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The movie Pleasantville was about two modern teenagers who found themselves transported into a 1950’s sitcom. This is a derivative fantasy, because I have this thing for a certain sidekick of a daffy redhead sitcom star..

I  noticed her the first day I moved into the building. When I knocked on her door to get the keys, she was talking to her friend, the redhead.  Bertha gave me a big smile, handed me the keys, and said  “I’ll come by later to walk through the unit with you. I want you to be happy here.”  The emphasis was on happy.

“And I want to be a tenant that you’re satisfied with,” I answered, emphasis on satisfied.

Good to her word, she came up an hour later, The movers had yet to arrive and we walked through, noting a few plaster cracks, a slow drain, nothing major.

” Somebody needs to tend to that crack.”

“That’s not the only crack that needs attention,”  she casually remarked. I was left wondering about the obvious double entendre, thinking no woman is that obvious unless….

As a matter of course, her husband Ed came up, spackled the cracks, and offered to paint the apartment with a shade of ugly green interior paint, of said paint I suspect he bought massive quantities at a war surplus auction.  The color was both jarringly familiar and deserved to be forgotten.

“Uh, Ed, how about I pick my own color. I’ll even paint the place myself and to top it off, I will buy the paint myself.”  He could not have been happier had I told him the winner of the next race at Hialeah. 

That Saturday, I found myself, roller in hand, painting the apartment a shade of off white, that was easy on the eyes, gave a sense of depth,  and would be a suitable background for the paintings I planned on buying from aspiring, but hungry artists in Greenwich Village.

Around two, with the Metropolitan Opera broadcasting  Carmen  on the radio, I heard a knock on the door. Bertha was here to check things out. She wore perfume today, Chanel No. 5, and her makeup was exquisite, the lipstick a shade of red that Marilyn would envy.

“Nice job. Looks like you can handle your chores  quite, uh, satisfactorily.”

“I’m quite the handy guy.  Look, I was about ready to take a break. There’s some pop in the fridge. Let me clean my hands.”

“I’ll get the drinks.”

Minutes later, she was sitting on the couch, soft drink in hand. I noticed the top two buttons of her shirtwaist were unbuttoned.  I sat in the armchair near her, staring at her cleavage, wishing for the X-ray vision, only Superman possessed . Knowing then and there that her rather overt seduction had worked, I moved to the couch, took the pop bottle from her hand, placed it on the  end table. 

“Ed’s at the hockey game at the Garden. He’ll be gone a while. Rangers vs. Red Wings. He’s a big fan of Gordie Howe.”

“Well I’m a big fan of you. and I was wondering if you were wearing that girdle you had on the first time you were here.”

“Time to find out.”

I took her head in my hands, guided her lips to mine and kissed  her long and deep. My hands then caressed her, found their way to that sweet ass. Lifting the skirt, I found neither girdle, nor panties, for that matter. Somebody came prepared to play.

I reached in my pocket, pulled out a rubber, tore open the package and before I could do another thing, she volunteered to help. Placing the rubber in her mouth, she put the rubber on with lips. The last time I had help like that,  was in Tijuana, fresh from boot camp, and ready to prove to Lourdes, who claimed to be the cleanest whore in Mexico, what kind a swordsman an eighteen year-old Marine could be.

Bertha approached fellatio like a true connoisseur  of cock.  It was a lost-in-the-moment blow job, where only our lust for a fuck prevented a climax, then and there. 

Always a firm believer in reciprocity, I slowly began licking that beautiful vagina offered for my delectation. I took my time, enjoying her smell, her wetness, her  cunt folds, her hard clit, letting her tell me when she wanted more. Grabbing my cock she guided it inside her. I held her close at first, then shifted to put her legs on my shoulders, driving in deep. She would grind into me after every one of my thrusts.

I couldn’t tell which of us came first. I didn’t care.  Afterwards, we just lay still. I slowly stroked her hair, kissed her lips.

“Oh my God, the time!” she cried.  Somebody is expecting a roast tonight and the meat needs to go in the oven.

She bolted up, smoothed her skirt, straightened the seams of her stockings, fixed her hair.

And she was gone.  For a little while anyway. 

 

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