I pulled her dress up. The fabric, which had been clinging to her legs, rode up her thighs. Past her knees. Past her hips. The panties—white cotton, practical, the same kind her daughter wore—were visible. I pulled them down. They fell to her ankles. She stepped out of them.
Her pussy was thick. The lips, full and dark, were covered with hair—black, like Yuki's, but thicker. The mound, which was full, was wet with rain and something else. I could smell her through the downpour.
I grabbed her thighs. Thick, soft, strong from years of standing and walking. I lifted. Her back pressed against the wall. Her legs, which I held apart, wrapped around my waist. My cock, which had been hard since the balcony, found her entrance.
I pushed in.
She was tighter than I expected. The walls, which had been unused—or used gently, by a husband who was past his prime—gripped. The heat inside her was a contrast to the cold rain. I groaned. My hips drove forward. The cock, inch by inch, sank into her.
