Loading...I still can’t remember when this twisted little project first took hold. I think it might have been early last spring. I run an Internet-based business out of a home office in a pleasant old neighborhood downtown. I moved in a year ago and business is good. I have lots of free time and can pretty much plan my schedule any way I want.
I was wearing an old t-shirt and shorts after returning from a late morning run. My hands were on my hips, and I was taking deep gasps of air to cool down when I looked up to see Mrs. Tenholder bending over a flower bed, carefully removing the winter pansies and replacing them with pretty pink petunias. She lived two doors down from me and would wave to me from time to time but I never really spoke to her face to face.
She was wearing a long skirt which hid generous but attractive hips and narrowed down to a very girlish waist. She wore a simple yellow blouse buttoned up the front and a wide hat with a big straw flower dangling off one edge. I guess it was her ass wagging to and fro as she pulled up the old plants and replaced them with the petunias that go my attention. Nice calves sticking out of the old-lady dress. A little thick, but nice. It was when she turned around to my “good morning” greeting that she won me over and I started my project in earnest.
“I like flowers,” I said to her. “I like the smells, the colors and even the weeding. I guess it’s time to start on my own yard.”
It was her bright blue eyes that got to me. So pretty, so kind and so friendly. I managed a quick look at her chest and saw that she was wearing a sensible bra that jutted out memorably and shaded the little belly that only added to her grandmotherly image. I was smitten.
“I am late getting started this year,” she said. “Getting old, I guess. Still, I love them. These flowers will see me through the summer.”
Mrs. Tenholder was startled to see me and her gaze fell upon my bare legs. She blushed so easily and so quickly that I felt sorry for her discomfort but she carried on like a trooper. She had poise; I’ll give her that.
She walked toward me, pulled off a gardening glove and stuck out a wrinkled but delicate hand. “I’m Gretchen Tenholder,” she said. “And I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I used to bring a casserole or a pie to new neighbors. I guess no one does that much anymore.”
“I’ve met a few of the neighbors,” I said, looking even more deeply into those bright blue eyes, shaded by her hat. “They had a party last 4th of July and invited me. I enjoyed meeting everyone. My name is John. Glad to meet you.”
She laughed. It was a nice laugh — not too boisterous as to be irritating, but loud and genuine. “They invited me too. That was nice of them but I can’t handle . . .”
“The fireworks!” we both said together, then laughed. I knew what she was going to say and while I don’t care one way or the other about fireworks, I thought it would build a bridge between me and Gretchen Tenholder. It worked. To my surprise, she smiled and blushed again
I guess,” she said, smiling again and cocking her head in a fetching manner, “that’s we’re just flower people.”
We talked for a few more minutes about flowers and the neighborhood and taxes and insurance and . . . but I was checking out Mrs. Tenholder. I could see, when she wasn’t smiling, blushing or speaking, that she was older than I would have thought — at least 70. She was a beautiful person, if not the most attractive woman I’ve ever met. She had a way of reaching out and almost touching my arm when she wanted to make a point, as though she wanted to suggest the intimacy of a touch without actually, well, touching.
One of her front teeth was a little crooked which sometimes resulted in a slight lisp when she said some words. I could see a little bare flesh above her bra through the thin yellow shirt and she must have noticed my peeking because she half-covered herself with a free hand from time to time so I stopped looking and stared instead into those warm blue eyes while we spoke. She didn’t seem uncomfortable after that but she might have if she could have read my mind.
All I could think of was wrapping my arms around her naked waist, squeezing her fat ass and pressing my wet mouth against that slight protuberance of a belly. I knew I had been spending too much time on my business but I was somewhat shocked at the depth of my carnal feelings toward this sweet old woman. It wasn’t long during our conversations before I realized that skimpy gym trunks weren’t the best attire when harboring such thoughts so I made some excuses, went home and jerked off profusely to a vision of Gretchen Tenholder’s floppy old tits sandwiching my hard cock while I looked into those lovely blue eyes.
“Here,” she said politely but firmly a few days later. “Maybe folks don’t bring casseroles to new neighbors any more but I thought you would like these.” She handed me a full flat of blue and yellow petunias that would last all summer and complement my house color. And that’s the way she was: practical and giving.
“Well . . .” she said as she dusted off her hands and prepared to move off.
I gave her a warm, open smile, one that I truly felt. “That was so kind of you,” I said. “And so thoughtful. Thank you. Thank you very much.” And I touched her bare arm which was warm and firmer than I would have expected. “Please, come in.”
I waved off her protestations about being dirty. “It’s the least I can do,” I said.
I remember that first visit pretty well. She sat down on the edge of my sofa as though she was afraid of being asked to leave at any moment. We spoke of inconsequential things — the neighbors, the summer, the mosquito problem this year — and she smiled often. A pretty smile and her bright blue eyes would flash when she laughed, which was often.
She tapped my arm. “We’re so lucky to have you in the neighborhood,” she said. “The last family who lived here . . .” she shivered, then laughed again. “Well, I’m just glad you’re here and they’re gone!”
“You don’t look like a Gretchen,” I said, smirking just a little.
“No?” and she pursed her lips in the cutest way. “And just who do I look like?”
“Maybe a Lois,” I offered. “Or a Barbara. Not Gretchen, though.”
She was feeling more comfortable and she crossed her legs and leaned forward. “My sister’s name is Barbara. I’m serious!” She was quiet for a moment and looked at me carefully. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
And she was right. As time went on we spoke more freely and more often. I learned she had been widowed almost 18 years now. There were two children who lived across the country and visited about twice a year or when they were passing through on business. There were 3 grandchildren whom she adored. She had some woman friends but pretty much kept to herself. A nice lady. A sweet lady.
My initial lust was replaced with genuine affection and even protectiveness. When a security alarm salesman started harassing her, I stepped in and told him to go away and stay away. Then I hung a “No Solicitors” sign on her door. She hugged me after that.
We took to hugging pretty regularly, usually when first meeting and when parting. I replaced a washer on her kitchen sink, took some books up to the attic, reset a few nails that had popped up and then there was the time I fixed a bad sprinkler head.
I was coming back on the last leg on my morning run when Gretchen came out to the street. “John, John,” she said. She seemed a little frantic. “I need your help to fix something. I’m just too clumsy or stupid, or both. Hurry!”
She unashamedly took my sweaty hand and pulled me into the back yard where a veritable water fountain was shooting up from one of her sprinkler heads. She had come from the house hurriedly and was only wearing a loose cotton robe over her nightclothes. That’s when I saw the tops of two gorgeous tits swaying and bouncing like saddle bags on a bucking horse. She was so concerned about the waterfall that she didn’t pay the usual close attention to how she looked.
She held a hand to her mouth. “It’s going to wash out all my tomato plants. Can you do something?”
I smiled and, at that moment, she realized she was “on display” and quickly closed her robe and blushed immediately, then regained her normal color in an instant. It was at that moment — and I’ve thought about this over the last few months — it was that very moment when I knew I had to have her. Or try to have her.
Oh, sure, I still liked her. I liked her a lot. But from then on she was no longer Gretchen Tenholder, neighbor, friend, nice lady but rather, Gretchen Tenholder, prospective fuck buddy. With this intention in mind and instincts honed from hundreds of generations of men seeking to seduce women against their will, I walked over the spurting sprinkler and felt the cool whoosh of water pummeling my crotch until my jogging shorts were soaking and there was little left to the imagination of anyone watching.
Fortunately for me, the only one watching was Gretchen Tenholder. I stood up and smiled at her again as though I were unaware that my semi-hardened cock was clearly visible through my jogging shorts. I looked into her eyes and they were staring at the display and just a beat longer than absolutely necessary to satisfy an honest curiosity.
When I looked down, I pretended to cover myself (but not very well) and Gretchen immediately flushed again and turned away, then started laughing in embarrassment or the ridiculousness of my situation, or both. She laughed some more, then waved a hand back at me and ran into the house where she stood inside for a moment, looked at me again, shook her head while laughing, then went inside.
I replaced the sprinkler head, dried myself off as best I could, then went home and jerked off in such a spasm of orgiastic delight that I damn near blacked out for a moment. Thank you, Gretchen Tenholder.
And, no, that most assuredly did not end our relationship. If anything, we grew closer than ever. And that was fine with me. I would suggest movies she might enjoy. I gave her books to read (Gretchen was inexplicably a student of early American frontier stories). I circled magazine articles and left them at her door.
In the summer I sometimes stopped at her house with a beer and we would sit on the front porch, talking about this and that while she had a small glass of Chablis. At these times she would often wear knee-length shorts and a comfortable blouse or pullover t-shirt. I kept looking for any sign of weakening such as no bra, an extra button undone on her blouse, anything. But no.
The only thing I did notice is that she began painting her toe nails. I didn’t remember painted toe nails when we first met and the fact the she would often stretch out her not-unattractive legs so I could get a good look at her feet made me think –or hope — that she did it for me.
“You have pretty feet,” I offered once. I thought this was an innocent comment that might open discussion into other areas. As expected, she immediately withdrew her feet and blushed.
“Now why would you say something like that?” she asked in a mock-scolding tone.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a “feet” man.”
She faked a mild ‘harrumph’ and smiled again. “In my experience there are leg men and boob men. I didn’t know there were any ‘feet’ men.”
It was a little surprising and a touch arousing to hear her say ‘boob’ so easily and comfortably, but I decided to go for it. “Okay, I’m a foot AND boob man. There, are you happy?”
Gretchen had a nice rack and since I had already complemented her feet, she must have recognized I was also paying homage to her tits as well. She unconsciously crossed her arms across her chest and I decided to play with her a little.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You don’t have to hide your treasures from me.”
“Because I’m so old?”
“Because I’m a gentleman,” I corrected her and I was rewarded with a rare treat. Gretchen both smiled and blushed at the same time, and threw in a twinkle of those bright blue eyes as well.
Have you seen the movie, “The Mother”? It starred Anne Reid and Daniel Craig and while it purports to tell the story of a woman discovering her true self and yadda-yadda-yadda, it’s basically a tale of an old woman lusting after a man half her age. It’s a good film but I had other purposes than artistic for bringing that DVD, a six-pack, and a bottle of Chablis over to Gretchen’s house one Wednesday night.
It seemed a natural evolution in our “friendship” to watch movies together. Of course, I couldn’t expect her to enjoy Bruce Willis, special effects shoot-em-up extravaganzas. Instead I chose something that used to be called a “woman’s picture” and one that would not incidentally advance my own purposes as well.
“I hope I didn’t make a mistake in bringing this movie,” I said, faking a shy shrug.
“Lord, it’s called ‘The Mother’ for crying out loud. How bad could it be?”
I smiled. Indeed. Gretchen sat down on the couch and I sat a respectable distance away on the same couch. I popped a cold one after pouring a cool glass of Chablis for my , what? date?
Mrs. Tenholder must have been thinking the same thing, bless her. “Are we on a date, Johnny?”
It was the first time she had called me the name my mother used to call me all the time, at least when I was younger. “Yes,” I said. “I guess we are.”
“Well, don’t try to neck with me,” she said using a term not heard much these days. Then she smiled at her little joke and — because she just couldn’t help herself, I guess — she blushed again before the film started.
I thought seriously about sidling up to her. I could pretend it was a joke on the “date” theme, then stay there. I nixed the idea quickly, however. While it was a great opening, this was not really a “date” movie — at least not in the traditional sense. I wanted to get Gretchen Tenholder thinking about younger men — and me in particular — as potential sexual partners. I didn’t feel I could discuss the matter openly. There aren’t a lot of books that would innocently probe the topic. She had to make the connection on her own. All I could do was steer her gently in my direction. The rest was up to her.
Although Anne Reid is a great actress, the film started slowly. Gretchen said she liked to watch movies in the dark so the lights were pretty dim in her living room. But I could still see her by the bare light of the TV screen.
I could see her face. It was a gentle, motherly face. I yearned to run a finger along her bare cheek. I never realized until now how full her lips were. Did she put on a little lipstick for our “date?” The light summer dress just covered her knees, ending above her full but not unattractive calves. Her legs were shaved. Nice.
She was a solid woman. Not fat, but no model figure either. She had her hands crossed in her lap and I could see a gentle bump that in a young woman would have looked like a pregnancy about 4-5 months along. It gave her a nice womanly shape, even as she was sitting there, hands in her lap, manicured nails (not painted, I noticed) and as my eyes moved up her body, I saw a discernible indentation of her waist. Without thinking I licked my lips as I saw myself with my arm wrapped around that waist. Would she laugh? Push me away?
She must have felt my looking at her. Briefly she turned to look at me looking at her but she turned back almost at once to the film.
Nice tits. Nice, grapefruit-sized grandma hooters carefully bundled up into a sensible bra. Sigh.
Gretchen liked sleeveless tops. Most old woman stay away from them because they exaggerate their flabby arms but Gretchen Tenholder’s arms were not very saggy. She was no hard body, like I said, but she had firm arms that may have been a tad heavy but were not flabby at all. No, the advantage of the sleeveless dress was it provided an occasional peak into the magical world of Gretchen Tenholder’s boobs.
It hadn’t happened tonight but on other occasions I had stared into that armhole as she reached for her glass of wine to see vast areas of bra-covered tit-flesh and once, even a little glimpse of white belly. It was a potential amusement park of delights that I could only imagine. Was I getting any closer? I turned back to the movie.
Old mother Anne Reid was having designs on the handyman played by Daniel Craig. Gretchen seemed to be a little uneasy watching all this. Was she sexually excited or simply uncomfortable? Or both?
As the movie progressed I looked over at Gretchen. She normally sat very still but right now she was moving her leg a little more than usual and shifting her position further back into the couch from time to time. Before long — in the movie — the old woman and the young lover were in bed having wild and frantic sex and lots of skin was on display. I had seen the film before and had become quite aroused but right now I was more concerned about Gretchen Tenholder and how this was going over with her.
She stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said as she reached over and flicked off the TV. “I wasn’t expecting this. I’m pretty uncomfortable.” She walked around to no place in particular and took a long pull on her glass of Chablis.
“I’m sorry, Gretchen.” I was.
“I don’t know what you were thinking.” She wasn’t smiling when she said this. “I’m almost 70 years old, for god’s sake. I watch Lawrence Welk reruns. I’ve never seen anything quite like . . . like this.”
I felt like a little boy who had been caught doing something naughty. And I felt about as UN-aroused as I could possibly be. “I won’t make that mistake again, Gretchen. I’m really sorry.”
She seemed genuinely disturbed and I knew that the flush in her cheeks was not the sweet innocence of a blush but a wave of anger and indignation. But then Gretchen — being Gretchen — couldn’t stay angry. “It was sweet of you to want to watch a movie with me. It was just a bad choice, that’s all. Good night, John.” No kiss, though. No hug. Some date.
I walked out her front door and walked down to the corner store where I bought an ice cream sandwich that dripped all over my fingers as I ate it on the walk back home.
Except that I wasn’t going home. That wasn’t part of my plan. I don’t like to pat myself on the back but I’ve got to admit that things with Gretchen went pretty much the way I figured. I was still smiling to myself as I ducked down behind some azaleas to look into her living room window where my DVD of “The Mother” that I had thoughtfully left behind was once again playing on her television.
There I saw my good buddy Gretchen Tenholder watching with real attention the seductions taking place in the movie. And even in the low light I could see a flush in Gretchen’s cheeks that was not embarrassment and not anger and not indignation.
And I saw her lovely, manicured fingers almost absently toying with her breasts, touching her cleavage, then dropping again into her lap and the great mass of those glorious tits heaved as the film played on, the very breasts I hoped to be grazing on one day soon.
It was probably a week later that I saw Gretchen planting small begonias around the oak tree in front of her home. She was wearing a sun hat and shorts that seemed just a bit too tight as she bent over to tamp one of the red flowers into place. A nice, big ass. Too full to be fashionable but glorious just the same.
“Hey, beautiful,” I said.
Gretchen Tenholder turned to look at me, surprised at first, then the warm smile and the flashing blue eyes became visible, even in the shade of her sun hat.
“Hi, yourself, stranger.” She brushed the dirt off her hands. “When’s our next date night?”
“I’ve got a movie I think you would really like. It’s a surprise,” I paused. “But I think it will be a good surprise this time, not like last week.”
Gretchen blushed again and turned her head for a moment to consider her begonias, then she turned back to me with an uncharacteristic confidence in her manner. “Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. I guess . . . well, I guess I need to be more open to things. I can’t watch Lawrence Welk forever,” and she laughed that wonderful, open laugh of hers that sparkled in the sunshine like those cool, blue eyes.
The movie I took was “Last of the Mohicans” with Daniel Day-Lewis and before you chide me for a film that was hardly a date movie, remember how Gretchen was a fan of the American frontier. She had mentioned James Fennimore Cooper to me once.
I met her at the door and each of us was carrying beer and wine. She laughed and took my haul from me. “I’ll put mine in the fridge,” she said. “Let’s start with yours.”
I popped a beer and uncorked her wine, poured a glass and we talked for a bit. Nothing was said about “The Mother” or her re-review of that film that I witnessed through the living room window. The beer was good and cold and I had nothing for lunch so I was feeling a quick buzz and, to look at Gretchen, so was she.
I slipped the movie into her DVD after taking out “The Mother” which I noticed was still in the machine. “Ahh,” I faked surprise. “Here it is. Netflix will be pleased to know I found it.”
“I’m going to make some popcorn,” Gretchen said and while the menu booted up, I could hear the slow whir of the microwave. She returned and plopped down on the sofa with her recharged wine glass. I was getting ready to join her when I heard the ding of the microwave so I dumped the popcorn into a big bowl and came back into the living room.
Like I said, I was a little heady from the beer (2 down, 10 to go) and when I sat on the sofa, I decided to sit close to Gretchen. She seemed a little startled but I quickly offered her popcorn from the bowl and the movie began. She relaxed quickly.
More beer, more wine. When I reached behind her to refill her wine glass from the bottle on her end table, I left my arm around her.
“Date night,” I said as an excuse and she giggled, punched my arm slightly and returned to the movie, which she seemed to really be enjoying. I realized I had never spent any time this close to her before. She smelled clean with just the barest scent of soap or maybe it was shampoo about her. I looked at her closely as Daniel Day-Lewis ran across the countryside holding his weapon. She had deep laugh lines and old-age folds along her neck. Her eyes darted and danced with each new danger on the screen.
Too many beers meant a quick trip to the bathroom and Gretchen seemed genuinely disappointed when I stood up. When I came back, I again sat close to her and threw my arm around her. This time she laid her head against my arm for a moment as though giving tacit approval to my embrace. More poured wine. More beer. More headiness.
I put my hand on Gretchen’s arm and pulled her closer to me. She came along willingly.
“This is good, Johnny” she said, presumably about the movie, and winked. I squeezed her arm slightly.
At some point she reached over (eyes never leaving the screen) and refilled her wine glass and when she did that, I moved my hand under her arm so it was gently cupping the outside of her breast. I could feel its warmth and bulk under my hand as it heaved and fell with each new adventure on the screen. Or was it something else?
When I returned after getting another beer from the refrigerator, I sat next to Gretchen again and, without looking at me or saying anything, she lifted her old arm so I could put mine under it as before. I placed gentle pressure against the side of her breast, enough so that she moved closer to me but said nothing.
At first I only rubbed an idle thumb along the side of her breast and crossed my legs to hide my growing erection. Emboldened, I worked one finger into her arm hole so that I was actually fingering her bra, lightly, but without question. Then two fingers. Gretchen said nothing but seemed a little stiffer on the sofa. I carefully slipped one finger just to the edge of her bra line. I could feel the soft, warm skin and as she breathed a small gap was created between her skin and the bra. I gauged the timing of her breaths and slipped a finger under the bra to the side of her breast. I was finally touching her warm, living tits.
I looked at Gretchen’s face. Her lips were pursed and she was sitting up straight as though she expected to be called to the front office by the principal at any moment. I let my finger play along the side of Gretchen Tenholder’s old, soft, sweet breast . . .
Without saying anything or making a dramatic move, Gretchen shifted slightly so that my probing fingers dropped out of the armhole, then she settled down next to me again, briefly laid her head on my shoulder, then returned to the movie. Okay. Apparently there were limits. Or not. Couldn’t tell. I kept my arm around her and eventually was able to rub the side of her tits from the outside.
The movie was over. She stood up, popped open some more wine (and beer) and with that easy flush on her cheeks and the ready smile on her lips, she proceeded to discuss the film and how it reflected reality and how it didn’t. I kept up with her but all I could think about was the feel of her firm tit flesh against my fingers.
Oops. She was a tad tipsy now although her words weren’t slurred. I could see she was having a little trouble getting up with one quick move. I was having the same problem. It was time to go.
“I’m glad you liked this movie better than the last one, Gretchen.”
“Oh, Johnny, that earlier movie was okay. It just took some getting used to.” “Let’s do this again. I’ll bring the popcorn next time,” and I reached down and grabbed Gretchen’s lovely old hand and held the fingers to my lips, then proceeded to carefully lick the butter off two of them. She seemed startled, but didn’t pull her hand away.
“Good night,” I said. “You were a great date.” And I reached over and gently put my hand around her head and pulled her mouth to mine. Her eyes closed. I could taste the butter on her lips and I licked them with my tongue. Her tongue came out briefly to touch my own, then retreated. I took my free hand and boldly placed it on her grapefruit-sized tit and gave a slight squeeze. She moaned slightly. I dropped my hand from her tit, picked up her hand, kissed it gently, smiled and whispered ‘good night’ again, and left.
A week or so later I stepped outside my door and saw Gretchen in her sun hat watering the begonias she had planted. She had her back to me and I decided to pay her a visit to gauge her reaction to our earlier “date.”
As I got closer, I gazed again upon the rounded, but not overly-large ass and legs that were a bit thicker than I remembered. There was, however, a nice, sensual curve at her thighs. Ah, she turned. Those great hooters! My fingers still tingled from the remembered touch.
“Hi Gretchen,” I said.
She hadn’t heard me coming but when she did, she smiled and the familiar blue eyes danced. “Hi, Johnny. How come I haven’t heard from you lately?” And she made a small make-believe pout with those old, sensual lips that I had kissed and licked only a few days earlier. I felt my crotch throb a little. It was amazing the effect this old woman was having on me.
I loved the way she called me Johnny. The only other person who called me that was . . . my mother. It should have been disturbing, I guess, but it wasn’t. I really liked this friendly old woman but my lust was all-consuming. Still, as I knew, slow and steady wins the race. I wasn’t about to ruin everything by rushing in too fast.
“Are you ready for another date?” I smiled at her.
Naturally, she blushed but the warm smile never left her face. “Sure,” she said. “What’d you have in mind?”
You don’t want to know, I thought. Or do you?
“What if we go out this time?” I said. “There’s a film playing at the Rave Theater that I think you’d like. What do you say?”
She pulled off her gardening gloves. Pretty fingers. Wouldn’t they look wonderful wrapped around my cock? “I know exactly which one you mean. It’s that period piece set in Elizabethan England. I can’t remember the name. Is that the one you meant.”
“That’s right,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”
“How about tonight,” she responded quickly, then blushed again. “I’d really like to see it. But I’ll buy. You’ve been getting all the DVDs. I haven’t been to the movies in years.”
I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll get the popcorn. That will probably cost more anyway!” Gretchen laughed. I smiled and turned away. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I finished some work at home and discovered to my surprise that I was practically trembling at this upcoming date, like a teenager going out for the first time. It took me a while to realize why.
This really was a first date. It would be the two of us going out together. Sitting together. In the dark. What magic things might take place in the dark, I wondered. I had some ideas. But if I pushed myself too quickly, there would be no getting up and going home. We were together. How far could I go?
Gretchen was ready on time. I always like that in a woman. She was wearing a pretty yellow blouse that was more baggy than I would have liked but a tit package like hers was difficult to hide. She wore a skirt that came to her knees and her legs were bare, which I found a little surprising.
When getting into the car, Gretchen was a little slower than I remembered her being. After all, this was a 70+ year-old woman, something I needed to remember. She smoothed out her skirt. “I haven’t been on a date in a long time. Thanks, Johnny.”
“No,” I said. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
Gretchen bought the tickets, as she said she would. I bought the popcorn (lord, how they gouge you for that stuff!) and just one large coke. She said she wasn’t thirsty but I punched an extra hole in the top and jammed a second straw in. “You’ll want a drink after eating this expensive popcorn,” I told her.
We sat near the back of the theater. “It’s where I always take my girlfriends,” I whispered and Gretchen giggled, then quickly covered her mouth to hush the laugh as we settled into our seats.
The movie . . . was lame. It was ponderous. I think she liked it better than I did but even she seemed a little distracted. I put the popcorn between us and it wasn’t long before we had finished it off. As expected, she wanted a sip of my coke and didn’t seem to care which straw she used. I put the empty popcorn bag down at my feet then calmly, naturally, rested my right hand on Gretchen’s leg just above the knee.
Her only reaction was to pat my hand with hers and leave it there for a while. Was she telling me it was okay? Or was she telling me don’t move your hand anywhere else? She took another drink from the cup and after she lifted her hand , I slid mine inside her leg, but still outside her dress. Gretchen responded by moving her legs together a little, but not so much as to pinch my fingers between her thighs. Now I was lightly grasping her lower thigh with my right hand.
I looked at Gretchen’s face. Nothing there except a new concentration on the plodding movie. But she had almost imperceptibly moved her legs a little further apart. It was not exactly an invitation (she was too much the lady for that) but certainly an indication of either trust or accommodation. I moved my index finger slightly until I reached the hem of her skirt, then pulled it back far enough that my entire right hand was now resting on the cool, firm, bare leg of Gretchen Tenholder. She did nothing. Her eyes were riveted to the screen. I felt a tremble surge through me that I had to quell lest my busy right hand start quivering. I slowly started sliding my hand up the length of her smooth, naked thigh.
Gretchen moved her drink to the other hand and I prepared for a rebuke or at least the feel of her restraining hand on mine. Her newly-free hand lingered for a moment above her thigh. I could see in the low light how her skirt rode unnaturally high on her leg and how my right arm disappeared beneath it. It was an intoxicating moment of lust. But what would Gretchen do next?
To my surprise, she gently placed her free hand on my thigh, turned to smile at me and said, “This was a wonderful idea, Johnny” and she squeezed my leg ever so slightly but her touch was electric. No one was within 5 rows of us. Gretchen looked into my eyes with real affection, the first time I could remember seeing such a look, and she kissed me on the lips. I could feel her old, soft lips cold from the soft drink and as our tongues briefly touched, I could taste the butter and salt from the overpriced popcorn.
“My mother,” I said to her for the first time, “used to call me Johnny.”
Why did I say that? Nervousness? I don’t know. But it didn’t seem to matter. Gretchen pecked again briefly at my lips, moved her hand higher up my thigh then turned back to the movie as though everything was the same. But it wasn’t. Certainly not for me.
I turned to watch the movie also but I was more quickly sliding my hand under Gretchen’s skirt, using the edge of my hand as a blade sliding between her thighs. I heard her quickly catch her breath but the only other thing she did was squeeze my thigh almost reassuringly. Whether it was or not, I don’t know but that’s the way I took it.
I looked down. Her skirt was bunched up almost to her waist, my hand hidden beneath. I could easily see the cool, fat legs of old Gretchen Tenholder as the light from the screen licked at them. My hand could feel the heat emanating from her crotch and in one quick, but gentle move, the edge of my probing hand found the indentation of her cunt beneath the light cotton panties.
I sawed at her womanhood with the edge of my hand in slow, easy motions. I could feel the bunches of pubic hair beneath her underwear. I could feel no moisture through the panties, even as I began stroking the vaginal opening with one, then two fingers. She was so soft, so warm and . . . for the first time, Gretchen was pushing toward my fingers. I looked at her face. Intense. Her breasts were heaving a little more. Yes, there it was again. Gretchen was pushing back at my fingers as I stroked her pussy.
I was reminded of Lauren Bacall’s line to Humphrey Bogart: “It’s even better when you help.” And so it is.
I worked a pinky finger around the fabric of her underwear and for the first time, I could smell the scent of aroused womanhood coming from her. There was the prickle of hairs against my finger. I moved my entire hand inside her panties and drove two fingers into her twat.
Gretchen grunted audibly, then moved her hand from my thigh and grabbed both armrests before settling down, if you can call it settling down. I rubbed across the vaginal opening, feeling the coarseness of her hair, then played with her clit until my efforts were rewarded with the slow but inevitable moisture so that my fingers were slick, not with butter this time, but with the womanly juices of my 72-year-old neighbor, Gretchen Tenholder.
I leaned down in the darkness and shoved my head under her skirt where I could more easily smell her arousal. I licked her thighs, moved my hand from her cunt to hold the naked side of her ass, then roughly pulled her panties to one side and tongued her hole, chomping at the labial lips, almost forcing my entire face into her opening as though I wanted to reverse the birthing process. Her gentle hand was on my head (on her skirt which was on my head) holding me to her pussy. I licked. I chewed. I sought to devour this gorgeous, lovely old woman who had so aroused my lusts and she rewarded me by pumping at my face as I tongue-fucked her. She moved slightly in the movie seat and I slid a hand under one ass cheek and happily slurped away while she pumped at me with a surprising abandon, grunting only irregularly until, finally, she pushed hard against me and I could feel the juices like the nectar from a fine old fruit tree slop into my mouth and she moaned way too loud, then settled back into her seat, spent.
There was no more pretense of watching the movie. Gretchen was laying against the back of the chair, eyes closed, lips smiling but unwilling (or unable?) to look at me. I came out from under her skirt, tried to modestly adjust her underwear and sit up in my seat once again. No one in the theater, apparently, had seen or heard anything. I was starting to be worried that they would SMELL our act before anything else.
I took Gretchen’s hand with mine, the same one that had been jammed up her twat just moments before, and placed it on the mound that was my poor, straining cock. Gretchen didn’t move but she did grow a beautiful smile at that moment and rather expertly, to my surprise, undid my belt and unzip my fly to unleash the frustrated beast within. Her eyes were still closed as I finally got my wish.
Gretchen Tenholder’s warm, liver-spotted 72 year-old hand was wrapped around my cock and she was milking it from stem to stern with the soft, firm touch I knew she would have. I leaned back, closed my eyes and tried hard to keep quiet and was pretty much successful until I felt a familiar tongue flicking at my pee hole, then kissing and licking the length of my cock before swallowing the thing whole at the very moment I exploded with an intense and insistent orgasm. I must have shot gallons of cum into Gretchen’s sweet old mouth but she didn’t move until she had licked me clean. Then she took a popcorn napkin, daintily wiped her mouth — and mine — and said. “This movie really isn’t very good, Johnny. Let’s go home.”
That little episode left me drained and confused and wondering. Drained from the great cum explosion Gretchen had so kindly consumed. Confused about her apparent reluctance to discuss our little “dates” openly. And wondering if anything like this would ever happen again.
I didn’t have to wonder for long.
It was another week before Gretchen surprised me with a visit to my home. There was an almost shy knock on the door and I opened it to see Gretchen smiling at me with those innocent, lively blue eyes and for the first time I noticed she had freckles on her chest and age lines in her face.
Before I could say anything to her, she sputtered out a little too quickly. “There’s a great movie playing at the old drive-in outside of town. You remember the one they reopened this year? Anyway, I thought it would be fun to, you know, sit outside and watch our next movie. The weather is supposed to be cool. No rain. What do you say?”
I smiled at Gretchen Tenholder’s discomfort and I looked at the heaving chest I so wanted to explore. What a sweet lady. Lord, how I wanted to fuck her.
“Sure, Gretchen. Sounds great. I’ll pick you up at, what, 8:30?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, her quick smile again playing on her lips. “Let’s take my car, Johnny. You can drive, though. I need to get it on the road every so often so this is a good opportunity.”
The Tenholder car was a big, old Lincoln Continental. What do old people always buy land yachts? “All right. Then I’ll stop by at 8:30 and we’ll take in a movie outside this time. ”
“It will be great fun! Bye!,” and she waddled down the steps to the street while I appreciatively watched her ass waving to and fro. Great fun, indeed. This would be interesting.
We arrived at the drive-in about 15 minutes before the previews started and I offered to get the popcorn (she paid admission again). When I returned to the car, I saw that she had moved to the back seat where there was more room than in the front.
“Popcorn,” I said. “And a cup of water, just like you asked.”
“Thanks, Johnny. You’re sweet.” And this time when she smiled I just had to kiss those sweet, old lips. I was feeling genuine affection but as I touched the dry, papery lips, I couldn’t help but remember that these were the same lips that just last week were wrapped around my cock. She closed her eyes as I kissed her but there was no tongue. She reached for the popcorn.
Gretchen stuffed some popcorn in her mouth and she turned at me and smiled. “Let’s see if this movie is any good,” she said and I was worried that maybe that was her intention all along. It made me feel a little like a, well, mother-molester.
It was a cool night with no moon. There was a decent crowd in the lot but it wasn’t full by any means. I moved closer to Gretchen and put my arm around her. She acknowledged the gesture with a brief touch of her head on my shoulder, then it was back to the movie. She seemed to be all business tonight.
I couldn’t get into the picture. There were too many flashbacks and characters I didn’t care about. Although Gretchen seemed interested, I was bored. Bored to tears.
Her face was glued to the screen and when I took my arm away to get a drink, she didn’t seem to mind. But then I noticed something.
Gretchen was wearing a simple one-piece green and white dress buttoned up the front. It came just below her knees as most of her dresses did and I could see the outline of her full thighs beneath the light fabric. As I stared at her chest, I could see in the thin light a dim outline of a naked, mature breast beneath that fabric. Gretchen Tenholder was not wearing a bra! This realization hit me like a jolt. I took some popcorn and moved closer to her. I held a piece of buttered popcorn to her lips and at first she seemed irritated that I was trying to get her to eat it, but then she finally did. Then another. And another.
I could smell that floral scent she always had about her. My heart was racing. Her eyes were still glued to the screen. I put my buttered fingers to her lips and she opened her mouth in anticipation of another piece of popcorn and I stuck the fingers in. She made no move except to take the fingers in her mouth, lick them with her lips and tongue and close her eyes as she did so. I moved my hand to her right breast and put my mouth to her lips.
She had the now-familiar taste of butter and salt and her tongue wrestled with mine with an enthusiasm that was quite unexpected. I gently massaged her breast, feeling its firm warmth between my trembling hand until I sensed a hardened nipple beneath my palm. I slid my hand into the dress and for the first time, felt that great bulk of Gretchen Tenholder’s entire tit, flesh to flesh. I was amazed at how far it hung down onto her chest and how soft and firm it was.
Gretchen was breathing harder and her expression was serious and full of an aching lust that I understood all too well. My fingers flicked at her long nipple, then prowled the expanse of her chunky belly. She kissed me again, holding my head with both her hands as I moved to caress her left breast. With an unexpected start, she twisted my head so my ear was before her mouth. She nipped my ear briefly, lovingly with her teeth and whispered in a way that was more erotic than anything I’ve ever heard: “Do you want to suck on momma’s boobies, Johnny?” Then she flicked a tongue in my ear and moved my head down to her chest.
I quickly unbuttoned five or six buttons and the two great tits were finally in my sight, their whiteness reflecting the dim light. I dove on them, slobbering both, then focusing on one at a time, taunting the nipples with my teeth then suckling like the small child I had become. She held my head to her chest as I slurped. I could smell the floral perfume, baby powder and a suggestion of the womanly arousal scent I had experienced at the movie theater last week.
“Ahhh, yes, that’s my good baby,” she was mewing. “That’s my Johnny.”
I felt like I was in some mother-child Twilight Zone. I wrapped my arms around her torso inside her dress until I could feel her fleshy back beneath my fingers as I sucked and sucked and sucked. A few times I pulled my hands back to reach down to recover each of the huge dugs that were flopped onto her belly and I licked underneath them, chewed and then returned to sucking on the hard and aroused nipples.
Gretchen had taken to rocking back and forth a little as I sucked, as though she was indeed rocking a feeding child. But I soon realized that she also had her free right hand under her skirt. I reached inside the dress to find her hand and discovered two things. She was diddling herself while I chomped on her titties. And she was wearing no underwear.
I lifted up from the tits which hung from her chest on the outside of the dress and reached down to grab her right hand. She seemed most reluctant to pull it from her twat but I muscled it free and plunged the sopping fingers in my mouth while staring into her panting face, her lustful blue eyes. Then I used my whole hand to massage her cunt which she deliciously pushed into my palm. The scene was incredibly erotic. Her chest heaving and falling, heaving and falling, faster and faster so that even her tremendous tits were beginning to swing a little and she was grunting in a previously unheard animal staccato while I toyed with her elderly womanhood and felt my erection growing.
Somewhat to my surprise, even amidst the feral groans, Gretchen Tenholder again pulled my head to her ear. I could feel her hot breath. I pistoned two fingers into her cunt and she groaned even louder then said: “I want you in me, Johnny. I didn’t think I could — ohhh-hh — but I think I can do it. I need you.”
“I want to fuck your sweet old pussy, Gretchen. I want my cock in you. Is that what you want?”
She gasped. Nodded. “Fuck momma, Johnny. Ahh-hh. Yes. Fuck momma.”
I didn’t know from what strange other world this came, but I didn’t care. I wanted so badly to plunge my cock in her that nothing else mattered.
“Let me straddle you,” she said. “Let me straddle you. I think I can do it . . . yes, yes — ohh-hh, yes,” and with agility remarkable in an old woman, she had hiked up her skirt in the back seat and settled onto my now untethered cock like the lunar module landing on the moon.
We were face to face, although her head was thrown back. Thank god for the big old Lincoln. I placed my hands on the tops of her old thighs and probed with my prick until I found her hole. It was wet, but tight and I went slowly. Every jerk seemed to increase her ecstasy even more as I painted her crotch with my pre-cum. Then I was in. She bit her lip for a moment, but now I was in up to the hilt. The entire length of my cock was in Gretchen Tenholder’s elderly cunt and I could begin fucking her in earnest.
She rose and fell from the top while I pumped from the bottom. She was unashamedly grunting now, louder and louder. I didn’t care. Her tits were flopping back and forth, making an audible slap as they swung back to her chest. “Johnny, Johnny. Fuck momma, Johnny . . . oh-hhh.”
I was doing my best. I could feel the cum welling up. Gretchen was biting her lip, running her hand threw her hair, pressing against my chest, sticking a finger in my mouth, all while bouncing up and down like a cowboy on a bronco.
“Ohh, GEEE-zus gawdd-dd…Johnny . . .” and she shook violently for a few seconds , then I spilled my seed in her in 5, 6, 7 spurts and tried my best to jam all of my cock, my balls, my entire crotch inside her while I did it . Her old ass cheeks shivered as I pumped my jism rocket into her elderly womb and I honest-to-god thought she briefly ascended from my cum explosion before finally settling down as my spend dripped slowly from the ravaged and aged pussy. The film was almost over. “The snack bar,” the speaker solemnly intoned. “Is now closed.”
**************************
They say you can never get too much sex. I’ve found that mostly true because the urge always returns, but after my experience with Gretchen Tenholder I’m reconsidering.
It was such a cataclysmic sexual release that I just didn’t think it could be repeated, or that I would try to. Gretchen, apparently, felt the same way.
We still spoke when passing each other outside. We talked about flowers, the bus schedule, the lousy weather — but never about movies. Over time she stopped calling me Johnny. It was simply ‘John’ now and for me, that was okay. She seemed to be putting on weight and I stopped thinking about her as a sexual being in any way.
I even found a pretty new girlfriend. Tess was younger than I but had a certain something that appealed to me. It was shortly after she moved in with me that the two of us ran into Gretchen sweeping the sidewalk outside her house.
As always, there was the big smile and the sparkling eyes. I introduced Tess, and Gretchen shook her hand warmly. “She’s such a pretty girl, John.”
“Has anyone ever told you,” Mrs. Tenholder said, turning to Tess, “that you have the most beautiful blue eyes?”