I first noticed her on a grey November’s day at the supermarket. As she loaded shopping into her car a huge bag of green apples fell from one of the carriers, hit the ground, split and fruit rolled everywhere; she must have been very fond of apples. Much of it tumbled, erratically in my direction, I scurried about gathering up the tumbling orbs and restored them to their somewhat flustered owner. I would never have looked at her twice, she could have been my mum but then she smiled and her face lit-up, rolling back the years in a trice.
“Thank you,” she said, “chivalry is not quite dead yet.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied and in the normal course of things that would have been that, me on my way to my exciting weekly shop for one.
A few days later, however, disgruntled by the overcrowded trains I encountered on my daily commute to work, I set off sooner than I needed to in the vague hope of sitting. As I stood on a far less crowded platform, I wondered if it really was ‘the apple lady’ waiting further along. It was certainly the same broad smile, she was chatting animatedly with a woman friend who, in her turn, was clearly laughing. In the excitement of actually finding an empty seat I instantly forgot all about her again.
Not the next day, come to think of it, it was the day after, a Thursday; ‘the apple lady’ was indeed walking towards me, down the platform. As she approached I chanced a thin smile and she replied with a hesitant, “good morning,” clearly uncertain if she knew me but not sufficiently confident to snub me.
I beamed back and replied with a cheery, “good morning,” I don’t know if she heard, I hoped that she had. She was blond with carefully trimmed hair, neither short nor long, cleverly framing her face to set it at its best advantage. True, she had lines around her eyes and across her brow, as well as deeply etched laughter lines but her skin was still soft and she had delightful rosy cheeks; whilst now still very attractive she had clearly once been a stunning beauty and when she smiled her faded glory returned instantly. I watched as she walked down the platform her short well rounded, though not fat, figure causing the hips of her tailored cashmere coat to sway provocatively. I noticed that I was not the only man who’s eye she caught.
As the days passed I saw her, on average, two or three times a week. Gradually, her good morning greeting acquired confidence until one morning she actually spoke, “Why do I keep saying hello to you, how do I know you?”.
“It’s because you dropped your apples.” She looked totally blank. “At the supermarket, a few weeks back, I was you knight in rusty armour, or at least a faded black leather bomber jacket, and blue jeans I appended not totally helpfully.”
She pondered, her face masking over with concentration. “Good Heaven’s yes. I remember you now.” She swallowed a retort and instead radiated that huge, drop dead, totally gorgeous smile directly at me. “I was making apple pies for my neighbours school fate, I had dozens of them. Well thank you once again but I’d better hurry and join my friend now.” And off she scurried. After that our ‘good mornings’ remained brief but were confident and cordial, and always terminated with that heavenly knowing smile. Very much later I discovered that whilst she had been, ‘the apple lady,’ to her I was, ‘scuttle-bum.’
That Good Morning was rapidly becoming the highlight of my day. I was supervising men in a office that was full of men, men who ran a factory that was full of men, a world of men in an unfamiliar town. I was not particularly well liked at work, I had been brought in to supervise the modernisation of the computers at the plant, the graduate whiz-kid supervising men who were all older than me, they resented it bitterly. Truth to tell, I got on better with the blokes on the shop floor, was introduced to their wives, drank pints with them and laughed at the comedians in their clubs; unfortunately, daughters did not appear to be invited to accompany their father to his ‘Working-man’s club’; given the typical script of a comedian I was not surprised, but then the spouses often laughed from deeper within their bellies than did their menfolk. And some of the jokes were filled with genuine bathos, ‘it were that cowed (cold) in we’re ‘ouse that a bad Winter ‘ud freeze t’locks clean off of t’shilling (gas-)meters.’ My salvation, at work, was that I was exceptionally good at my job.
Don’t get me wrong, there were women and girls working with the computers but they inhabited a big airy office on the opposite side of the town. Weekly meetings with their supervisor, Arlene – Arlene, who had six kids and looked like a shot-putter, accompanied by an, admittedly, female side-kick whom I had nick-named ‘the mouse’ – was my only access to their charms, regardless of my ever more desperate hints that an invitation to their Christmas party ought to be extended to me.
January third, an auspicious day, the day my life changed or at least improved; ‘the apple lady’ bid me “Happy New Year,” but today she stopped to chat. “My friend’s off on holiday,” she explained, “we work next to each other but they don’t like us gossiping so we chat on the way in. But this is silly, you don’t even know my name, I’m Tracy.”
“I’m David,” I replied. Reflexly we shook hands, all terribly formal, then both burst out laughing at our own ridiculousness. We chatted on the train. She and her friend worked in a solicitors office typing up endless legal forms and reports. She was divorced and from her tone I gathered this was not a topic to pursue. She lived in a grey semi, located in a grey street with dull neighbours who tramped grey pavements, a street where, for entertainment, the residents nipped out to watch the traffic lights change; a dreadful old joke but the radiant smile that suffused her face as she delivered the hoary old saw transformed it into a fresh and humorous witticism.
I detailed the delightful, all male, management structure under which I worked and she demanded to know how soon it would be before she could start under my command. She quipped, “it can’t be that hard to plug boxes into one another can it?” After a pause, she enquired, “what you don’t even have even a tea lady?” I confessed I had no idea where the mugs and that giant urn of tea came from each day, I conjectured that they must materialise and de-materialise like the Tardis. In a flash it was my stop and I said goodbye, rather reluctantly. As I exited the station I remembered her lovely hazel eyes but also felt awkward because, as she had unbuttoned her coat, I had taken the trouble to notice that she was possessed of a pair of bouncy and well rounded breasts.
The next time I saw Tracy there was something different about her but I could not define it. Perhaps a touch more make up, possibly a blouse and skirt rather than a dress, definitely more cleavage on display, I had to keep reminding myself not to gaze. Heels, she was wearing heels, not huge ones but high enough. Her scent had changed too, less floral and more aromatic. “Nice tie, all spick and span.” she commented.
I was expected to wear a suit for work and alternated between two shapeless affairs, one blue, one grey pinstripe but I’d taken pity on them and both were at the cleaners so I been enforced to wear my smart charcoal suit, over shiny black shoes and set off with a Liberty print tie. I reckoned that I’d get some stick about that tie from the blokes on the shop floor but I could take it and I had a quick brain that could dish it straight back; that’s why we got on because I could make them laugh. “You’re looking very fetching yourself,” I mumbled; I’ve never been good at complements, with girl-friends I had always had to plan and carefully rehearse flattery in advance and never noticed when they had had their hair done, well not unless it was a disaster.
“Yes we both seem to have smartened ourselves up for the New Year, perhaps it’s catching,” Tracey chuckled.
For a split second I was outraged, she was flirting with me, she was actually flirting; then worse still, I blushed, because I realised that I was guilty of exactly the same crime. I was subjected to that radiant smile but now I could swear that there was a wicked little glint in her eye too. Tracy did, however refrain from embarrassing me further, “you haven’t told me if you were given any good books for Christmas, I’m sure you’ll have read them all by now,” she had already gleaned that I was an avid reader. So in our smartened clothes we discussed books, like civilized persons.
Truly, I had no idea what my emotional attachment to Tracy might be. There was certainly an attraction on my part, almost an obsession. She was desirable enough, more than enough, and she really knew how to combine coy and sexy. I wondered just how old she was, a twenty five year old having an affair with a forty something year old; make no mistake it was not love, or at least not what I had ever experienced as love but it was more than straight-forwards lust; when I was with Tracy I felt completely relaxed and she appeared to reciprocate my comfort.
On the Friday, by coincidence, we met outside the station. Tracy sighed, “our last day today,” to my secret delight spoken in a decidedly wistful tone, “next week my friend returns.”
“I’ve really enjoyed chatting with you, I’ve finally made a friend here, I hope?” I ventured.
“You have. Tell you what. I was given some dreadful books as Christmas presents, come over on Sunday afternoon and take them off my hands. There’s a John le Carrie, too complicated for a simpleton like me, a James Clavell, I find him boring and a Douglas Adams that I’ve just finished. You can borrow that one.” I’d probably read them already but this was one occasion when I was not going to miss a hint a hint.
What I actually replied was, “I was given a David Niven, I certainly can’t read it, shall I bring it along with me? My niece gave it to me, perhaps he appeals more to women.”
“He most certainly does,” she simpered, “but I don’t know if he can write.” So the deed was done, we had agreed to meet at her house on Sunday afternoon, how terribly British and dreadfully civilised, a fateful decision negotiated through a conspiracy of complicity, but oh what a delicious prospect, I had that feeling you get when you hug yourself, butterflies in the tummy but most emphatically friendly butterflies. “Come at two, if that’s alright with you, here I’ll write my address down,” she only lived around the corner from me but she had a warm cheery house. I inhabited a cold, probably damp, dreary flat recently re-decorated by me in cheerful colours. A flat located over a dreary shop which sold surgical appliances to men in greasy looking coats, nurses in crisply starched uniforms and old women in long shapeless well-worn garments, coverall’s that might have been coats once upon a time. It was not a cheerful neighbourhood, at least not in Winter. Then I recalled Tracy’s description of her street, ‘grey semi, grey street, dull neighbours, grey pavements,’ she was obviously not enamoured of our district either.
Sunday afternoon, a bright yellow sun hung low in a cold blue sky and miracles occurred, the bulging black bin bags had not been torn open by abandoned scavenging pets, feral with hunger. Litter had not been dropped or at least there was an atypical absence of brown paper bags emblazoned with McDonald’s and Burger King logos, bags which inevitably spewed polystyrene cartons and tiny greasy envelopes across the pavement. There was a Kentucky Fried Chicken family bucket, wedged tightly behind the bus stop but, in all fairness, that had been there for weeks, practically an integral part of that suburban landscape by then. Tracy had been harsh about her neighbours, jasmine blossomed bright yellow in more than one garden, I spotted snow drops and tiny crocuses bringing soft cheer to the broad, tree-lined, avenue. OK, you still had to play dodge the dog-turd, especially as it became more middle-class but today it was a land of hope, even if the politicians were systematically eroding our glory.
I rang the bell, a ‘ding-dong ding-dong, welcome to suburbia’ peel. Tracy was a complete contrast to her train-trip self, sophistication realised: for a start she was not wearing a coat but a soft cream blouse, almost certainly silk, a knee length well cut black skirt and dark hose, shame about the pink fluffy slippers. “Hello, do come on in. Please, do you mind taking your shoes off, there’s so much…,” her sentence tailed off into a gentle shudder and a mild grimace.
“Dog poo. I know it’s dire out there. Are the dogs grey too?”
She spotted the allusion and laughed good naturedly. I wished that I had dressed a little more smartly instead of donning my usual uniform of black bomber jacket, blue jeans. Worse, under I’d slipped on an open necked shirt patterned with pastel pictures of a couple dancing, one which my mum had picked; now Tracy had deprived me of my one and only smart feature, black brogue shoes carefully polished to a high shine. We exchanged pleasantries and even a peck on the cheek which, encouragingly, was not an air-kiss but a solid smack of affection. She directed me into her front room whilst she bustled off to brew some tea,
I sat leafing through the books she’d left out for me. When she returned with the tray she set at it again, obvious flirtation. She offered me the plate of ginger snaps by leaning forwards whilst keeping her legs straight causing her breasts to tumble forwards, plainly showing off her more than ample cleavage. Once she had sat down, instead of holding her cup and saucer over her lap, she kept leaning forwards to lift them from the coffee table taking a sip and then returning them carefully, contriving to work her skirt a little higher up her thighs with each and every sip.
I rambled on about Christmas at my parents, searching frantically for things to say; my desperation not be caught staring up the small gap between her thighs, the gap that she was displaying so casually was tying my tongue in knots. My composure evaporated completely when it became evident that rather than tights she was wearing stockings. Once sure I had seen this, she stood, straightened down her skirt and offered me another biscuit giving me a second heavenly view of the tops of her breasts. As I took a ginger snap I lost it, I blushed.
“You seem all of a fluster today David, is there something wrong, anything I might be able to do to help? Perhaps it’s too warm in here for you and that’s making you drowsy;” her honeyed tone made my penis begin to swell, it was totally out of my control. “Here, perhaps it will help if you sit on a more upright, less soft seat,” and she indicated a plain unpadded stand chair, “a little further away from that hot radiator.” Now I was in a daze but I did as I was bidden. I was definitely being seduced, a wholly new and very exciting experience, clearly planned with meticulous attention to detail. Tracy placed a cool hand across my forehead, “my you are warm, you’re sure that you’re not coming down with something?” emphasis firmly on the word coming.
Well I can do innuendo too; “oh dear,” I reposted, “when I do come down with something I always seem to have to spend ages in bed.”
She was better though, “it would be terrible if we had both caught the same bug at the same time, infecting one another. Here let me take a closer look,” and she flipped her skirt up and straddled my lap facing me. I prayed that she would not feel my erection through my trousers but a little wriggle of her bottom, to make herself more comfortable, dispelled any such notion. “Well that’s better, isn’t it?” and she placed her mouth about two inches from mine, head cocked to one side, lips slightly parted.
I supplied the answer we sought desperately by placing my lips across hers and we began to jostle and joust tongues, like two love-struck teenagers. She was soon in control though. She positioned her legs so that she could swing her hips, using my pelvis as the pivot for her pleasure and forcing me to hold her tightly round the waist, with both arms, to prevent her from falling backwards. She wrapped her arms around my neck, held the back of my head with one hand and kept my face firmly clamped against her own as she pressed her lips hard against mine whilst we explored one another’s tongues diligently. She was not sensuous nor even passionate, she was desperate for intimate physical contact and forced me to keep my mouth glued to hers for an eternity. As we kissed she mashed her breasts against my chest and ground her hips into my groin, rolling her sex over mine. I was overwhelmed and just a little intimidated by the extent of this exhibition of pure animal lust.
“My God I needed that,” she exclaimed when she did finally permit us to break apart. She leant back, stared me straight in the face and barked “you stupid clod. You could have done that weeks ago.” Before I could even frame a reply she had rocked forwards, re-clamped her mouth over mine and resumed her hungry probings. When she broke for the second time she was flushed and breathless so instead of kissing her, I began to nibble her earlobes and nuzzle her neck. Her abrupt sighs, appreciative little pants and gentle hisses informed me that I was stoking the fires of her desire and she was getting hotter by the minute.
The repetitive grinding against my loins ceased and Tracy’s bum undertook a little wriggle and a jiggle and I sensed her doing something behind my head, something that was proving a little more difficult than she had anticipated it to be. Clearly she finally succeeded because her hips recommenced their regular rocking and her mews and coos of unrequited passion resumed. She arched her neck so that I was given better access to a spot that obviously gave her particular satisfaction and began to wriggle her buttocks again. She exchanged sides presenting the opposing patch of skin for my attention. At last I understood, she had been unfastening her blouse and was now removing it. When she sat back she revealed a real treat, she was braless.
Her breasts were every bit as full as they had promised to be. Not as large as some but completely free of sag, supporting her nipples so that they projected forwards pertly; dark pink contracted areolae with red teats standing out proudly like two miniature barrels. She stood and pulled my head against a breast directing my lips to an already swollen teat. I sucked like a hungry infant and the intensity of her lustful cries rose by a tone or two. For a while I took great care to lavish equal attention upon each nipple, in its turn, until I had established beyond doubt that the right was the more sensitive of the pair. At least I now had my hands free and could explore the full extent of her bust: tweak, stroke or roll the other nipple, weigh the orbs in my hands or simply massage their delicious plumpness. Despite her voluptuous response to my passionate ministrations, or perhaps because of them, Tracy was discretely disrobing further and when she stood back she was left in her black stockings and bright red suspenders, not merely braless but pantyless too; I though my poor stiff and throbbing shaft was about to explode, imagine the humiliation and embarrassment that would have caused me. Only later did she confess that it was a possibility that she had considered and had decided that my resulting distress would have rendered me putty in her hands and, oh, was she going to play with me.
Tracy was revealed as a true blond. The down upon her pudenda was soft and fine, when I later came to touch it, it was as smooth and silky as it looked. Her hips were a little broader than was fashionable and, when she gave me a twirl, her derriere proved to be a shade more padded than was perhaps à la mode; I was entranced, the real bonus with women as they age is the generosity of their figures. Skinny teens with flawless complexions may look good on your arm but, in general, it is well rounded breasts and buttocks that have the real appeal when displayed, in the nude, to a male who is in a state of intense sexual arousal. Such an ethereal bush was no cover for the lips of Tracy’s tender sex, already reddened and distended with fast coursing blood; I speculated that the clitoris they hid would be in an equal state of tumescence. My member was certainly turgid with the anticipation of events to come.
“Your turn,” she declared as she began unbuttoning my shirt in a leisurely yet determined fashion. Bare chested she pulled me to my feet and sucked me into a third endless kiss, now pressing her malleable bosoms against my newly naked flesh. As our tongues performed a darting dual of thrust and counter thrust, but never parry, she loosened my denims and once satisfied, knelt abruptly dragging my trousers and underpants around my ankles in one confident fluid motion, leaving me as naked as she. Whilst Tracy held these garments I endeavoured to step out of them with all the grace I could muster and then she lifted each of my feet, in their turn, and tugged away my socks, leaving me utterly nude, my rock hard cock throbbing and jerking before me, advertising my own lusts.
Her brazen advances left me desperately trying to stop myself from pinioning her down in one of her own easy chairs and humping myself to ecstasy. The physical cravings her body had manifested, with such utter abandon, told their own story. She needed me to bring her level of arousal up to my own but I knew this was always going to be an ill fated game of catch-up. I had to impose self-restraint but faced with such an overtly lascivious animal as Tracy I knew that that would be very difficult to manage. That was exactly when she choose to up the ante! She shoved me back onto the hard chair, pulled my foreskin back as far as it would go and began to suck and lick on my distended purple knob; sometimes driving me forwards rapidly by licking firmly around the lower ridge of this sensitive part, sometimes advancing slowly be tickling the little oval hole at the apex with the delicate tip of her tongue. All the while rolling the lose skin up and down my solid shaft with her sensative fingers. My balls contacted, or at least that is how it felt, my seed began to rise, I sighed and moaned and husked and she stopped. “My turn. But first, let’s retire to the seclusion of my boudoir,” she was really piling it on.
She led me to her bedroom, drew the curtains, switched on the light and sat on the edge of her bed. When I approached her anticipating the delights of sexual congress she grasped my hair and drew my head into her crotch, clearly signalling that it was the turn of my tongue to service her distended sex. Tracy’s pussy smelt so sweet, a peculiar and quite distinctive feminine odour, that aroma of a woman consumed by passion. It was my turn to build her expectations and then demolish them. The clitoris, an organ that can deliver an abiding sense of pleasure and enduring delights, a bud that can be toyed with until it transports a woman to the borders of oblivion and then, with the most slight of extra efforts, be exploited to drive her far beyond, deep into the realms of ecstasy. I parted her outer lips, teased and ruffled that little hood until I had tempted out her blossoming crimson nub, I licked it once to moisten it and then blew gently over that most tender of flesh, causing her to start suddenly and suck in air, greedily. Then I licked around it, across it both from side to side and up and down, employed the gentlest of touches as well as firm moist strokes, all jumbled up so that she could not guess what was to come next. Her noisy and erratic breathing told me all I needed to know, she was approaching orgasm rapidly.
Not just yet my pretty,’ thought I. So I cruelly switched to sucking upon her less sensitive, fleshy outer lips whilst I probed her hot moist sex with first one and then two fingers. A quickly stifled cry of delight informed me I had located that little spot inside her, the spot that women so love to have tickled and teased. And teased and tickled it was until she was about to come once more. I slid her onto the bed and sucked her nipples as I stroked the soft furry down between her plump white thighs and sometimes ran a finger between the lips of her, at this point, thoroughly lubricated and highly sensitive slot. Each time I reached her clit she expelled a huge sigh of utter abandon. She was ready and I could contain myself for only a little longer.
I rolled on top of her, positioning myself so that I could suck on her swollen red teats whilst I thrust in and out of her and that’s how we made love. Each time I withdrew the helmet of my engorged organ and re-entered her, distending the entrance to her feminine mysteries repetitively, she gave a whoop of delight. Every time the root of that stiff rod slammed against her sopping sex and my pubis crushed her clit, she gave a cry of obvious bliss. I desperately wanted to go faster but I knew that she must come first and so I was obliged to maintain a slow pace that was teasingly slow. With each thrust her cries were becoming louder and longer until, to my great delight her whole body began to judder as she a moaned out an ecstatic, long and hard cry.
I neither pauses nor give her opportunity to recover but, simply, carried on sliding in and out of her, angling my solid pole up against the roof of her sex. My aim was to rub my thick purple knob, almost painfully swollen with blood, across her tender internal spot, her response to this was so bizarre that, in my amazement, I almost forgot to maintain the rhythm.
“Oh yes,” she cried, “yes, yes! Yes! Fuck me harder, pound that twat. Screw my hole, faster you bastard, rut me, fuck me, bite my nipples, scratch my back. Fuck my cunt harder, you fucking cunt” She only halted this vulgar and alarmingly noisy tirade to enjoy a second great shuddering climax but as this coursed through her, the motions of her wildly bucking hips pushed me over the edge and I felt my member squirt mighty blasts of hot white seed into her greedy sex, a long hard pistoning climax.
“You numpty!” she wailed, almost tearful. She cast me off of her and I anticipated an angry lecture about having come inside of her and so copiously too, the air was thick with the scents of sex: sweat, semen and other less definable discharges. But no, she grabbed my slowly wilting cock, wrenched the foreskin back to the root and began to suck and lick at the bulbous end in earnest; wholly oblivious to its generous coating of my thick smelly white come mixed together with her own lubricious secretions. The sensations she generated were intense, mind-numbly intense, practically painful; it was my turn to squeal out loudly and her turn to carry on impassively. It worked though, I soon found myself supporting a cock that was stiff enough to resume satisfying her manifest lust.
She rolled over on her back, lifted her knees to her chest giving me unparalleled access to her sweet slippery slot and we resumed our licentious coupling: she cursing and swearing between her orgasms, me becoming progressively stiffer with every climax that she enjoyed. Gradually the damns and blasts subsided into more usual moans and groans, sighs and little gasps of pleasure, which was just as well. My, by then, rock hard shaft suddenly and unexpectedly sent urgent messages to my brain announcing that it was about to erupt again. I bucked and thrashed and for the second time I pumped sticky semen into Tracy’s eager pussy; I know all the studs of fiction can screw all night and climax a dozen times, or more, but for me twice in quick succession was a, very delightful, novelty. After this we both collapsed, exhausted, upon the bed and dozed or cuddled and probably did a bit of both.
As the sun began to set Tracy whispered, “stay for tea, later we can have an early night and enjoy a slightly less frenzied fuck. Oh yes, I do swear. I hope you weren’t too shocked by my little performance back then but I really can’t help myself when I get that excited, I simply lose all self-control and inhibition and, well, it makes everything so much more excitingly sordid. If you stick around I’ll reveal some more of my other grubby little secrets, I do hope you’ll find them suitably shocking.”
I stayed for tea. We had an early night, after sharing a warm and relaxing bath together. Following extensive and excessively teasing mutual foreplay we made love slowly and sensuously in her big soft bed; Tracy delighting in a long series of less intense orgasms. Me, again, coming at the wrong moment and then being revived by those soft lips and that cunning tongue of Tracy’s, so that I could continue to attend to her pleasure. I would not have come for a fourth time; except, once every last climax had been extracted from Tracy’s sensitive clitoris and hungry pussy, she took the bulb of my cock in her mouth and worked the shaft with her hand until she coaxed a final ejaculation from it.
In the morning, as I prepared to dress Tracy draped herself face down over the edge of the bed, “do me doggy,” she demanded curtly, “do me doggy this instant,” a ferocious command. “I won’t come but I bet you will when you watch your own stiff prick piercing my hot little hole.” She was right, it was a glorious sight seeing my own cock sliding backwards and forwards as it penetrated her slick sex and propelled by those dual stimuli of sense and sight I came quickly; another first, I’d never tried ‘doggy’ before but greatly looked forwards to the next opportunity.
Suddenly I it was time to dash off, I had to slip home to change into my suit. As I fitted my key in the lock I realised that I had neither collected the books nor arranged our next assignation. So great was my hurry that I actually reached the station first. As Tracy walked past she husked, “Good morning,” and handed me a plastic carrier bag. Inside were the forgotten books. It was only when I boarded the train and opened the first fat volume that I discovered that she had inscribed the frontispiece of each with, ‘Next Sunday? Love sweet T.’