Mamma Mia

In the seventies, an Abba poster triumphed on the wall of my teenage room. My friends went crazy for Agnetha, blonde but colourless; they did not know what was lost in not spending their autoerotic activity with Anni Frid, red and hot as the steam of the geysers.

On the plate the disk turned as well as my head to hear the voice of my Anni; while my hand gave comfort to my young cock, wild with age and passion.

Some time ago, rummaging among the souvenir objects of that period, I found a photograph of Anni alone, without the rest of the group, and I found her identical to one of our friends. Of course, more than forty years have passed, but our friend, magnificent in her sixties, has a seductive charge equal to that which the singer exercised on me.

So, some days ago, I wanted to go back to teen and look what I did.

I was a guest at my friend's house. The heat of the afternoon and the tiredness of the morning spent at sea had exhausted us and now we slept in our two rooms separated by a door that we had left open to promote ventilation. Suddenly, the music of "I have a dream" began to come from the radio; I cautiously got up from the bed and looked out over the open door. She was lying back to my observation point. She wore a light, transparent dressing gown, lifted up to her ass covered with the blue suit slip. Her thighs, reddened by the morning sun, triumphed on the fresh white sheets and she did not wear a bra. I started to masturbate slowly and when my cock was ready to explode, suddenly, she turned. The position she had now was that of the poster in my room many years ago: the bare legs bent at the knees and the open robe revealing the small and still very high breast. I was afraid that she was about to wake up and, with my cock vibrating in the contractions of an orgasm braked at the last moment, I walked away from the door.

She later confessed to me that she also knew the poster of my adolescence.