Little Bird

Erotica and reality

The banging on my front door took me by surprise.

I supped my second cup of coffee whilst reading the newspaper. My wife Grace was going to the fish market with friends. The girls were at college and Uni. I would write another hot story for Sensual Bytes to post on Webnovel later.

Even as I put off, Pappus and Sonder long overdue for an editing tweak!

Yeah, early retirement is bliss when you're left alone.

Still, Grace nagged me to tackle the downstairs bathroom renovations, and the garden needed its autumn tidy.

I looked at the kitchen wall clock: Geez, it wasn't even nine: a bit early and brusque for online deliveries.

God, what had internet retailers suckered the girls into buying this time?

Every nook and cranny of the house was already awash with body scrubs and cosmetics and in vogue for maybe the next month: scented candles and brand-name exercise lycra.

I opened the front door.

"Oh, thank god someone is home," said Ella, looking quite upset, "I called Mum's boyfriend, but he had a plumbing job; there is no one to help the poor thing."

"Slow down," I said, standing there taking in petite blonde Ms Ella H at her flushed, needy best.

Skittish, near flighty, like a little bird.

Closer than I had seen her in a long time.

Right then, a young female in distress.

Why else would a twenty-year-old girl pester a fifty-five-plus-old bloke this early in the day? If at any time in her life?

I mean, I knew Ella and her mum as neighbours.

Just the polite 'hi 'and the occasional wave and generic letterbox chats and looking out for each other's place when the other headed away on holiday.

But in reality, Ms H was just my neighbour's daughter, a year younger than my eldest at Uni. Whilst my twins were at college.

I squizzed enough without being a genuine sticky beak; she was a good-looking young blonde.

Okay, I knew that her boyfriend slept over; his panel van often parked in their driveway, and she worked at a retail outlet with some blue uniform top she wore.

However, her life, her body, drifted into realms beyond me.

"Mr Moore, there's a little bird in the wood heater; it came down the flue, flapping wildly. I'm too scared to let it out; it will fly around. I don't know! Please help."

I saw her eyes well up, close to tears.

Yeah, guys are suckers for helping little birds.

"Okay, I will come over and take a look. I think I know what to do," I said.

I put on flip-flop shoes from near the front door and followed her over the dewy grass to the next door.

She was still in her pj's, cute light pink flannelette, with delightful red poppies and little strutting birds.

The shape of her butt was ill-defined in the loose pyjamas.

She moved quicker than me, the only reason I traipsed behind her.

A naughty thought crossed my mind.

I bet she slept naked when her boyfriend stayed over.

Her front door fanned open.

I had never been in her place. My wife had. But that's women; my Grace managed to check out the whole cul de sac for one reason or another: friendships- past and present; garage sales, real estate open houses, etcetera.

I followed Ella's shoulder-length, uncombed blonde hair, taking a left from the foyer hall into the lounge area.

I heard the flapping, agitated commotion of the bird stuck in the wood heater.

It was as I thought: a juvenile starling. The bane of suburbia. Usually, they nest under the eaves and regularly line the pockets of the pest removal guys. This one, complete bird brain, had come straight down the flue.

"It woke me, and it looks terrified," said Ella, who realised I was looking at her.

She became aware that she was still in her pj's in her rush.

Modest pyjamas, but not how I usually saw her.

"Oh, sorry; I didn't change. I just wanted to help it. I look okay, don't I?" Ella queried.

I knew what she meant; decent, low-key attire. The flannelette top gave no hint of her breast shape. She wore floppy, comfy pj's.

"Oh sure; you're fine. I hadn't noticed," I lied; "Nothing to worry about; let's free the bird."

I outlined my plan. Simple enough. Close all the curtains. Leaving only the window open nearly opposite the wood heater box as the apparent big chunk of light. I hope the bird instinctually reacted when I opened the glass firebox door.

Ella stood on the darker side and near their sofa. I was next to the small glass fire door. I flung it open.

The moronic bird made a swooping loop straight at Ella.

Must have thought the poppies on her pjs were berries. 

Ella fem-yelped, "Yow!"

Then she toppled backwards onto the lounge.

I went to shoo the starling but tripped on a tangle of mobile phone recharge power cords.

Thats the truth of how I ended up face first in Ella's spongy tits, covered only by soft cotton pink flannelette.

The starling darted through the open window.

Gone, but I mentally thanked it.

God! Wow!

Ella's chest bounced cushiony.

I scrambled off her, but she moved up, too, and I got the most delectable feel of her nipple as I swayed back on my feet because Ella sprung up too, but nearly right against me.

Not even a rice paper could have slid between us.

I didn't say anything.

But my stare: she was experienced enough to know the male want look.

She said: "I suppose one good turn deserves another," as she unbuttoned her pink cotton top, and I wasn't counting little birds or poppies.

Wow, did she have perky delicate tits and long pink nipples?

"Your mum, your boyfriend," I blurted stupidly.

So much for having learnt anything from writing erotic fantasy.

And just before her tongue tip twirled in my mouth, she said: "Paul, dumped last week."

I processed a dark panel van and tagged the name Paul to it.

But I was more interested in my cock, which was being processed by Ella's magical fingers.

She grabbed my pecker out of my pants faster than I could have got my zipper down in the first place.

She launched, immediately cock therapeutic.

Was I being rewarded for saving the little birdie?

Or had accidental touch launched sexual sway?

"Mmm," I managed repeatedly.

Ella knew how to tug and jerk a guy and fondle even an aged nut sack.

I had no time to feel like a cheating bastard on Grace or consider how I would react; next time, I said "Hi" over the fence to Mrs Caroline H.

My tongue reciprocated a salivary exchange with hot blonde Ms Ella.

My fingers enjoyed the fleshy mould and weight of her nubile breasts and hard, long nipples.

I was curious to know how far she would take an old bloke.

I could only hope.

Hope had nothing to do with it.

My pants collapsed down. My blonde nubile neighbour hit her knees, sucking me off with gusto. A decadent, full pleasure-trapping action.

My cock tip raced to excited.

Suddenly, I took a risk.

The cock workout was great. But I knew I would never get this chance again. I eased her up and gently removed her pj top.

She was supremely comfortable and confident with her incredible body.

I eased her elastic pyjama bottom down from her hips and then let it slide to her ankles.

She stepped out of it.

Ella was all eye candy. Flesh shaped for male lust. Her hips were hourglass, divine. Her little pad of fatty flesh above her trimmed, true blonde pubic mound was soft to my touch. Her navel impressed as a slit of immediate pressing fun.

Her trim, fuzzy, frizzy blonde pubes were exciting to trace. Her pussy lips: were dewy, fem-damp, silky, sticky and ready.

She arched noticeably, a quiver, a quaver, a bird-like flicker, and gently sighed with my soft touch.

God, I was tender.

Man, did I use every pussy pleasing skill I had learnt from listening to women since my college days about how they really wanted to be touched?

Elegant pressure, then release—a subtle tweaking of the super sensitive to its pinnacle of reward.

"Ooh, yes, ooh, yes," her voice fluttered.

Ella quivered like a soft mould. Her pussy was shaped to my finger's outlining.

I maintained sensuous kissing and lip nibbling to arouse.

I eased her body over the edge of the sofa. Only a dogging could shape this memorably.

There is nothing more to really say in words.

Words fail before the wonder of urgent, pressing, conjoined shared privates.

Still, it was so awesome that I have to try.

Ella was a sensational fuck. She had a cock gripping pussy that provided continual rising male satisfaction with each of my generous thrusts.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm," she murmured.

My hands kneaded and slid over her smooth, enticing skin as I nailed her

The pleasure was apportioned equally by nature to a mature man and a supple young woman.

No more.

No less.

But we were embracing the exponential bliss for two in the minutes of its binding.

She tried to stifle her pleasure-filled moans. But her pink facial flush matched her strewn pj's.

"Orrgh, yes, orrgh, yes," she yelped.

I creamed her well and safely; a vasectomy has its uses, after all.

Did I feel good? 

Hell, yes, I was deeper into life than one of my constructed Sensual Bytes fantasies.

Unspoken embarrassment finally hit home as she redressed whilst I zipped and tucked.

We had nothing fastening in life now that the sex moment was filled.

The human base need lay sated for two.

Nothing followed: we composed our socially acceptable, constructed, careful, and clothed concealed personas again.

I mumbled, "I should go," and backed towards the front door.

Ella followed me.

I stepped down the front steps.

She offered politely, holding her front door: "Thank you."

Demure and petite, once again in her soft flannelette little bird and bright poppy pj's.

The printed birds suddenly fixed stationary before my eyes.

And I knew the thanks wasn't the sex, though I, at least, already had that memory stored delicately and lushly away.

It was the bird.

Though occasionally in life, we know, the same words imply a dual meaning.

Maybe on a doorstep, maybe not.

She flipped back her hair quicker than a darting humming bird.

I paced quickly across my lawn without a glance back.

Inside my home, my coffee confronted me, stone cold.

Yet, I had an unbelievable story.

Should I write it?

I considered my options, tapping around my laptop.

Then, I did what I currently enjoy; sharing human sexual awe and reverence for sex.

Bugger any guilt. 

Though a tad, before I started writing, I rang and booked a swanky lunch and a wine tasting for Grace and myself tomorrow.

Then my keyboard tapped furiously: The banging on my front door took me by surprise…