Mrs Jordan’s Wedding Ring

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Just a quick stroker inspired by a thread in the Fetish section of Lit.

A young man kicks his football over the fence and into the neighbour’s garden. And how was he to know she was out there sunbathing?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the piece. There’s a wife involved in the action – the wife of another man, not the young chap who ogles her big boobs. So if you’re going to be offended by such a scene, don’t read any further. I’d be interested to see if any of the LW ‘real-men’ heed that advice, even though I intend to submit this one to Fetish.

Okay, I’ll shut up and get this down the line. If there are errors in the text, I apologise; I hope they don’t detract from any pleasure you might get from my humble offering. Feedback is appreciated.

GA – Hue, Vietnam – 7th of June 2014.

The enduring memory is the moment her expression changed, her mouth going from a big O of surprise to a vulpine smirk, lips angled in a sly grin as her head tilted and her left hand came up, wedding band and the big rock on the engagement ring glinting in the afternoon sun.

Don’t ask me how, but when I saw her face I knew with absolute certainty I would experience the delight of her comfortable body. I’ve analysed that moment innumerable times over the three and a half decades since, and I’m still no wiser to knowing how I came by such prescience.

One theory I’ve since mulled over is the arterial burst of desire I experienced at seeing her voluptuous curves, that ripe body almost bare in that blue two-piece, endowed me with reckless confidence. If the deep, visceral yearning for Mrs Jordan hadn’t been uncoiling inside me I probably wouldn’t have been as bold as I was – lust feeding on itself as it were. But the sight of her all tanned, those big boobs bubbling from the bikini top and the symbols of matrimony on her finger tugged at some indefinable place, neither guts nor gonad, the image tilting me into a crazy frame of mind.

Another theory is that Mrs Jordan was just plain old horny, a lady of a certain age whose husband worked on the rigs in the North Sea, him being absent weeks at a time. My appearance at the back fence might have coincided with the sun on her skin warming Mrs Jordan’s libido, pure chance working in my favour, the woman’s expression triggering a response inside me I was blind to on a conscious level.

Perhaps I simply saw her look and intuited the meaning.

Either way that moment is fixed in my mind’s eye: Mrs Jordan’s face and those rings on the third finger of her left hand.

The die was cast, as they say, from then on – a confident woman aware of her own sexual allure, and let’s call her mature instead of tying her down to any particular age, would forever more possess the ability to stir me on a carnal level. Even now, if I see a lady with a swivel to her hips, a glint in her eye, and a ring on her finger, if there’s a hint of willingness on her part…

Why, I simply can’t find it in me to resist.


I don’t know who was more surprised: me because I encountered the sight of Mrs Jordan almost nude, or her because she was confronted with my slack-jawed countenance after my head suddenly popped up over the garden fence.

I know I was gawping at her as she blinked back at me, with Mrs Jordan on an old canvas deckchair while I was perched with the toes of my running shoes wedged against the short plank I’d angled against the wooden slats.

“That almost hit me,” Mrs Jordan said. “It landed less than a foot away.”

My eyes flicked away from Mrs Jordan’s curves and took in the errant football I’d sent flying into her garden, then went straight back to ogling all that bare skin.

And that’s when desire grabbed me and squeezed hard. Lust surged, my throat swelled, desperation yawed all hollow and empty in the pit of my stomach. All of it hitting me as Mrs Jordan levered herself up off the deckchair, sitting upright, breasts rolling.

That was the pivotal moment, the very second a life-long predilection for a woman wearing a wedding band was born. Her expression shifted, Mrs Jordan’s look going all sly as her hand came up to her face and those rings sparkled.

As I boggled, cock swelling, her voice came to me all thick and curdled, the whisky soaked timbre teasing me while her eyes held me fast. “I suppose you want your ball back?” she said, smirking.

The image of her naked came to me then. In my mind’s eye I saw Mrs Jordan on her back, legs wide, big breasts bare while her sex glistened all pink and hot, winking at me through the mass of her dark pubic bush – although my perception, I’d find out soon enough, would turn out to be erroneous in certain elements of those details.

As I balanced on that plank, with my fingers gripping the top of the fence, the certainty hit me like a train: I would experience that very scene. Mrs Jordan would lie before me all bare and inviting and hot-eyed.

I was most definitely going to fuck her.

I gulped, swallowing down the balloon suddenly ulus escort lodged in my throat before I managed to croak, “Yes please.”

“Come and get it,” Mrs Jordan invited, and I’ve come to the conclusion since that the double entendre was entirely intentional.

I scrambled over the fence like a soldier on an assault course, six-foot planks were nothing to a nineteen year-old, especially one all fired up and hot on the scent.

Mrs Jordan grinned at me. “You could have used the gate.”

The heat rushed to my face at that, and I stood there for a moment or two feeling foolish. It would have been easier to have walked the length of our garden, exited via the gate, turned left, moved a few paces along the lane between the houses and the council estate garages, and then entered Mrs Jordan’s garden.

But then the embarrassment faded as I continued to gape at her.

“You look lovely in that bikini, Mrs Jordan,” I said. Words that would never have come out of me if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed with yearning, and I recall blinking in surprise as I heard myself mumble them.

That utterance possibly rates a two out of ten, probably only a one, on the finesse scale, but Mrs Jordan didn’t seem to mind. Her grin just widened and she flicked long black hair away from her face.

“Thank you,” Mrs Jordan beamed.

“Can I touch you?” I said, raging lust making me reckless. I was just so desperate for her I didn’t know what I was saying.

“That’s a bit saucy,” the woman replied.

That dampened my ardour a little. I could have taken that statement as a rebuke at the impropriety of my words, and I most certainly would have done if I hadn’t been all fired up and fizzing. As it was I had to stop myself from just lunging in and grabbing at her, an act which might have led to a completely different outcome.

“I-uh-I can’t help it, Mrs Jordan,” I whined. My eyes were all over her, taking in every sweep and curve – and didn’t Mrs Jordan curve in all the right places. “I’m sorry,” I added, mumbling. “But you look … I mean…” Then I sighed and shook my head, unable to vocalise exactly what it was I felt. How could I make her understand just how urgent my need was? I didn’t care anything for the future, all my existence was in the here and now, with everything concentrated on Mrs Jordan and the absolute desire I had for her.

Quite simply – nothing else mattered.

“You’re gorgeous,” I muttered.

Mrs Jordan stared at me for what felt like hours. I stood there, breath wedged at the back of my throat, limbs trembling. “You want to touch me?” she breathed, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“Oh, Mrs Jordan…” I croaked. Which was no answer at all except the hoarseness of the delivery spoke volumes.

“You want to touch my legs?” she asked, shifting her rump and throwing those appendages over the side of the deckchair. “You want to touch my boobs?” she added, her eyes fixed on my face, her voice barely a whisper by then.

All I could do in response was gawp and swallow heavily.

She kept on gazing at me as she asked, “How old are you?”


“You know I’m forty-two?

“…And you know I’m married?”

I didn’t know her age, and it didn’t matter to me anyway since all I could focus on was the seething ball of desire inside me. But I did know she had a husband, a man who spent weeks away on the North Sea oil rigs, a dark-haired bull of a man, all wide shoulders and bulging arms. A man capable of tearing me limb from limb.

I blinked and shrugged – I didn’t care about any of it. If I could get across Mrs Jordan just once I’d go to my maker happy.

Mrs Jordan held up her left hand. “See,” she said, “Twenty years.”

“I just want to touch you,” I croaked.

Mrs Jordan grinned at me again. “Well,” she said, head tilting. “I suppose that’d be all right. Touching isn’t too wicked.” She tipped me a lascivious wink. “Just my legs though.”


My shorts were around my shins.

Mrs Jordan held me in her left hand, the fist working the length of me, those rings right there working their magic and coaxing me towards my outpouring.

And I would have come for certain. Semen would have spurted from the eye of my cock and splashed everywhere, an indiscriminate spray of ejaculate, spunk spitting and raining down wherever; except, Mrs Jordan, with her bikini top dangling loose, big breasts swaying, released me and looked around at the neighbouring houses.

“Come inside,” she said, standing abruptly and almost sending me staggering backwards. “It’ll be more private.” Mrs Jordan glanced up again. “We don’t want anyone gawping.”

A few moments earlier, predictably, when I’d squatted to touch Mrs Jordan’s leg it hadn’t stopped there.

Her skin had been so smooth under my fingers, especially the velvet soft of her inner thigh. Lust, already burning, flared white hot when I squeezed that intimate part of her, my hand going to the packed yenimahalle escort gusset of her bikini bottoms. I pressed the flat of my hand there and heard her moan, the heat coming off her. Next, spurred on by the sound of Mrs Jordan’s groan I went for her breasts, with the woman herself hauling the bikini top up to let those heavy orbs swing free.

“Get up,” Mrs Jordan had then breathed while her eyes flashed with whatever carnal desires motivated her. “Let me see your cock.”

And when I’d stood up, the lewd instruction lending urgency to the action, Mrs Jordan just reached over and yanked my shorts to my knees.

That was when she’d grabbed me, a yelp of delight coming out of her.

“You lovely big boy!” Mrs Jordan squeaked, her fist already at me.

The next I knew she’d let go and risen to her feet, apparently concerned at our display being witnessed.

Mrs Jordan then tugged the bikini top over her head and walked away, hips swaying, buttocks jiggling.

She reached the kitchen door and paused to look back at me.

“Don’t just stand there with your gob hanging open,” Mrs Jordan called. She hefted her breasts in both hands, tips of her forefingers teasing her nipples.

There was nothing else but thoughts of Mrs Jordan, her big boobs and her wedding ring as I stepped out to follow her into the house. Which is why I nearly went arse over tit: I’d forgotten my shorts were round my ankles and almost sprawled headlong onto her lawn.

I kicked myself free, picking up my clothing, the odd sensation of fresh air round my nethers filtering through, my hard-on waggling and bouncing as I scuttled towards the house.

She was in the front room, which is what we called the big room with the bay window facing the road in our house. The houses along Blackpool Road were great, high-ceilinged places with deep coving and large windows, although Mrs Jordan’s place was fronted by a high hedge that kept our liaison clandestine. I could tell just by walking through the kitchen and into the hall that the houses were almost identical in layout, an architectural quirk that meant nothing to me in the moment – not when I walked into the room and saw Mrs Jordan on a boat of a settee, one hand inside her sole remaining item of clothing.

Of course Mrs Jordan used her right hand to diddle inside her bikini, which meant she was using her left hand on me again as I stood in front of her and she wanked my cock.

And could I stop staring at her rings? Absolutely not. There was just something about seeing her wedding band on the same hand she used to jack my dick that stirred me on some deep and elemental level.

“Whu-what about your husband?” I stammered, which might not have been the cleverest thing to say. If anything might have put her off and curtailed the unexpected afternoon delight, that question might have been it.

But, as it went, her reply almost floored me.

“He’s away just now.” The woman’s fist worked at me, eyes locked on where she jacked my length. “But he’ll be happy enough when I tell him what I’ve been up to. It’ll get him all worked up when I tell him about wanking and sucking and fucking your cock.”

If she hadn’t been tugging at me I think I would have balked at that moment. The news she was planning to tell her husband was all that filtered through, initially. Plus, to hear her drop all that profanity so casually was another blow to my already overwhelmed senses, and it took me a few seconds to realise Mrs Jordan had also mentioned something about her husband being happy about what she’d been up to with me.

It didn’t make much sense at the time – wife-swapping, as was the parlance back then, wasn’t something I knew anything about, although I would come to know quite a bit about the swinging scene later on in life.

In the end it was the sensations coming tingling from my cock that fixed my feet to the floor, with Mrs Jordan’s dishabille strengthening the glue.

“How about it?” Mrs Jordan murmured. “Does that sound good to you? Me wanking and sucking you, the two of us fucking?”

I think I whined in response, made a mewling noise and let out a grunt when the first splat of semen flicked from the end of my cock.

Fair play to Mrs Jordan: although she let out a yelp when the stuff splashed across her cheek, she didn’t flinch, simply kept on cranking as she raised up to present her chest as a target for the cum-spitting cannon.

The gloop pumped out of me, dollops of jizm spattering onto Mrs Jordan’s breasts while she squealed out, “You mucky bugger! Look at the mess.”

I was moaning and gasping, eyes wide as I surveyed the carnage, with Mrs Jordan milking the final ooze out of me.

She let go of my dick and flailed her fingers around near her breasts before using her hands to stop the slide of jizm from splatting down to ruin the carpet.

“You could have warned me,” she muttered, more to herself than me. Then she tunalı escort looked up, skin glistening with ejaculate. “Too excited, were you? Got you going, did I?”

Then, not that there was much sign of my ardour flagging, Mrs Jordan kept my cock hard by scooping semen from her chest with a forefinger and slipping it between pursed lips.

“Can you go again?” she asked, with her expression hopeful as she grinned at me. Mrs Jordan eyed my oozing jib and nodded, deciding I would be able to cope before she took hold of me and wrapped her lips around the cock-head.

“Oh…” I mewled, and Mrs Jordan laughed around me.

“Put it in and fuck me,” the woman purred after letting me plop from between her lips. She leaned back and shucked her buttocks off the settee, hands going to her bikini bottoms. “You’ve done it before, haven’t you?” she asked, thighs and knees and calves together, the garment then dangling from one thumb before being dropped, discarded and forgotten. “Or have I bagged a virgin?”

She hadn’t, not quite, although my experience was so far confined to a knee-trembler against the back wall of the garages along the lane behind the houses with Wendy Spiller. That and a confused afternoon beneath the covers of her single bed during which all the action was conducted under the cocoon of sheets and a heavy blanket. Wendy wasn’t much into baring it all; she had a thing about showing off her body – or rather not showing it off – which meant most of that encounter was conducted in braille. I have no idea why Wendy felt like that, it’s just the way she was at the time. She might have loosened up later, but I never found out, those two occasions were all we ever knew together.

However, if Wendy Spiller was shy, Mrs Jordan was the antithesis, a woman with few, if any, inhibitions; a lady who had no qualms about spreading her legs in front of such a callow youth.

And didn’t I just boggle when I gazed upon Mrs Jordan’s vulva for the first time. This was the mid-70s, a time not known for depilation as far as the pubic bush went, but it seemed Mrs Jordan was decades ahead of her contemporaries. These days it’s de-rigueur to be waxed or shaved or to sport some precisely sculpted hair around the pudendum, but on that late afternoon in 1976, seeing Mrs Jordan all smooth had me blinking with surprise.

“Are you?” sighed Mrs Jordan, meaning was I a virgin. Her fingers splayed meaty labia. “Or have you done it before?”

“I-uh-I’ve done it, Mrs Jordan,” I managed to mumble. “But–“

And the rest of the sentence went unsaid, lost in the tumble of impressions inside my head.

“Do you want to put it in?” the woman purred, fingers coated with jizm sliding into her opening. “I’m all wet. I could really use a nice big dick in my cunny.”

She was lewd and bare and magnificent, and I lunged at her as desire flared. I went at her, mauling tit flesh and slobbering kisses against her face, mindless to my own semen. I tugged my cock and knelt between her legs, with my knees on the sofa cushion while I held my cock and aimed at Mrs Jordan’s core.

It took some muttering and cursing and her guiding hand before I found her, my inexpert lunge managing nothing more than me butting up against Mrs Jordan’s thigh. But then, suddenly, with a gasp coming out of me, I was there. I felt Mrs Jordan’s molten embrace, heard her moan of pleasure, and I knew I was where I wanted to be – where she wanted me to be.

“Go on,” the woman mumbled when I paused, balls deep. She looked up from where she was scrunched double beneath me, her chin on her chest, knees hooked behind my arms by then, cunt uptilted and vulnerable. “Fuck me,” gurgled Mrs Jordan, a hand gripping my bicep. She dug her nails in and hissed, “Give me a seeing-to. I’m so fucking randy. I want your big cock all fucking night.”


I went back the next day and the one after that, and when I went calling again on the third afternoon I was soaring, my confidence rising at my ability to give Mrs Jordan the good news.

Although I did get a bit of a scare when, as I was fucking into Mrs Jordan from behind, my hands full of her tits, me crouched low over her back and with her muttering obscenities, I heard a distinctly male cough from the bedroom door.

“Hello, love,” Mrs Jordan squeaked. She held herself up off the bed on straight arms, rump presented to me while she grinned at her husband. “Are you going to join in or just watch?” Then, when she felt me sliding out of her, Mrs Jordan reached back and grabbed my hip, snarling at me to keep on bashing her.

My first instinct was to get out of there. I simply couldn’t accept a man would take kindly to seeing his wife enthusiastically taking a cock that wasn’t his. But, being up to my nuts inside Mrs Jordan, with all the attendant sensations her lush body and clenching insides elicited, went some way to keeping me in-situ.

I eyed the man nervously, prepared to launch myself out of the second storey window if needs be. After all, what were two broken ankles compared to mashed testicles?

However I needn’t have been concerned. Mr Jordan just looked at me, winked and then went for his belt buckle. “How about you suck this, Jen,” he said, an order not a question. “Let the lad give you a good time. It’d be a right shame to interrupt him when he’s doing so well.”

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