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Aiding Ms. Bronson

Category: Mature
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It was back in the forties, a more innocent time. It was the summer after I graduated from high school and I was eighteen. I was not as worldly and knowing as most young men are today.

Mrs. Bronson hailed me from across the street. “I just made me a fresh squeezing of lemonade. Stop in and have a drop.”

When walking uptown, I always waved to Mrs. Bronson when I passed. I was planning to take in a Thursday night double feature.

Sometimes, if I was not in a hurry, I crossed over and we sat facing each other in her old fashioned chair swing.

Mrs. Bronson was not particularly careful about her appearance. At times she crossed and uncrossed her heavy legs and let them drift apart, revealing vast expanses of milky white flesh further up than a young man should look. Those exposures never revealed much beyond, but in a young, inexperienced man’s thoughts there existed possibilities.

Aunt, who was friends with the lady, always cautioned me, “Be nice to Mrs. Bronson. She’s strange and brazenly outspoken but she’s got a good heart.”

I was eighteen, agonizingly shy with most people. That summer, I worked in the greenhouses where I acquired good muscles in spite of being almost painfully thin. Not wearing a shirt had made me as brown as a berry from the waist up.

I crossed the street to her small front yard. Her chair swing let two people sway gently, back and forth in relaxed conversation. I sat opposite her, holding a cold, sweaty glass. I liked Mrs. Bronson. She never talked down to me.

She asked about my working in the greenhouse, about Chuckie and Bobby, who had been my friends forever. I said we were too old to play kids games anymore and anyway Chuckie’s parents had moved to the far side of town.

She asked if I had a liking for girls and if I had a girl friend.

At eighteen, I secretly admired girls but I was mostly too shy to talk to them. “I haven’t got a girl.” I blushed. “I’m too skinny for anybody to like me.”

“I don’t think that’s so,” said Mrs. Bronson. She fanned herself with a folded section of the evening paper. “If I was younger and a bit prettier I’d be flattered having you for a boyfriend.”

I sipped on my lemonade. I could not imagine old Mrs. Bronson being pretty.

She drew forced, deep breaths in the hot, breezeless gloom of early evening. Beads of sweat trickled between sun tanned breasts trying to escape from the gaping scooped neck. Her voluminous print dress crept over dimpled, bare knees forced apart by solid, meaty thighs and revealed six inches of pale flesh squashed together. Occasionally she lifted the thin material, when she thought I was not looking, to fan her legs and whatever was hidden further up.

I cannot say why surreptitious viewings of those thick slabs of thigh held such fascination. She was not an attractive or well built woman. In her loose house dress, she appeared shapelessly plump. She was, in my young eyes, old, well into her forties old. Still, there remained the challenge. Something hidden there, I knew, was not for my eyes. I liked the lady but she did not precipitate those chicken-choking fantasies I had when imagining pretty sophomore Anabel Waterson naked.

Her movements caused a twinge at my groin. I hoped Mrs. Bronson would not notice. My friend, Chuckie, swore Mrs. Bronson did not wear underpants. It was so, he said, because none were ever hung out on her line on wash day.

A slow smile crossed Mrs. Bronson’s face. “Now Boy, you wouldn’t be sneaking peeks at an old lady’s parsley patch,would you?”


“Of course you wouldn’t.” She laughed so loud it sounded indecent. “Not much. Not if you’re an honest to God boy.”

I know my face turned red. “I. . . I don’t. . .

Suddenly, Mrs. Bronson let out a gasp as though she were in pain.

“Is something the matter.”

“I got me a bad cramping. That’s all.”

“You sure?”

Mrs. Bronson gritted her teeth. “I shouldn’t a got myself in this condition.”

“What ‘s that?”

“It’s not a fitting subject for talking about with a young man.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m not a child.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I got me a bad case of the constipates. That’s all.”

“I have to take castor oil when I don’t go for a while.”

“I hate the awful taste and I been putting it off too long.”

“Aunt threatened me with a switch when I wouldn’t take it.”

“Maybe somebody ought to warm my butt. Would you like to do that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You wouldn’t like swatting an old lady’s hind end?”

I swear her knees moved further apart. It was getting dark. I was uncomfortable. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve never done that.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. This is grown-ups talking.”

“What will you do if you don’t go?”

“It ain’t healthy, not doing your daily. I ain’t passed a thing it’s been four or five days now, no matter how I strained. ”

“I guess you best take your castor oil.”

“Or you’ll take a hand to me?”

“I don’t think you’d like that.”

“No telling what I’d like if I knew you wouldn’t talk.”

“I’ve never told. Not even when I got whipped.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

It was darker now. I don’t know where I found the nerve. I picked up a rubber tipped flyswatter. “Stand up,” I murmured and I’ll give you your medicine.”

“Well now. There is some spunk in you, boy. You’d whup this old lady’s butt to make her do what she should ought on her own.”

“Go take your medicine,” I begged.”

Mrs. Bronson stood and turned her back. “Make me.”

I swatted her on the broadest part of that big, rounded bottom. The sound was unreal.

” Mrs. Bronson rubbed the place. “You wield a healthy swat. My ass, I mean my butt, burns like fire.”

“You can say ass. I know what an ass is.”

“I just bet you do, honey, but not a big fat one like I got.”

While she wasn’t looking, I adjusted my crotch. One swat on that broad butt and I had sprouted a boner.

She tugged at my hand. “I’m tingling. Come inside afore I lose my nerve.”

“Are you sure?”

“You got make this lady behave like she ought.”

She switched on a dim light in the living room and proceeded to the kitchen beyond, where it was darker.

Mrs. Bronson placed her hands on the seat of a high backed chair and bent forward. Her broad butt projected toward me. “Punish me.”

“For what?”

“For thinking the thoughts I’m thinking. Whop that ass. Whop it good.”

“You tell me if it hurts too bad.”

“Honey, you got no idea what you’re doing for me.”

I whacked her a good one. After two more, I thought I heard a sigh. I knew they stung. I let her have another.

“Wait a minute,” hissed Mrs. Bronson. With both hands she tugged at her dress until the hem rested in the small of her back. She was a dark form in the near darkness. I made out the outline of tree trunk thighs forking downward from the bulbous cheeks. “God forgive me,” she breathed hoarsely, “now, lay it to me.”

With each crack, I let the vibrating flesh settle before letting the next stroke fly. I swear her legs parted more each swat. I heard her moan.


“Should I stop?”

She spoke through gritted teeth. “No, damn you.”

I aimed the flyswatter in an upward arc, catching the lower projections of both cheeks. Her legs parted wide. “There! Smack it! Smack it in there!”

I prodded the handle between her legs, touched the shadowy place. I dropped the swatter.

“Smack it, damn you!”

I brought my hand up hard. The sound was muffled. It must have hurt.


I slapped the same place and felt the crinkly hairs.


“I’m hurting you.”

“You should hurt so good!”

Two more slaps and she slumped to her knees. She croaked, “Enough.”

“Are you all right?”

“Honey, I never hurt better. I’m still clogged up but you sure slapped one thing out of my system.”

“What was that?”

“Something I been craving a long, long time.”

“A spanking.”

“That’s a part of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will someday.”

“Now, take your castor oil”

“It’s something else I’ll be needing and there’s nobody to do me.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you know what an enema is?”

“No Ma’am.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t know how.”

“Maybe if you showed me.”

“I could be in trouble now. An enema would make it a lot worse.”


“You would be touching my butt hole. It would embarrass me, a lot.”

“I smacked your bare butt.”

“Honey, I don’t know what I’m thinking about.” She smoothed her dress over her hips. “Things plumb got away from me.”

“Aren’t you constipated?”

“Oh, I’m all stopped up all right and I deserve what I got for doing nothing about it. You smacked my tail real good. She rubbed a tender spot. “I couldn’t tell you to stop.”

“You got to have this enema thing?”

“I couldn’t let you.”

“How does it work?”

Mrs. Bronson led me to the bathroom. The tub sat beyond the wash bowl and a toilet. Opening a closet and reaching back on the top shelf, she backed out holding a red rubber, water bottle with a long hose attached. At the end of the hose dangled a grooved black nozzle with lots of little holes in it.

It was easy figuring out where that went. “What do you put in it.”

“Warm, soapy water.”

“And that black thing goes up your. . .”

“In my bottom, yes.”

“Then soapy water squirts up inside you.”

“That’s right.”

“I’d put that thing up you and squeeze the water out of the bag?”

“The bag hangs. The clamp holds the water until you are ready for the flow.”

“Can’t you reach back and do it.”

“I’ve tried. Something’s wrong with my shoulder. I can’t reach back and find the place. I’m feeling just terrible about this.” Mrs. Bronson looked sad.

“I can do it. I wouldn’t mind, honest.”

“I’m a modest woman. No man’s seen me bare, ever, but my dear departed.”

“I won’t tell.”

A twinge of pain crossed her round face. “For a minute, I forgot for a how clogged up I’ve got.”

I smacked her plump butt with my bare hand. The soft consistency absorbed my hand. I made my voice as deep and as harsh as I could. “I’ll do it. Take off your clothes.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I smacked her again. “Do it!”

I thought she might cry with gratitude. She lifted the dress over her head.

Her breasts, smaller than I imagined, sagged. The small, brown nipples protruded from, dark, wider circles. They were my first completely bare boobs.

She turned her back. The mounds of her backside were tightly inflated flesh balloons. A few red splotches marred the fish white flesh where I smacked her.

“I don’t look so pretty back there,” said Mrs. Bronson. “You keep in mind I’m an old woman with nearly locked bowels.”

I was awed by the stark, mottled whiteness of those acres of flesh.

“I can’t believe I’d let a nice young man see me naked.”

“You need someone.” I reminded.

“Bless you.”

“How do we go about it?”

“I’ll kneel in the bathtub in case there’s an accident.”

“”We need the hot water and the soap,” I reminded.

“Oh God!, I forgot.” Mrs. Bronson turned quickly and brushed past me.

I glimpsed the wiry beard of salt and pepper curls where her distended belly merged into full thighs rubbing together as she walked. That hairy triangle was imprinted in my brain. I watched the large mounds of flesh atternate, up and down, as she retreated to the kitchen. I heard her fill a teakettle and set it on the stove.

She returned wearing a loosely tied robe and retrieved the enema bag. “Maybe you should remove your shirt. You wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

I hung it on the bathroom doorknob. I kicked off my shoes, stuffed my socks inside and placed them outside the door. I rolled up my pants legs. I prayed she would not notice my bulging fly.

Mrs. Bronson hung the bag on a nail high on the wall. “I hope you won’t think less of me for doing this.”

“No ma’am.”

“Have you ever seen a naked woman?”

“Just pictures.”

“Of everything?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Where on earth did you do that?”

“There was this nudist magazine.”


“It belonged to a friend’s dad. The guy snuck it out so we could look.”

“A lot of boys?”

“Just four of us.”

“And you played nudist?”


“Does seeing me this way make you feel different?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, has something happened?”

“Your water’s getting cold.”

“So it is.” Mrs. Bronson slipped out of the robe. She stepped into the tub, got on her knees and leaned forward with her rump elevated. “You know where it goes.”


I guess that’s not the prettiest rosebud you’ll ever see.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

“There’s Vaseline in the medicine cabinet.”

I found the jar and removed the lid. Kneeling by the tub I surveyed the rounded mounds. Tentatively, I parted the mottled cheeks. Deep within the crease, I located the brown, puckered star. I dipped my finger into the Vaseline, then touched the spot the nozzle was to enter. Mrs. Bronson quivered when I pressed in.

Mrs. Bronson moaned. Her hips thrust back. “My husband never done that to me!”

I sawed in and out until my finger penetrated as far as it would go.

“Oh God. I wish I didn’t have to take all that water.”

I smeared Vaseline on the curved, black nozzle and inserted it slowly.

“It feels strange,” said Mrs. Bronson, “like it’s coming out my throat.”

“Are you ready for the water?”

“I guess as ready as I’ll ever be.”

I opened the clamp. Water gurgled through the hose. I checked for leaks where her brown opening gripped the nozzle. I could not imagine this happening. I knew as soon as I got home, I would yank off at least twice or I would never go to sleep.

I ran my hands over broad expanses of her flesh. I caressed and squeezed handfuls, enthralled by the yielding warmth.

She wriggled and moaned. “So full, I don’t know if I can hold it all.”

“You have to.”

“How much is left?”

I checked the reservoir. “Nearly half.”

“Oh God! I’ll never make it.”

Kneeling beside the tub, I urged her shoulders down and elevated her butt. I pried her legs apart. Her puffed vaginal lips winked inches from my face.

“Stop it for a minute. Rub my belly, please. I feel so full.” Mrs. Bronson, weight on her elbows, forearms crossed, her head down and turned away. The hose protruded from between the massive hams like a long, obscene tail.

The poor woman, I was sure, did not realize the extent of her exposure of her privates. I smacked her lightly. An upwardly aimed hand encountered crisp moist hair. “I’ll try,” I promised. To give my boner room, I opened my fly. The air cooled the stiff column.

I reached under her, between her legs. Damp, wiry ringlets tickled my wrist. I kneaded the distended belly flesh swaying under my fingers and felt the sudsy water slosh inside her.

“That feels good,” purred Mrs. Bronson.

“Yes Ma’am.” I wiggled the hose to distract her then invaded the moist cleft between her legs. I encountered a slick wetness I knew was not sweat. I wondered if women shot off and made the white stuff.

My boner, projecting from my open fly, brushed the porcelain tub. The cold gave me an electric tingle of surprise. My finger wormed it’s way inside her.

“Oooh,” said Mrs. Bronson, “what are you trying to do?”

“Rubbing your belly” I froze.

“That’s not exactly my belly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not proper, a young man should rub a lady there.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

She squirmed. “l feel like I got to pee.”

“Go ahead, it will go down the drain.”

“Do you pee in your bath tub?”

“Sometimes, when I take a bath.”

“Men are made different .”

“Yes Ma’am. They sure are.” Cautiously, I reinserted my finger. I’m sure she helped.

She exhaled sighs of pleasure. “Oh God! Oh God, Forgive me.”

I sawed in and out. It was instinctual. My boner, purple head exposed, bobbed against the tub.

The woman raised her head. “Let me have the rest of the suds. I’m ready”

I removed the clip. Soapy water flowed into her. “How does it feel?”

She looked up at me. Her eyes were bright. “What?” The question appeared to stump her for a moment.

“All that water inside you.”

“Fuller than you can imagine. It’s the nasty feeling of that tube up there. It’s being naughtier than anyone would believe a woman could be with a youngster.”

“It’s not like anything I’ve ever done.”

“I just bet you never have. Don’t something happen to you? I mean seeing a fat old naked woman, shoving that thing up her rectum and then doing the finger thing where a man shouldn’t ought. Ain’t something got hard?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

I nodded.

“And embarrasses you?”

I nodded again.”

“My God, boy. With what you’re doing and me letting you, who’s to be embarrassed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has it been that way long?”

“Since I swatted your butt.”

“Lordy,” said Mrs. Bronson. “And I been wet like your finger found it. I don’t know what’s got into me.” She raised her head. “Can I see it.”

“The water’s gone. I think you got it all.”

Mrs. Bronson raised up, the hose wagging in her bottom as she rose to her knees. “You better pull that thing out so I can move. I don’t know how long I’ll hold it.

The nozzle slipped out easily although Mrs. Bronson seemed to exert pressure to hinder its withdrawal.

She peered over the edge of the tub. “My, my. You have got a biggie. I declare, it’s more than my dear, dead departed had, God rest his soul and his puny pecker.”

“It was hurting in my pants.”

“I just bet it was. Do you play with it?”

I looked at the floor. “Sometimes.”

“Of course you do. A fine rod like that. It’s made for playing with. Have you let others tickle it?”

“You mean girls?”

“Or boys.”

“I don’t think girls want to.”

‘You wait a few years. There’s women who fight for a stiff one like that.”

“I don’t think so. I’m too skinny.”

“You might be skinny, honey, but that thing ain’t.” Mrs. Bronson wet her lips. “So you let the boys play with it?”

“Not so much since I’m older.”

Mrs. Bronson, leaning on me, stepped from the tub to sit on the toilet. “I got to be ready when I can’t hold it in no more. If I keep my mind off it, maybe I can hold it.”

“What should we do?”

“Step out of those pants. Let me see as much of you as you’ve been seeing of me.”

“I guess that’s most everything.” I opened my belt. The pants slipped to the floor. “I feel strange.”

“Gracious. Think how I felt when you parted my backside and poked a greasy finger in there?”

“I guess it felt funny.”

“It tickled better than most anything for a long, long time.”

“It did?”

“I was wishing for something bigger around and longer.” She closed her soft, pudgy fingers around my boner. “Tell me about playing with your friends.”

“You’ll never tell?”

“Naked and with your boner in my hand, do you think I’d talk?”

“I guess not.” I stood in front of her.

Her fingers moved slowly. “Do you do something like this?”


“A lot?”

I shrugged.

“Tell me.”

“We snuck up in Uncle’s barn loft.”

“How many?”

“Three or four of us.”

“And you took off your clothes?”

“Sometimes, sometime we just pulled them out and showed.”

“And then?”

“Sometimes we measured.”

“I bet you were the biggest.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes Chuckie had the biggest.”

“Chuckie Bauxer, that nice boy who lives up the street?”

I nodded. “Until he moved away. Don’t tell I told.”

“Course not. You and Chuckie touched each other?”


“Was that exciting?”

I watched the lazy movement of her hand and wondered how long I could last. I wondered if she would be mad if I shot. “It felt good.”

“Did you do that a lot?”

“Sometimes, until they got sore.”

“How old were you?”

I guess we started when we were nine or ten. We weren’t very big, then.”

“But you grew bigger.”

“After a while.”

“Do you make stuff come out?”

I nodded.

“Does it come a lot?”

“Pretty much?”

“Am I going to make it come a lot?”

“If you keep on.”

Mrs. Bronson bent forward. Her tongue circled the swollen head. Her mouth formed a round, wet O and forced it over the crown and down until her lips brushed the hair at my groin.

As she withdrew, the saliva wetness shone on the rigid stalk, then became hidden beyond her warm, wet lips again. I don’t know if she matched my rhythm or I matched hers. We became synchronized, sped up and slowed. In my excitement, I held her head between my hands, controlled its movement. I heard myself repeating a word I had never spoken aloud, uttered it in cadence with my thrusts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck… until I came. The white stuff shot into her throat. With her lips pressed tightly against my groin. I hoped she would not choke but I could not back off until long after the final throb.

Slowly she pulled back. She licked her lips. “I wouldn’t have believed it. A young man like you.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“Of course you couldn’t. That’s what that thing is for. What do you call it?”

“A cock.”

“A fine name for something with a red crest.”

“I didn’t mean to say that word . It just felt so good.”

“Course you meant it. It’s a good old fashioned word. It’s what people do. I don’t say it myself but I understand its meaning and its power.”

I knelt and rubbed her belly. “Is your mind off holding in those suds?”

“It was for a fact. Lordy, what an evening.” She watched my fingers explore the bearded slot at the base of her belly. “You got a craving to play with pussy? Be careful, you’ll be making this lady do what you done.”

“Do you make white stuff?”

“I expect I can do everything but. Maybe scream some too. You know you gave me some mighty warm feelings down there when you smacked this old butt of mine.”

I parted the hairy lips and probed the slippery crevice. Two fingers disappeared beyond the second knuckle.

Mrs. Bronson spread her fat thighs. “It’s been so long,” she sighed. “I wonder if this old lady’s heart can handle the blessed feelings of it all.” She took my fingers, moistened with her dewy slickness, and brought them to bear on the nub at the top of her inner lips. “That is what brings a woman jollies on.”

Guided by her hand, I made small, circular motions. I could not tear my eyes from those parted, pink lips.

The more I rubbed the more restive Mrs. Bronson became. Her bare butt, overflowing the edges of the toilet seat, squirmed wickedly. Her rather small boobs rose and fell. She licked her lips. She closed her eyes. She moaned. “It feels so much better when somebody else does it.”

I looked up. “Do women get themselves off?”

“What else have I done for eight years? Of course women do themselves. Always have. Always will. That don’t mean it’s not better with a man helping ’em.” She guided three of my fingers into her and positioned my thumb on her fat little bud. “Now, in and out, keeping your thumb on that little man in the boat.”

Moments later she bawled out, “Tickle that pussy! Harder!” She forced herself forward, driving my fingers into her as deep as she could. She shouted, “Shit-fuck, shit-fuck, shitfuckshitfuck.” Her heavy thighs clamped my wrist. Her sweaty hams vibrated on the toilet seat. “Here it comes,” she screamed, “SHIT-FUCKING-CHRIST-ALMIGHTY!”

First, there came a loud, wet fart. A torrent of water gushed with intermittent expulsions of solid matter propelled with great force. Mrs. Bronson shivered. “Oh God! I’m shitting and coming. And coming and shitting. And coming…GOD!”

She gripped my arm in both hands and squeezed. Her head fell to my shoulder. Water and crap spewed out of her. She would not allow my trapped hand to withdraw.

The acrid aroma of shit clouded the room. I flushed the toilet. She straightened, passed a bubbly fart, then another. Mrs. Bronson shook her head. “That can’t have been pleasant for you.”

“I’ve smelt shit before.”

“Now you’re talking dirty.”

“No more than you.”

“What did I say?”

“You said, shit-fuck.”

“I didn’t!”

“Yes Ma’am. You surely did.”

“I never talked that dirty.”

“I guess you didn’t know what you were saying.”

“It felt so good. I guess I let it all out and that’s a fact.” She bent forward, tore off a wad of toilet tissue and wiped herself. “I’ve got a powerful burning back there and I feel some tenderness. I’m weak as a cat and I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“Maybe you’ll need another enema, sometime.”

Mrs. Bronson laughed. “My Lord! I do believe you’ve taken a liking to fingering this old carcass.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Mrs. Bronson said, “Let me get off this pot. I got to clean myself.”

I backed off and stood.

Mrs. Bronson brushed my renewed boner with her fingers. “My lord! Ain’t you had enough?”

“Sometimes it takes two or three times.”

Mrs. Bronson shook her head. “You’re a gift dropped from heaven, I swear. I’ll tell you what. You do me again with clear water to finish the clean out, then we’ll do something with that sassy peter you got poking out there.”

We filled the reservoir half full of warm water. She bent over the toilet with her hands on the seat and presented her rounded buns. I slicked her with more Vaseline and inserted the nozzle. This time she did not hold the water but sat and let it gush. She washed herself all over, calling it a whore’s bath, and let me dry her.

“You said you wanted to pee. You never did.”

“With things happening and you tickling my…” She hesitated.

“Your pussy?”

“With your fingering, my pussy puckered like I had to go when I didn’t.”

“But you have to go some now?”

“I think my back teeth are floating.”

“I want to watch.”

“Watch me pee?”

I nodded.

“Well, Jesus and Mother Mary! You’ve seen it all including me swallowing your ding-dong.” She shrugged, “What’s a little pissing between friends?”

“Yes Ma’am.

“Would you do the same for me?”

“I don’t think I could when It’s hard.”

“After we take care of that, maybe I can peek.” She sat and spread her thighs, wide. I watched the pink slit gape between the hairy lips. I stared into that magic place that tickled boy’s imaginations and made us shoot the white stuff from our stiff dicks. Pussy, all us boys had dreamed of was pussy. Mrs. Bronson’s was not a pretty thing but it was real. I had touched it, gazed upon it in all its hairy starkness. I held my breath. The golden flow gushed, an outpouring strangely different from the golden stream men spouted. It did not last as long either.

Mrs. Bronson patted herself dry. “What more is my young man curious about? You’ve done every opening this old woman’s got.

I swallowed hard. “There’s one thing.”

“Oh ho. What now?”

I dared the forbidden word. “Fucking.”

“My God! My precocious young man wants to climb these old bones. It that what you’re wanting young man?”

I nodded.

“Never turned my back on my man nor wanted to.” She patted my cheek. “I’m sorry honey. I got no protection. What you shot down my throat, in the right place, could knock up a mare and have some left over.”

Mrs. Bronson took my hand in one of hers. She retrieved the Vaseline with the other. “Come on. We’ll think of something.”

Her small bedroom had a double bed, a dresser and a chair piled with clothes. She lit a small lamp. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me to her.

It felt strange, touching everywhere, her pressing her pliant nakedness against mine. Her soft boobs, with rubbery, brown nipples, poked my chest. The hair between her legs tickled my hard pecker. I thought it was about the nicest feeling I ever felt. Mrs. Bronson moaned. She said I was the best thing happening for her in all the time since her husband passed away.

I ran my hands over her big butt cheeks. I spread them apart and let them close. I wedged my fingers between those huge hams and tickled. She was all juicy. She said she wished we could do what married people did but besides being a sin, it might get her pregnant.

I said, “Maybe we could do what we done before.”

She said I tasted real good but that maybe I could do what hadn’t been done her in a long time. “You remember me saying how good that nozzle felt going up me?”

“You want to do that again?”

“Good Lord No! I said I wished I had something bigger and longer.”

“You’ve got something?”

“No, but you have.”

I rubbed against her. “You mean this?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Will it go in there?”

“Slicked-up, I bet it slides right on in.”

“It won’t hurt?”

“There’s things that hurt bad and things that hurt good. I’m betting you are going to hurt soooo good.”

“I like smacking your butt.” I gave her a crack with my open hand.”

“Did you and your friends ever smack butt?”

“Sometimes. Boys don’t have all that soft meat. Their cheeks don’t jiggle.”

“But you liked smacking asses.?”

“Un huh.”

Cause it made your peters tingle. I can just see you boys with your things sticking out and whacking each other.”

“Do girls ever do that?”

“I was a lonely little girl. What fun I had I did for myself.”

“And you did yourself a lot?”

“I surely did. Rubbed against trees, slid down banisters and drainpipes, did the tickle, tickle, with my fingers working like crazy.” Mrs. Bronson opened the Vaseline. She rubbed some on my pecker. “Now,” she said, “you put more back there. Use a lot. I think I am going to get something put up me really hard.”

She lay on her side. I brought a big dab to the furrow and separated those huge cheeks. I poked two fingers into the dark star.

Her hips moved in rhythm. “I can’t wait.”

I aimed, entered. Her sphincter clamped about me.

“Go slow, “begged Mrs. Bronson, “You make me so full.”

I rocked my hips. Each stroke forced me deeper until I flattened those warm cheeks against my groin. I was inside a woman, screwing a woman in the wrong hole. I did not believe any pussy could feel better.

We lay still. Mrs. Bronson said she had to get used to all that hard prick going in her back door. She asked if I minded her saying, Prick.

I said, “I call it that, sometimes. And sometimes I call it a cock.”

Mrs. Bronson said she liked calling it a cock too.

I said I liked calling her backside an ass.

“Big ass,” she said. “Big ass with a tiny asshole full of big, hard cock.”

“Does it feel funny with it up there?”

“Oh God! It’s so good! And you haven’t begun to fuck.” The big woman giggled. “Aren’t I terrible? Saying those bad words makes me feel terrible wicked.”

“Maybe I should smack your big ass.”

“Maybe you should move that big, bad cock in and out of my big fat ass.”

With my arms around her and a soft boob in each hand, I slid almost out and then plunged into her. I picked up tempo until I was slamming into her. She matched stroke for stroke. Sweating the way we were, we made a slickness wherever we touched and that was almost everywhere.

Her hand between her legs rubbed her little lump. She murmured dirty words and I said some too. Her breathing came faster. I was welded to her backside with my hips pumping 60 miles a minute. My mouth brushed her ear. I whispered “Shitfuck. . . Shitfuck. . .Shitfuck. . .”

“Ass fuck assfuck fuckfuck ass… fuckfuck ass… ”

Ethel Bronson clamped her asshole tight around me. Her body went rigid. As deep inside her as I could force myself, the throbbing began. I froze and pumped white stuff deep, deep into her gut. The harder she squeezed, the stronger the pulsations and the harder I came.

We lay panting, hearts pounding. She did not want me to pull out.

I toyed with a hard nipple and yawned.

Somehow, Mrs. Bronson got a hold of the sheet and pulled it over us. She turned off the lamp. “Let’s just lay like this for a little.”

“All right.”

“God, you feel huge inside me.”

“Did It hurt?”

She wiggled slightly. “There was nothing but good feelings, getting better.”

“Me too,” I murmured.


I awoke, wondering if I were dreaming. Mrs. Bronson’s hips rocked in a gentle motion combined with a twist of circular movement. I was still inside her. As I came awake, I was content, letting her think I was sleeping.

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