Call me Joanna

It all happened so long ago now that it seems not only to have been in a different place at a different time but so different as if it almost had never existed. But it did. It all took place in rural southern England in that wonderful time after the war had ended (for us. “the war” meant and still means World War II), in the fading golden afterglow of empire, before unpleasant realities intruded and thrust the world we had known into a new and unfamiliar shape. The revolutions of the sixties – social, sexual, political – were mostly yet to arrive but one, at least, had already made its appearance, if appearance it truly was.

My family lived on a farm far removed from the comforts of civilization – no shops, no electricity, no buses and, for us, not even a car. After farmwork in the morning, I rode my bicycle to the nearest village over the hills often lost in rain and mist and there took a bus – not a school bus but an everyday bus with its complement of workers, other students and various members of the community, to the market town. Our farm had a neighbor with the next nearest about a half mile away in another cluster of three. The houses are now let out for visitors and are more neat and orderly than they were then but just to see them again brings back memories.

One of the houses in the half mile away was an unmarried lady about my father’s age – late forties. Joanna Smythe, definitely with a “y” in the middle, an “e” at the end and pronounced as she was apt to inform those who might thought to address her by the more plebeian She lived alone on her small farm which had plainly seen better days. No great beauty for looks but the work on her farm had made her strong, tanned and active but she had a great sense of humor with a ready quip for many an occasion and could add life to any conversation. I was attracted to her vitality and liveliness in spite of the difference in our ages. Beyond that, she just did not act her age: irresponsible enough to sleep late in the mornings, stay up late at nights (we could see her lights from our house), ready to hop onto her horse and go off for a ride when she liked, and to head off to the beach in the summer. Something of a rural nineteen fifties hippy before that term had ever been used. She followed the local hunt in the fall and winter, looking strikingly attractive in her tan jodhpurs, sweater, polished riding boots and dark jacket and with her short, wavy dark hair peeking our from under her cap. The riding crop she carried and slapped against her legs gave her a commanding air, too which must have had its own appeal to some subliminal appetite on my part.

The previous summer when I was fourteen, she had taught me to ride her horse and had taken me to the beach with her on a number of occasions. Even in the rather concealing beachwear of the time, I could see that her body was nicely shaped and her breasts looked, as they would to any teenage boy heavily into puberty, very appealing, nicely rounded, soft-looking mounds flattened by the thick fabric of her swimsuit. When she lay out on her towel, face down, drying off after we had gone for a swim, she would pull the shoulder straps of her swimsuit over her shoulders to get some sun on them and then edge the top of the suit down to expose her back some more until I could just see the edges of her breasts softly beginning to appear. But what really turned me on was the scruff in her armpits, a rich, luxuriant growth of dark, curly hair that I thought was earthy, sexy and so exciting. In fact, I’ve never lost my fascination with hairy armpits. I sused to spend ages wondering what her bush down below was like and longing to get just a glimpse of it. This always had the expected result on me and I had difficulty in concealing the large lump in the front of my swim shorts but fortunately, we were usually alone on this little beach at the end of a farm lane down from the cliffs and my towel helped out when we had to move off. I was always careful to conceal my excitement since I had no idea how she would take it and I did not want her to take offense or, even worse, complain to my parents, resulting in a sorrowful lecture from my mother or, more predictably, a furious one of outrage from my father. Perhaps, however, I need not have />
I used to pick up the newspapers and magazines for the family and Miss Smythe from the village store usually on my way back from school in the evening but in the school holidays (vacations), once a week on Thursdays or Fridays. One day in the spring when I had just reached fifteen, during the Whitsun holiday (late spring break), a pleasantly warm day, I had cycled to the village in the early afternoon to pick up the papers and stopped first at Miss Smythe’s before I went on home. The door was open, as usual and I went in and called to her; shortly, she came to the front hall barefoot, wearing her usual casual shirt and jeans to take her glossy magazine, the Illustrated London News. She told me that there was to be an interesting article in it that she had been waiting to see. We often looked at this magazine together when I brought it to her since it provided a pictorial backing to news that we had heard only on the radio. She opened it and flipped to the pages with the article and then held it out to her side slightly so that I could read over her shoulder. She had stepped forward while she found the right page and so, I moved forward to come to her left side but at the same time, she moved backwards and a collision resulted. I instinctively put a hand on her waist to steady myself but then took it off right away, stepping back and apologizing at the same time. She, quite unruffled, replied lightly, “It's alright. No need to be sorry, I thought you’d become nice and friendly but no such luck. Come on, its been a long time since I had a dashing young man to put an arm around me, come on back if its not too horrible to make me happy for a while”. Well, of course, a wink is as good as a nod and this went beyond a nod although how far it went, I had no idea but trying to be ever the polite gentleman, I replied that it was not horrible at all and I would like to make her happy this way. So I moved up to her again and she moved back against me and firmly placed her left side against me so that my groin area was pressed up against the enticing curve of her rear. I placed my arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze which was rewarded by a smile as she turned her face towards me. Further encouragement, I thought, this looks />
The warmth and closeness of her body soon produced the expected reflex with me, I felt my cock rising, hardening and enlarging and soon I felt it pressing up against her. This presented something of a dilemma in my youthful mind, not knowing how far she was willing to extend our friendship. I thought I’d better play it safe and back off a bit since I had absolutely no idea if she wanted a hard prick – mine – digging into her rear or anywhere else for that matter. I leaned away from her a little so that my cock was no longer pressing into her but without moving she said softly, “No, don’t go. Stay close, it feels so nice.” And with that she pressed herself back against me again so that my prick once again came into firm contact with her buttock. And to make sure of things, she pushed to-and-fro against me to emphasize the contact. At that point, I got the idea that everything was all right between us and so, thusly encouraged, I dropped my hand from her waist onto the buttock that was free and whispered, “Yes, you’re right, it does feel so nice” and once again I received one of those encouraging half smiles as she turned her face towards me.

At this point, I was not sure how or where to progress. Normal decorum indicated that I should kiss her first and then move on to her breasts but her face was still sideways on to me and so I gave her a light brush on the cheek with my lips as I brought up me free hand, the one not occupied with her derriere up her side as she – lovely lady! – lifted her arm so that I could explore the contours of her breast although the heavy bra underneath prevented anything like close contact. Having thus observed the normal order of things, I dropped the upper hand onto her belly and moved the other one around her ass some more, moving it up and down the middle over the place where her ass-crack ran underneath and when I got to the top of her legs, she shuffled her feet apart on the floor so that I could get my hand between her legs. Well, now, my cock was big and hard and urging me on; I pressed it onto her ass once again and she gave a very decisive counter-pressure. Obviously, I was gong to get “it” that day and so I ran my hand down the front of her jeans and in between her opened legs before popping the press-stud on the side at the top of the zipper (she had women’s jeans with a side zipper) and then pulling down the zipper and sliding my questing hand inside. Smooth cotton panty covered her down some way, the kind and I could not get my hand in at the leg so I moved up to her waist and then just ran it down the front, over her panty until I felt the rough patch of pubic hair underneath the thin cotton. All this time she had apparently pretended to be reading her magazine but as long as the voyage of exploration was allowed to continue, I was happy and thrilled ; I decided not to do anything, anything, to disturb this state of affairs.

One last move left, I thought, and inserted my hand under the elastic waistband of her panties and moved it slowly down over the smooth skin of her tummy until I felt the crisp, curly hair of her bush. She gave a gasp, dropped her magazine and turned round and embraced me as I took my hand out of her panties and then replaced in the back where I enjoyed the sensation of her lovely curved buttocks and the thrilling cleavage between them. Between us, her jeans dropped down and she shrugged them off her feet while I pulled her panties down and caressed her bush, running my hand between the legs, exploring the lips and feeling the moistness of her womanhood. While I zipped open my jeans and shook them down frenziedly with my underpants, she got rid of her panties and we moved together as she reached down and pulled my hard, hard, hot cock between her legs and into her pussy. I was, of course, my first time and it felt so thrilling, so wonderful, I am surprised now that I did not come on the spot. She was wet and warm and her lips felt deliciously soft as I rubbed my prick in between them and she made warm noises in my ear. Then, suddenly, she lifted herself up on her toes for an instant and, reaching down to grab my member, plugged me in; I felt my prick slide between her juicy wet lips into her hot, wet hole and knew without thinking what had happened, I was getting it for the first time. She started to rub herself on me, back and forward with an up and down motion as I thrust into her and held onto her wildly bucking ass as we moaned and grunted in animal unison with each inward thrust. Too soon, too soon, it happened; I felt the orgasm running up the shaft of my prick and my semen burst out of the end into her juicy hole in great pleasurable spasms better, far better than any I had ever been able to produce on my own. She clung to me as I emptied myself into her and then slowly kissed me firmly and longingly. We remained in that position for some time until she said, matter-of-factly, coming out and I’m dripping onto the floor. We’d better go and clean up.”

In the bathroom she turned to me, dressed from the waist up, naked below with her bush a lovely thick, hairy triangle at the bottom of her belly, and asked with her half-smile, “Well, how was that for you? I enjoyed it”. No answer was called for and she wetted a washcloth at the basin and turned and wiped my prick clean before turning to her bush wet with juices both from her and me. After some thought she continued rather seriously, looking straight at me, “A woman needs it, she needs a thrill, she needs a man to hold her, she needs a nice, hot hard prick in her hole, she needs the spunk in her body, its a kind of nourishment and I‘ve been starved for quite a few years now – but don’t worry I won’t be getting pregnant now. We’ll have to keep it a secret of course, but I’d like to do it again – and well, again and again, if you’re game. Oh, and when we’re together on our own, you’d better call me Joanna; I don’t think Miss Smythe hits it right when your prick is going in me. Come on round when you can, soon as you can, I’ll be here for you. Let’s see what we can do next time”. Then she smiled as loving a smile as I’ve ever seen, leaned forward, kissed me lightly and gave a final squeeze to my soft, depleted cock. The beginning of a loving relationship…..

story by: Maturlver

Tags: true story sex story

Author: Maturlver

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