," I replied. She slid the second box in my direction and guided it into place while I dealt with lifting its weight. It was especially nice now; I could take a few moments to really enjoy the sight of her lithe, shapely body without fear of being caught ogling her, but I wasn't prepared for the sight when she stretched all the way back and her sweatshirt fell forward, offering me a perfectly unobstructed view of her breasts.

I'd have been bug-eyed and tongue-tied enough if I'd been expecting it, but there's a hell of a lot more impact when it hits you like a bolt out of the blue like that. I'd done plenty of imagining of what those sweet melons might look like over the years, but even in my idealized fancies I hadn't built as fantastic a picture as the one that left me half-paralyzed in wonder.

She seemed to be taking plenty of time with whatever little task had drawn her to where she was, and I was hoping it would take a lot longer. I even indulged the daydream that she was prolonging it just for me. The leisurely pace eventually gave me time to recover a little of my lost mobility and turn my sight elsewhere before she caught me staring. If she'd had any inkling of what had just happened she showed no sign of it. I grabbed the third and final box and repeated the process, this time shifting my position just a bit so I might get another snapshot of heaven even if she didn't shift her position again the way she had the first time.

As it happens, I needn't have worried. I didn't have to fake anything to find the right position to study those tits once again, this time even while I was lifting the box for her as well as afterward. It was obvious that I could not possibly have been of any help that time if I hadn't been in position to see that show, and I just prayed she'd stay too engrossed in the business at hand to notice.

Like I said, it was a pretty tight space. It would be a lot easier to get herself out of it if I helped pull her than if she had to wriggle out on her own.

"Thanks, Brad," she said as I gently lifted her legs to take off the weight. Now she could easily guide herself out of the tight space. There was really only one possible way I could have helped her that way, and that meant that the show would have to continue. Hadn't it occurred to her yet that not only were her tits right out there in plain sight, but they had been for most of the past several minutes, and I couldn't have been the perfect gentleman and looked another way even if I'd wanted to?

Apparently it hadn't, because she now led the way out of the basement and back into the house just as casually as she might have any other time, with no sign she'd been aware of anything more than that we'd just completed a simple chore.

This prolonged sight of such a thing as I'd only dreamed of ever seeing, and being totally blindsided by the appearance, left my heart racing, my breath labored, and my cock raging against the confinement of my jeans. Karen looked at me and suddenly looked a bit worried.

"Are you OK, Brad?" she asked.

"Sure, Karen, I'm fine," I replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you look kind of flushed and you're out of breath. I know those boxes weren't that heavy. Not for such a fine specimen of youthful manhood as you." Relieved now, she touched my cheek and gave me the familiar little friendly shake.

An innocent little touch like that wouldn't have seemed like any big deal if it weren't for how wound up I was. My senses were in overdrive, and anything and everything she did took on a strangely exaggerated significance. I'm not sure what struck me harder, that there had actually been physical contact or the unexpected compliment, but building on what had just happened, that innocent little touch was as hot as if she'd started stroking my aching cock instead, and my mind refused to ignore the chance that this praising my, well, youthful manhood, as she had put it, was more than a bit of friendly chatter.

Now, though, she'd just made her way to the kitchen, nonchalant, and in the slowly returning silence of my thoughts I made up my mind to chuck all those little delusions. This was just what it seemed to be, nothing more, nothing less. No point getting hopeful just to have your hopes dashed.

"I hope you have time to stay for dinner, Brad," I heard her chiming from the kitchen.

"You don't have to go to all that trouble, Karen," I replied.

"Hey, it's the least I can do to thank you for all your help," she returned, as if 'all your help' had amounted to anything.

"I think I'd be getting the big end of that bargain, Karen, but sure, I'd love to join you for dinner."

We enjoyed the meal with easy conversation during which I practiced the art of keeping the memory of what I'd recently enjoyed from short-circuiting my mind to where my half of the conversation might turn to mush.

I insisted on helping with the dishes, half from gallantry and half just to be able to stay up close to her. Nothing unusual happened until she picked up a ceramic bowl a bit awkwardly, resulting in a fair amount of water spilled on the floor.

"Madame Klutz, at your service," she muttered as she reached for a towel to clean it up with. She still had the bowl in one hand, and now the towel in the other. As she was about to set the bowl down and step back to clean up the mess, she stepped in the puddle instead and slipped dangerously backward. Automatically I grabbed her by the waist and kept her from falling. The result was, she was now leaning backwards, by arms around her waist and hips, her hands occupied with their contents and thus unavailable to stop the loose sweatshirt from bunching up around her neck.

I was too concerned about her safety to properly enjoy the revelation this time.

"Whew...sorry about that. Close call, wasn't it?"

"Glad I could get you in time."

At the moment the crisis had passed and she was no longer in danger of falling and hurting herself, focus on that problem dissipated and the instincts that had figured so prominently in my feelings for the past couple of hours took over once again. Frantically my eyes sought some way to direct themselves so as to make the very most of this view while still tracking her own line of sight to make sure I could glance away when I needed to. That happened as I gently lifted her back onto her feet, but my reaction was just the slightest bit late and she saw it. If you're a guy you've probably discovered that, no matter how many thousands of times you get in that situation, practice never makes perfect--or even close. Try as you will, they'll always read you. It's kind of ironic that it was this, my effort not to look that made her realize what had been happening. I saw an embarrassed smile and a shy look as it all came home.

"Gee, Brad...I'm sorry. I should have realized..." she glanced briefly downward. "You're not...offended, are you?"

Offended? Karen, if you only knew.

"Not in the least. I mean..." I shrugged my shoulders trying to put together something easy and casual to say that made any sense in this topsy-turvy situation. I should be the one apologizing for ogling her tits all afternoon. Offended? She can't be serious.

"I guess I should have put a bra on. Never thought of it." Suddenly brightening, "Ah, well, whatever. Wanna play some backgammon?"

There was something just a little strange about her manner. She'd seemed embarrassed enough when she first realized what I'd been seeing, and yet I couldn't shake the impression that it was a bit play-acted. Like maybe the words and the voice didn't quite match up, or something. I soon gave up trying to figure it out. It did not escape my notice, however, that despite having faulted herself for not having put on a bra before, she was apparently uninterested in putting one on now.

We sat on the living-room floor with the board between us. The game and the banter progressed with the banter steadily taking over and the game fading from our attention.

"C'mon, let's dance! Wanna?" she coyly asked, not waiting for an answer before the slid a disc into the CD player.

"Sure, love to. Shall we, my dear?" I asked, bowing with ridiculous formality like I was a courtier to Louis XIV.

"But of course, kind sir," she replied sweetly, responding with her own version of the game.

Pumped up as I was, I had to work to keep my hands where they should be, and her slithery, sensuous movements and the way she pressed her body up close against me didn't make that any easier. It would really ruin everything if my runaway urges and wishful thinking ended up with me doing something to tick her off. Still, our movements became both more graceful and yet more wild. Once again the racing heart and clammy skin--and, of course, the ever-eager cock--took over. I felt her lithe form in my hands and lifted her hips, letting her shoulders drop, until her position was not unlike that moment when I'd kept her from falling in the kitchen.

Once gain her back arched and the sweatshirt rode its way toward her neck. This time, with nothing to occupy her hands, there was nothing to prevent her from stopping it. Why was I not surprised when she didn't? The shirt once again slipped away, revealing her fantastic breasts. The scene froze in a sudden tableau.

"Brad...it looks like I still forgot to put on that bra." Her voice was hushed, soft as a caress, so gentle that the quivering passion behind it was all the stronger. She paused dramatically, then fixed her eyes with mine. "Do you think I should now?"

"I think not, Karen," I replied and gently slid the sweatshirt off of her entirely. "It would only get in the way of...this."

I lifted her body and pressed my lips against the nearer of her nipples. The deep moan that burst forth seemed awfully strong for such a simple and incipient move. I knew then that it was the accumulation of the pressure that had building in her as much as it had in me, and what I was hearing was the sound of its first chance at release.

I lowered her to the floor. Dropping to my knees, I felt that raw instinct I'd been so tenuously keeping in check rejoice in its sudden liberation. Automatically I began to vary my attention to her tits with touches and caresses working slowly downward. I heard another gasp of anticipation from her the moment my quivering fingers opened the snap of her jeans and sought the zipper. The touch of her fingertips was intoxicating, even when it was somewhere no more intimate than the back of my neck.

Her jeans were unzipped and pulled wide open. Her hips took on a motion of their own as her hands completed what I had started, sliding the jeans to the floor. I could see her pussy through sheer panties and in moments my tongue had found her clit and begun dancing on it. Before long her body demanded that the slight interference of the panties to my tongue's effort be removed and I beheld her strip away the last bit of her clothing.

Despite the obvious, it was only then that I became totally aware that I was now embracing the body of a woman who had secured the starring role in countless of my fantasies over the years, one I would never have dared to approach in any way but like just a local kid who happened to be a friend of her son. And now here she was, nude, undressed for me, quivering with excitement and desire, disclosing that all along, or at least as long as she'd been free, she'd wanted me as much as, maybe even a bit more than, I'd hungered for her.

Lost as I was in a trance I only knew that I was on my back and her lips were wrapped around the shaft of my steel-hard cock, sucking with a practiced precision I had never known from the younger and less experienced partners of my earlier romances. As if she'd made it her life's work to study the technique she found the perfect touch to give me the greatest pleasure and yet keep me from going over the edge too soon.

And now we were facing each other, kneeling on the deep carpet of the room, embracing, bodies pressed together with vice-like force and our eyes met.

"Yes, Karen," I said, answering the silent question in her eyes. With just a touch of silent negotiation, I reclined, flat on my back, and she placed herself over my cock, upright, legs open, and for a moment she was still.

"Brad, promise me you're not doing this just because..." Her voice trailed off, unsure just what she wanted to ask. But I knew anyway. It was not sympathy for the loss of her husband, nor reassurance of her attractiveness, or anything else of the kind. No hidden agenda.

"I promise, I swear to you, it's just this. Just you, just me, nothing else."

A cloud seemed to lift from her face and she became once again animated. Confident again, she gave me another seductive smile and I felt her fingers lift my pleading cock toward her. I felt the sweet, moist heat of her body as if it were pulling me inside her, not just allowing me to enter, but demanding it.

How do you describe it when a real, honest-to-God dream comes true, one you'd never have believed ever would? That's how it was. She was riding me like I never knew a woman could ride a man; her whole body was writhing and contorting, like every nerve of her body was devoting itself to nothing but the raw pleasure of sex. She had the control then and I was more than happy to go along for the ride for the most part.

Now we had changed positions and I was thrusting in to her doggy style. Now that I was the one doing the real moving I gave her all I had, doing what I could to get as deep inside her as my body was able to. Her gasps and squeals and the twists and turns of her body told me I was succeeding. From that position the flowing curve of that hourglass figure and the splendor of her hips arrested my sight and hands traced that wonderful geometry while a different part of my body probed ever more insistently into her eager pussy.

Glassy-eyed and panting like I was climbing Everest, I slipped out and she turned onto her back. If the vision of her figure from the back had been captivating, the full-on frontal picture was beyond desccription. From the glow of her face to the wonders of her breasts, down past that extraordinary waist to the patch of curly brown that pointed the way to the ultimate goal, my eyes roamed from one wonder to the next as I positioned myself for entry. The thrusting, the duet of bodies struggling for air, the writhing contortions resumed. Now that I could see her face, I could pick up on just how lost she was in passion and draw that into myself, riding through at least four of her climaxes until it was my own time.

"It's time, Karen. I'm cumming! I'm gonna cum in you! Tell me you want me..."