.well.. I am looking for my son," George said. "I understand youwere once his neighbour...sort of..."His hesitancy and manner reassured Joyce, who had effectively dealt withfar less timid men all her life, that she should welcome this visitor."Come in please. You are Mr...?" Call me George, please."For half an hour the pair chatted amiably in the considerable snug asJoyce related her brief knowledge of his son John and how they hardlyever saw one another, he being a student and she working in a make-updepartment of a large city store.She stroked her satin skirt, then her stockings as she responded to hisquestions. Occasionally she arose from her chair and offered George acigarette or a drink, both politely refused before she lit one forherself, her ruby red fingernails delicately balancing a cigaretteholder while her moist lipstick left its mark on the ebony holder as itrested in a nearby ashtray.Now and again she fluttered her long false eyelashes before crossing herlegs, an audible. .."What did she feel?"Tell me." Aching..." And she moaned as the still steady flick of her fingernail up and down against the tip of her quivering clit brought slight, steady convulsions out of her."A little faster, a little more firm," was all he said.With every stroke of her finger tip, with slightly more pressure pressing against her clit, she felt it began to be pulled slightly...every so slighty...up and down with each stroke of her finger tip. Up...and down...the delicious sensation as her clit struggled out from under her finger, pushing back against the gently, fluttering sensation of her movement.Up...and down...up...and down...and she moaned."Faster, but no firmer."Now the sensation was like a buzzing, almost like the small vibrator she kept in the drawer right next to her. She loved her little rocket, but this...she sense of abandon, of another man's will guiding the rapid flicking and fluttering or her finger against her pulsing clit...this was...this was something else.
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