After the Crash

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Merhaba yasamaya.info sex hikayeleri okuyucuları, derlediğimiz en büyük hikaye arşivini sizlerin beğenisine sunuyoruz.okuyup keyif almak ve sırılsıklam olmak işte tüm mesele bu.

Babes

Notes: (1) All the characters in this story are 21 years of age or older. (2) This story is intended for adults only. (3) Unlike the real world where it’s important to know who your sexual partner is and to practice safe sex, in all of my fictional tales, no one has any sexually transmitted diseases. (4) In the world of fantasy your proclivities are just that: yours. In the real world, mutual respect is essential.

*****

“No way!” Maya exclaimed as my old clunker barely made it up the hill on the west side of Mercer Island. “This is his house? No way. You told me he didn’t have any money.”

On one side was a beautiful view across Lake Washington to Seattle. It was one of those relatively rare days in the wintertime when one storm had blown through and the next had not yet arrived. Hence, there was a seasonally unfamiliar big bright round yellow object in the late afternoon sky.

On the other side was a massive but elegant house that looked out on this amazing view. It looked new even though it had traditional architecture, my favorite. The beautiful cobblestone driveway curved up and around to the side of the house, taking up none of the great views in the front.

We got out and walked up the long path to the front door. I rang the bell. Nothing. I tried it again, but again there was no response.

A week ago I’d received an envelope with just a key and a note. The note had this address, today’s date and this hour, and three words: “Desk Drawer Den.” Of course I knew the handwriting. The man who wrote it, though – Well, I’d not seen or had any contact with him in a year or so. He used to live here in Seattle, but when we last spoke he was about to move back east.

With no one answering the door and still frustrated with all the traffic we had hit getting there, not knowing what else to do I used the key to open the door.

I yelled his name a few times, getting increasingly louder. Maya yelled out a few “hellos” too for more than a minute. We finally agreed that the house seemed to be empty. It was a beautiful house, huge and classic, refined yet comfortable. The huge foyer had an elegant curved staircase leading up. The foyer was so big, in fact, that even with its large central table and a few other objets d’art you could probably park three or four cars in it.

Maya and I proceeded to wander around the first floor. Maybe he was playing a game with us and we’d find a faux dead body. But I knew him well. There’d never be a real one.

There was a large formal living room with a fireplace, an even larger family room with a fireplace, which was almost a part of a relatively enormous kitchen (that included a dining table that seated ten) with a fireplace, a formal dining room with a fireplace, and a den. Needless to say, it too had a fireplace. A rough estimate in my mind: this floor had to be at least 3,000 square feet.

The house was fully furnished with beautiful craftsman-made furniture in mahogany, cherry, and other rich woods in Queen Anne and Chippendale styles. The sofas were plush, posh, but also homey. There was no place where I felt, “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t sit there.”

We took a quick peek upstairs at the five bedrooms, all but two of which had their own bathrooms. (Two of the bedrooms shared a bath, but there was another in the hallway on the landing.) The master bedroom was about the size of the living room with an enormous dressing room, walk-in closets, a freestanding tub, two showers and several other plumbed – and more personal – pieces.

On the landing we noted another, smaller staircase going to a third floor, but decided he probably wasn’t hiding up there.

Downstairs again we opened a few more doors, finding one to a basement and the other to a garage.

Back we went to the den. I opened the desk drawer and saw another envelope of the same stationery. In it I found a lengthy hand written document with a large post-it on the front.

The post-it read:

Patrice, you saved my life. I can’t express how dear I hold you. I hope you can accept these tokens of my appreciation. It’s the least I can do for an angel. Thank you. With my eternal appreciation and my love, Mace.

I had no idea what “these tokens” were. When I’d known him, he barely had a few pieces of change to put in his pocket.

Where was he and why was he playing this game? What the hell were the tokens?

I had a strange feeling. Was it something expensive? What was going on?

I had to sit down. I just felt it was something big. But where did he get the money from?

My skin grew suddenly cold and clammy, like when you go into shock. I started to hyperventilate.

Maya saw me starting to fade. She said, “Take deep breaths, Patrice. Try to relax. Deep breaths.”

“Yes. Good idea. Deep breaths, yes,” I said as she left to get me a glass of water.

I was a 30-ish single woman with not more than a few bucks in the bank. Two years ago I moved here from the Chicago area for a job. I rented a fairly casino oyna crummy studio apartment in a not-too-bad neighborhood because it was all I could afford. I wasn’t unhappy, but life had, well, been interesting.

Several minutes later I was still sussing out this mystery. Then it occurred to me that Maya had left to get me the glass of water a long time ago. Eventually she returned with a beautiful crystal glass of water.

“The kitchen has a bunch of styles of china, wine glasses, sterling, cloth napkins and tablecloths, each in sets for a dozen or maybe two. Plus there’s anything you could ever want to cook with,” she gushed. “I counted at least four ovens. The stove had either six or eight burners plus a griddle. There’s a huge refrigerator and a separate, but matching freezer. There are two dishwashers. And on the way back I noticed a laundry room the size of my entire one-bedroom apartment. It has two washers and two dryers, plus two sinks, a table for folding, and even a rack for drying things. What an amazing house. Does this guy live here?”

I remained speechless, but my breathing had almost returned to normal.

“This was the guy you saw every day for the first year you moved to Seattle?”

I nodded.

“It’s the guy I told you about. You know…” I replied lamely.

“Hold on a second. You and this guy saw each other every day for a year, after you got back from that business trip to the Riviera? You told me he had no money. And from what little you also told me or from what I could read between the lines, you saw a lot of one part of his anatomy. Then he just abandons you? And now, a year later, out of the blue he invites you to his multimillion dollar house? And he doesn’t even show up?” she asked me, stunned. “I don’t get it.”

“Well,” I told her, “I don’t know. You’re right, we did meet when I went to France for that week for business – Oh, it’s a long story. Let’s just leave it. He’s a really nice guy.” I paused, trying to figure out what was going on. Then I added more for myself than for Maya, “I know he’d never rob a bank.”

“You never exactly said it, but I got the distinct impression that you gave him blowjobs – a lot of blowjobs. You told me he had no money, right? So what’s he doing with this multimillion dollar home?”

“It’s not so much what I did. And it wasn’t the blowjobs… Well, it wasn’t just the blowjobs.”

I considered the history for a few moments, remembering our time together.

“You know, he did like my boobs,” I said.

“Patrice, every guy likes your boobs. Women, too, at least the ones not intimidated by them. I certainly like your boobs!”

“Nah, they’re just too big. I’m basically a couple of cantaloupes on a broomstick.”

“Shut up. Every woman wants to look like you.”

“Yeah, sure,” I generally didn’t like talking about my body, especially my breasts. They were a blessing and a curse. “What did you run that 10-K race in last month? It was under 40 minutes, right? Can you imagine running that, at – what did you tell me? – a sub-six-and-a-half minute pace with my boobs bouncing around on your chest?”

“That’s not fair. You know what I meant.”

“Let’s just drop it, OK?” I told her.

“So, tell me about him.”

I began thinking about our intimate relationship. But it was hard. Blowjobs really were so much of what we did.

“It’s – it’s complicated,” I said.

“You have to tell me, you know,” Maya said. “I’m your best friend. You have to. Maybe you could share some of your technique. I’ve always felt that I was never very good at sucking cock. Never had any complaints, but, I don’t know…”

Once I dismissed Maya’s request, I thought more about the whole story, about Mace and our time together. It didn’t turn out the way I’d expected, but still –

I guess I’d purposely tried to forget. But now, seeing his handwriting. And being in this mother of a house! I was suddenly agitated again.

Then I looked at what had appeared to be a journal. It was a stapled set of written pages. I found another envelope paper-clipped to it.

I couldn’t deal with what he’d written just yet so I opened this new envelope. Inside was an embossed fancy letter (essentially a gift certificate) to a restaurant on the Island that I’d heard was incredible. I’d never been there. The prices were sky high. Whenever I’d drive by it’d looked so inviting. Maybe that was his game: Spend some time in his house and then meet him for a nice dinner!

“What’s that?” Maya said.

“Well, I know where we’re going for dinner tonight. And they’re supposed to have an amazing wine list too,” I told her.

I returned to the journal and began to scan the first few pages. I laughed a little. It brought up a lot of memories, most quite wonderful, but a tad maudlin.

I couldn’t continue reading. I put the paper down on the desk.

Maya said, “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me? You have to. You know you do.”

She was right. I’d told her bits and canlı casino pieces of what Mace and I had been up to, but she never met him. None of my friends ever did. When we were together, it was just the two of us.

Maybe if she read it from his point of view she’d understand a little. I was embarrassed to tell her myself, though. I wondered how much the journal covered, but I just couldn’t look at it.

“Here,” I said finally, handing her the paper.

Maya began reading, scanning through the first few pages, apparently looking for “the good stuff.” After just a few moments she stopped and looked at me.

“Wow, this guy really had the hots for this woman. That was you, wasn’t it?” Maya asked. “Tall, thin, beautiful smile, big boobs. It’s you.”

I said nothing as she began to read in more detail.

“OK. This is good stuff. Amazing stuff. You know, there is a separate, full-sized wine refrigerator in the kitchen too. Let me go get some. We’ll adjourn to the lovely living room in your friend Mace’s house and I’m going to read this aloud.”

I wandered in a daze back to the living room and noticed a concert grand piano, which had not registered before. And it was a real concert grand, maybe nine or ten feet long, the size you’d see in a concert hall. It was too big for almost any home, but it fit right in here.

I remained incredulous. What was going on?

Maya returned with a bottle of vintage Burgundy and two glasses. She placed them on a large, elegant coffee table with two facing sofas on either side and the fireplace on the wall beyond. After we’d each plopped down on our own sofa, she poured the wine and we made ourselves comfortable as the late afternoon sun’s golden rays streamed in. Although the place was huge it still felt warm and homey.

We each took a sip of the wine. It was extraordinary. I looked at the label and noticed that it was a nine- or ten-year old La Tâche from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. This beautiful bottle of wine probably cost more than I paid for my car two years ago. Literally. I know my wines – I can’t afford to buy them – but I know them. That must have been at least a three- or four-thousand dollar bottle.

Mace certainly had upped his financial bracket! He was probably in the ten percent of the one percent.

In my head I silently toasted to Mace. He wrote that I saved his life. What a sweet man. Well, he had certainly changed mine for the better also. It was almost too much to get my head around.

“OK.”

I was awoken from my reveries by Maya.

“Here goes.”

Maya began to read.

Mace’s Story

Before I begin my tale, I need to get something off my chest.

I remember it every time I hear it: “A man your age.” That seems to be the part of what stays with me, regardless of who is saying something or what he or she is saying. A man your age!

OK. It more than stays with me. It makes me crazy mad. I hate those four words.

Pardon the introductory agitation. (It just gets my goat.)

I will begin my story herewith.

A few of the women were topless, but most were wearing their bikini tops. (Of course every one was wearing bottoms. It was a public beach after all.) Still, as a man with at the least a mini-obsession with breasts for all of his adult life, the scenery was delightful.

Then I saw a woman who was in a class of her own.

She had that air of aloofness about her, as though no one else existed. I remember discussing this with other women I’d known. They’d explained that as soon as they made eye contact with men around them, it was as though it was open season and they were fair game for men’s attention. I could understand that.

However, if she had not wanted to draw attention to herself, she should not have worn that hot neon pink bikini. Other than knowing that women with attractive figures look great in them, I don’t have much knowledge about bikinis. I did have a girlfriend once with very large breasts. I enjoyed buying her bras, however, and she enjoyed putting on a show, modeling how good she looked in them. But, I never saw her in a bikini.

The bikini on this woman, though, had underwires, so I made some assumptions.

Let me just state that I love women and treat them respectfully. It’s a fact, though, that I do enjoy looking at them and, in doing so, often scrutinize their looks. This never went over well with my ex.

Many of the bikinis worn by other women on the beach had a cloth triangle over each breast. As I looked around at the other beachgoers, mostly in their twenties and thirties, an almost equal number had underwires, though. And it was the underwires in the hot neon pink bikini that piqued my curiosity.

As I continued surreptitious staring (possibly bordering on “ogling”), I wondered if that meant that her breasts were large, spherical and full. From what I could see they looked round, like there were grapefruits or even water balloons in that top.

On the other hand, it kaçak casino could mean that they were low-slung and pendulous, and just the function of the compression of all that breast flesh into a confined space made them look larger or less saggy or rounder than they actually were.

Of course I was being a sexist pig just by staring at her, not to mention my insensitive judgments about her breasts. As I stated, I do enjoy seeing a shapely woman in a bikini – or out of one, for that matter – with underwires or without.

But who was I to judge? In truth, it didn’t really affect me. I might as well have been invisible.

I was all washed up. I was a middle-aged man with little but regret and failed dreams. My lifetime of supporting my family, working too much, making an extremely good living, saving and investing aggressively for the future and seeing my children grow was a past that I’ll never have again.

Sometimes in life things go your way and sometimes they don’t. You take what life gives you.

On the bright side though, I was alive and mostly healthy. There was nothing to be done about what happened in the past. There was only the present. And, if things worked out with this French doctor’s experimental research, maybe a future that would include a healthy sex life.

So for the time being, I was here on this lovely beach on the French Riviera having a hard time not staring at that slender girl in the bikini. And who knows? Maybe after beginning the doctor’s regimen, whatever it may be, my sexual function will return to the way it was when I “had it all.” And though the odds were infinitesimal, should the chance ever present itself, I might be able to satisfy a woman again.

It was the way the woman in the bikini rolled over, the way her breasts, although cradled in the skimpy material of the generously sized underwired cups, moved to a rhythm all their own. I never got a look at her face, but her body, her very long slender body, was stunning: cute, small, tight butt; nice firm and toned legs and arms; and a flat stomach. Then there were the current objects of my interest and desire, her well-shaped and overly massive breasts. They were certainly natural, that I could tell even from a distance.

And now I couldn’t stop staring at them. Most of the other people on the beach seemed to have little interest, but most of the others were coupled or with families. I was one of the few single people there.

I began to fantasize about the woman. And although I couldn’t see her face, I was sure she was attractive. I wondered what her soft skin would feel like, what her womanhood’s wetness would offer, what those breasts would feel like in my hands and especially what her mouth would feel like wrapped around my hard cock.

It was there the problem lie, though. It all rested on tomorrow’s doctor’s appointment. Would the treatment work? Would it ever be submitted for FDA approval? And in fact, what was the treatment? In all that I’d read the exact regimen was kind of vague. It involved a man’s own DNA that was somehow treated and then reintroduced into the body.

What the hell did that mean?

For the time being, just feeling hopeful – and staring at that lovely creature who was probably half my age – was good enough. Tomorrow in the physician’s office: It will be what it will be. For now my fantasy was just fine.

Part 1. The Night Before

That evening I treated myself to a nice dinner at a restaurant away from the hubbub of the beach at Nice and its popular beachfront strand. I’d never been to Èze, France, a small town, most of which was nestled on cliffs between Nice and the tiny country of Monaco. The restaurant had a nice view of the Sea and my meal and a half-carafe of wine were wonderful.

After dinner, I found the surprising “extra” the restaurant had: a bar, just up a flight of stairs, on its roof and open to the sky.

The sun had set but its memory lingered to the west. In front of me, far below, were the beaches of southern France and the seemingly endless Mediterranean Sea.

The beautiful vista and some wonderful cognac, unfortunately, brought back memories, painful ones. My ex-wife and I had vacationed in France several times. Even after we had the kids we took them to some of the countries of Europe, exploring them as a family and showing them architecture, art, famous ports, historic sites, and beautiful countryside.

Now, after the financial collapse of nearly ten years ago and the unhealable rift between my wife and me, I had little money, a small, rented apartment in Seattle, an older model car and almost no friends. To make matters worse, although I still loved to look at women and would love to be with one, it had been years since that had happened. Mostly this was due to the functioning of my equipment.

I remembered some hot nights both with my ex-wife and before with other women, screwing my and her brains out. I used to be great in the sack. In fact, I was extraordinary, if I may blow my own horn. Although I wasn’t extremely large, I thought I was large enough. What I excelled at was quantity, in two senses of the word. I always produced a good quantity of semen and I had great recuperative powers.

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