The Giggle Siren-A Late Season Lover That Laughed Her Way to Euphoria

An affair that probably shouldn’t have happened was the most hysterically-fun sex I ever had

“Heh-heh..hee heehee heee!” Mrs. Blume giggled like a schoolgirl.

Mrs. Blume was halfway through her fifties, but her personality was as lively and playful as a girl of nineteen, and while her body wasn’t as tight and pristine as in her younger years — she was a siren.

“Ohhh — ahh! Heeheehee!” Joy bubbled from her voice, and her pink-painted lips were spread in an exuberant smile.

Mrs. Blume’s fingers combed through my hair and massaged my scalp. Her legs, bent over my shoulders, pressed her heels into my back, pulling my mouth more firmly against her silky, soft treasure box. Then, raising myself from the sweet flood of her juices that slickened my lips, I asked, “You’re really having fun, aren’t you?”

“Oh darling, this is absolutely ridiculous!” then, pulling me up for a marvelous kiss, she added, “but you are absolutely wonderful!” Another kiss. “Now, please continue!”

And so I did.

I read this piece about giggling during sex from GB Rogut, and I smiled the whole way through.

Giggling Gaby made me remember my laughing lover. I hadn’t thought about Mrs. Blume in decades. She was an experience wrapped in a memory tucked away on the last row of recollections in the “never forget this” treasure box.

I was twenty-one then. I wish I could be twenty-one again (maybe just for a day or two.)

How does a single, twenty-one-year-old end up with a goddess more than twice his age having her legs draped over his shoulders and his hands cupping her incredible breasts?

I have no idea.

I wish I could tell you I had a plan or, at the very least, the idea of an intention of a plan. If I did, I would have repeated that modus operandi as often as opportunity would have allowed.

While dense in understanding it, I seemed to have a caliber of charm back then, and I flirted even when I didn’t mean to. But if and when the audience of my fortuitously forged together words reacted with a downward glance and a smile, or even better, a blush of the cheeks and batting of eyelashes? Well then, I followed the path I felt I must pursue because who could know what awaited at the end of the road?

Enough about me. Let’s return to beautiful Mrs. Blume and how I ended up between her terrific thighs.

My tiny mountaintop hometown was famous for mining and tourism, and our quaint city center held a collection of shops catering to the latter. At one of those shops, a souvenir store, Mrs. Blume worked as a cashier. Aside from the little knickknacks and trinkets, it was also the best place to find birthday cards and gag gifts, so with a friend’s birthday approaching, I stopped in to look for a card that would elicit a laugh while costing me as little as possible.

That’s when I first noticed her.

Standing behind the counter with her feathered hairstyle and wearing a blouse with the collar up and the buttons open, I couldn’t help but notice the lovely curves of her cleavage — she wasn’t showing off much, but it was enough.

Bringing my purchase to the counter, she smiled. I smiled back. She wore a touch of light blue eyeshadow and dark eyeliner that made her bright blue eyes pop. Soft, glossy, pink-painted lips revealed a wonderful smile when she handed me the bag and said, “Thanks. Come again, soon!” I walked out the doors, trying to recall whose birthday was coming up next.

A few days later, I entered the store again and shot a look over my shoulder at the smoldering vixen standing behind the counter. She raised her head ever so slightly and smiled at me. I smiled back and darted to the card rack. This time, without a birthday to buy for, I opted for a decal declaring the magic of our hometown.

At the counter, I smiled, and for an extra millisecond, I held her gaze; the beginning of a tiny smile creased the corner of her mouth.

When I returned again a day or two later, with another trinket highlighting our hometown, she made a remark.

“Seems like you’re collecting memorabilia like your moving away but don’t want to forget this place.”

My response, as they often do, came from an unknown place.

“No, but even if I did move away, I’d never forget you.” Somehow, I managed to say that and look her dead in those sparkling eyes. She blushed, smiled, and giggled.

Bravado rose to the occasion.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this all your life, but I’m telling you, just in case — my God, you’re gorgeous.”

Her fingertips touched mine when she passed the small paper bag holding my small purchase back across the countertop. This time she said, “Come back and see me soon.”

When I walked out of the store that time, it was with a small bag in my hand and a hot iron rod in my pants. “Did what I think just happened — happen?” I asked myself as I strolled away. “Yes, I think it did,” the devil inside answered.

I would love to say it was planning, that I was that cunning, but that wasn’t the case; it was nerves because I walked past that store for the next few days without going in. I had no follow-up, and my expectations were as high as my imagination. I thought about the possibility of Mrs. Blume’s nicely painted fingertips undoing those final two buttons holding her blouse together over her fabulous rack. I thought of her coming to my aid in shopping for a special gift. I thought of a lot more stuff. I kept walking by.

Then, God graced me with my best buddy’s birthday coming right up, and he was into model planes, and as luck would have it, the souvenir store had the best model selection in town. So I walked into the store with butterflies in my stomach but determination in my soul.

“Hi, there!” Mrs. Blume called softly from the counter. “What are you looking for today?” she asked.

“Hello, it’s great to see you again,” I replied. “Models. A birthday gift, my friend loves model planes, navy ships, and military helicopters; stuff like that.”

Mrs. Blume shot me that smile, and I felt my knees lock in place. Then, when she came around the counter, sauntering with a sway in her hips I wasn’t imagining, I started to feel very warm.

“We have some new ones right in the back,” she said, “I’ll show you. Follow me.”

“Fucking right, I’m following you!” The devil inside me cheered so loudly that I drew my hand across my mouth to silence him.

“We have some fascinating ones here. They seem quite complicated but probably well suited for him if he likes mature pieces.” She said.

“I think so. I know I certainly enjoy things that take a little more time and attention.” I answered.

Along the wall were shelves of models of all kinds. I took my time perusing different possibilities, and Mrs. Blume seemed determined to help find the right fit. Finally, after a few instances of watching her bend to a knee to retrieve a model from the bottom shelf and giving me luxuriously long glances down her blouse, she stood up, and I moved to step around her.

Placing a hand gently on her hip, I stepped behind her — she did not pull away. With a narrow aisle ready as the excuse, I rubbed against her ass with my groin as I maneuvered to her other side. I heard her take a breath and hold it.

I stood next to her and let my shoulder lean into hers ever so slightly. Mrs. Blume did not pull away then, without looking at me, she bent across my chest as she pulled a box from the shelf and whispered, “You’re nothing but trouble.”

And the devil was prepared.

“I can be anything you want,” I answered.

There are moments in life that are one-of-a-kind instances you never forget, and when Mrs. Blume turned to me, I watched her eyes darting left and right looking into mine — that was one of them.

“I think I saw a few new ones in the back. Come look with me.” She said.

A few seconds later, I stepped into the storeroom right behind her. Mrs. Blume turned around, her mouth opening to say something when I stepped in, slipped an arm behind her lower back and the other behind her neck, and pulled her in and kissed her.

It was the first time I heard that giggle.

She pushed me back slightly, brushed a few fingers through the hair above my ear, and then kissed me back. Slower, softer, and deeper.

Her kiss was the sexiest I’d ever had.

“My God, I must be twice your age!” she said, “Don’t you see a boring old wife when you look at me?”

“Mrs. Blume, I can’t speak for what your husband sees, but I’m looking at the sexiest woman in town, and we both agree with that,” I said as I took her wrist in my hand, bringing hers across the front of my pants giving her a feel of my youthful enthusiasm.

Then I kissed her again, and when her fingers gripped and squeezed, my fingers traced the curve of her cleavage, sprung a button loose, and slipped a fingertip inside her bra and across a thick, soft, firm nipple.

“You’re going to make me behave very badly,” She hushed into my ear, her fine teeth giving a small, firm bite into the lobe.

“Ding-a-ling!” The bell above the store entrance chimed.

“Thank God!” Mrs. Blume said, breaking our kiss and pushing me back. Then, buttoning back up and touching her hands to her hair, she stepped out of the storeroom, then turned around and said, “Don’t you come back out front for five minutes and have a bloody model with you when you do!” Then she gave a slight giggle and marched off.

I went shopping a few more times over the next week, and each time Mrs. Blume did her best to assist me in searching for just the right thing, but each time the store shelves seemed to be missing what I was looking for.

One afternoon, she mentioned that she would be taking a morning trip up the valley to check on how the huckleberries were coming along. I told her I had planned to fish the river that same morning and wouldn’t it be a funny coincidence if we met out in the woods.

The berry-picking buckets never left her trunk, and my fishing gear stayed stowed in my truck. But, under the shade of the big pines, I had Mrs. Blume every way I could manage inside my truck and then a few more outside of it.

There’s a profound difference between enjoying a woman of mature age and one that still wears the dew her first spring days.

Being with a young woman feels like that first summer swim in a mountain lake. Everything smells new, freshly touched, and incredibly sweet but followed by a fleeting sensation. And, of course, the way a young woman discovers her bravery, her sudden willingness to do more and want more — the silliness of stumbling with one another, the embarrassment of unexpected tangles and hesitations.

An older woman is drinking from a different fountain, one that makes you think that drowning is the best way to die. There is that switch from her appreciating everything you’re doing to her, savoring every inch, touching every curve, tasting every corner, to her taking what she wants, precisely how she wants it.

With me, Mrs. Blume felt like a bottle of champagne, stored carefully on the shelf for a long time, and now finally needed to pop her cork — she was the definition of effervescent. Bubbly, giggly, and lively, I was drunk on her and gloriously refilling my glass.

Mrs. Blume was also the only lover I ever had that giggled, laughed, and shrieked with joy while we fucked. She giggled with glee when my head was between her legs as her orgasms washed my lips. When I was inside her, she shook her head and laughed in self-arguments of “No, no, no!” and “Yes, yes, YES!”

She would hold my face in her hands when I was on top of her and cry out in joyful shrieks, “Oh, you’ve ruined me! You’ve ruined me! I’m a well-behaved married woman, and look what you’ve done to me!” Which would turn to chuckles and snorts as she dug her fingernails into my ass, telling me, “Don’t you waste a single drop; give Mrs. Blume everything you’ve got!”

I only made one misstep with Mrs. Blume. Once, while she lay on top of me, giving my cock a marvelous sucking, her lovely ass writhing above my face, I called her by her first name.

She immediately stopped, swung around, and pressed a finger against my lips.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” she said, “My husband calls me D — — , during our ten minutes of having sex.” Then, she positioned herself over me, slid my cock inside her, and finished with, “Mrs. Blume gets fucked all afternoon.”

The affair didn’t last past autumn; I met a girl I was getting serious with, and she — well, I couldn’t say what made her decide to stop until one day, a long, warm day spent naked together down in the woods by the river, Mrs. Blume kissed me long and sweet, thanked me, giggled and told me it was the last day but that she would remember each and every one.

I am so grateful to the giggling GB Rogut for jogging the memory of the happiest lover I ever had.

And thank you, Mrs. Blume.

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