Me and Mrs. Jones

Me and Mrs. Jones is a work of Fiction.

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♪Me and Mrs. Jones,
We got a thing goin’on,
We both know that it’s wrong,
But it’s much too strong.♪
Billy Paul – Me and Mrs. Jones

I walk nude through the open living area, taking in the expanse of the pacific through the floor to ceiling windows. There’s a slight breeze coming off the ocean, whispering through the palm trees. The mornings are always so quiet here at La Jolla. It’s my favorite time of day. Not because of the stillness before the chaos of tourists and the ritzy people who live it the area, but because of Mrs. Jones, who lives next door.

Each day, she goes for a walk on the beach, then dips into the tepid water for a swim or surf, naked as the day she was born. It’s become a bit of routine for me to wait for her at the top of the hill, safely tucked behind the glass wall of my home. I don’t think she knows that I look forward to this each day, or that I watch her and think about diving into her deep well, but I’ve become a bit obsessed. She’s an older woman, older than me, by at least twenty years. But that only makes me want to watch her and fuck her all the more.

I’ve always loved older women. Their curves are fully developed. The years adding places for my hands to hold as I thrust deep into their cores. Their breasts are fuller, fitting inside my hands only to spill out and be caught with my mouth and tongue. They take care of themselves in a way that younger women have yet to learn. They know what they want, and are willing to take it, in life and the bedroom. They’re confident to talk about anything and ask questions when they don’t know answers. Perfection.

Seeing Mrs. Jones come up the path, I place one hand on the window, leaning forward to get a better view. She’s like a goddess in the way she walks. Her hips swaying side to side. Her breasts bounce with each step, my eyes bobbing up and down like a ping pong ball as I watch. She’s kept herself trim over the years and her waist and buttocks are firm and smooth. Her legs are long and lean, her body kissed a golden brown from the years of walking in the California sun. Her hair is long and still carries its chestnut hue, minus the hint of grey at her temples. She’s temptation, personified.

Coming to the top of the trail, Mrs. Jones stops at the outdoor shower, turning it on. The spray is cool in the morning, not having been heated by the sun’s rays. With no preamble, she steps into the cold stream. Her mouth opens as she gasps against the sudden chill, her nipples becoming hard as diamonds, goosebumps materializing on her flesh.

I watch, entranced, as she runs her hands up her thighs, toward the apex, one finger brushing over her clit lightly. Her hands continue up past her full hips, over her tapered waist. Taking each swollen breast in hand, she massages the round globes, tugging on her nipples gently. This is new. I have not seen this before. I lean my forehead against the window to get as close as possible, not wanting to miss a thing.

Turning Mrs. Jones lets the water cascade down her back, over her glorious ass. Watching it flow, over her and think of my hands running over the expanse of her skin. I Wonder what she would feel like. Would her skin be firm and moldable, soft and easily pliable? As smooth as it looks? How would it feel against my tongue? My body? My fingers twitch at the thought.

Turning back around, I watch Mrs. Jones slowly dip one hand between her golden thighs. Slowly, she starts rubbing herself in small circles. Releasing a groan, I take my cock in hand, becoming aware of its hardened state. I think about how her hand would feel wrapped around my steel shaft, and have to squeeze myself tight to stop from coming, a moan escaping me.

Giving herself more space, Mrs. Jones places one leg up on the ledge of the shower. Her pussy on full display, the pinkness of her core peaking through her luscious outer lips. I dip my tongue out, moistening my bottom lip, wishing for just a taste of her honey. Just a breath of her musk.

Leaning back against the shower, Mrs. Jones picks up her pace, moving her hand faster, the circles tighter. Using the other, she separates her flesh, sinking two fingers into her wet heat. My cock jerks in my hands and I stroke harder, matching her pace. Watching her pleasure herself is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m so close to coming that I stop to squeeze myself, not wanting to miss her finale. My body is now fully pressed against the glass, my erection hugged between the chilly glass and my too-warm body. The difference in temperature adding to the pressure.

Closing her eyes, Mrs. Jones throws her head back, her mouth forming a perfect “O” and I watch with relish as she thrusts against her fingers one final time, coaxing her juices to run from her and mix with the flow of the shower. My cock jumps in response, pouring my seed over my hand and onto the pane of glass. The pearly strands evidence to my voyeurism.

I lean both hands against the window to catch my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest, my breathing ragged and laboured. Mrs. Jones shuts off the water, turns in place, and looks up directly at me. She kisses her hand and blows it my way before giving me a smile and finishing her walk up the path to her door. “Busted!” I think, and yet, I can’t wait for tomorrow

Header image for Me and Mrs. Jones found on Canva.

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