Loading...Chapter One: Summer in the city.
It was going to be a scorcher today, that much I knew and I didn’t need a weatherman to tell me that the heat and humidity was only only to get worse as the day went on. I opened the door of the VW bug that I would be spending much of the day in, and was greeted by a blast of heat that reminded me of opening the oven door at the pizzeria I worked at last summer.
No air conditioning in the little shit box, which meant the windows went down and were going to stay down all day, even if the humidity brought thunderstorms. I was glad that I had dressed for the occasion, even if the owner of the pharmacy had frowned when he saw me in my tank-top and white shorts.
At least the casual wear was neat and crisp looking, even though I expected that by the end of the day I was going to look like a drowned rat whether the thermometer actually hit 100 as expected, or not.
I arranged the orders in the box to give them some kind of geographical flow, but I wasn’t adverse to driving a little extra, especially if the breeze would cool things off inside the bug.
One order caught my eye, and when I saw the name Agnes Crowley I winced like I had been stung by a bee. That old lady must live on prescriptions, because I delivered there at least a dozen times so far this summer, and it was only mid-July.
Not only was she talkative and tried to extend the visit by asking me to do little odd jobs around the house. “Sweetie, while you’re here,” was the the usual line that had me doing something like bringing a box from her cellar or fixing a clothesline.
Her only saving grace was that she usually slipped me a nice tip, but even the extra buck wasn’t worth it sometimes. Not only that, but she had a habit of patting me on the shoulder, or the butt, along with the tip.
She was a widow, and had been for several years, and I did feel sorry for her. I wondered how old she was – had to be close to 70 – and while I liked older woman, and had been lusting after a friend’s mother all of my life, this little gray haired grandma was a little too old for me.
I saved her order for last, figuring that if I got T-boned at some intersection, at least that would get me out of delivering to her. Eventually, the box of orders had been whittled from 19 to just one, Mrs. Crowley.
I slammed the bug into gear and raced down Sand Creek Road, going about 55 in a 30, and took the turn onto Mordella Drive on two wheels, trying to console myself that after this delivery I could take my lunch break before picking up the afternoon orders.
I jogged up the driveway to the side door and hopped up the three concrete steps to the door, rapping loudly. The familiar voice rang out from the other side of the screen, telling me to come right in.
Couldn’t meet me at the door like most of the others, I thought as I entered the house. Mrs. Crowley was sitting at her kitchen table as usual, dressed in her house dress and slippers, her silver gray hair cut short.
“Oh Kenny,” Mrs. Crowley chirped, rising from her perch and greeting me as I entered the kitchen. “My, you certainly dressed for the weather today. You look so cool and comfortable.”
“Looks are deceiving,” I assured Mrs. Crowley, handing her the little white bag and handing her my pen, hoping to make a quick exit.
“Here you go,” she said, handing me the pen after signing her name in beautiful script. “Sweetie, while you’re here…”
…
Chapter Two: Up the stepladder.
The assignment I had been given was to climb up the three steps of the stepladder and get a couple of vases off of the top of the kitchen cabinets. I dutifully slid the ladder over and climbed up the two steps, grabbing the first vase with no problem.
The second one was much tougher, and I was tempted to ask her how the hell she got it up there, but decided to just climb to the top step. Mrs. Crowley then decided to help me, and in doing so almost made me fall off the ladder.
“Don’t fall sweetie,” Mrs. Crowley said, putting her hand on my hip as she looked up at me.
“I won’t,” I told her, and feeling her hand on my hip was even weirder than getting patted on the ass.
“Oh my, you’ve got hairy legs, don’t you?” she clucked. “My Walter had hairy legs too, but not as hairy as yours. Are you Greek?”
“Uh, Italian,” I mumbled, not in the least bit interested in any of her long-winded stories about her late husband, but that was the least of my worries, because after she told me how hairy my legs were, her hand proceeded to slide down from my hip and rub my leg, from thigh to ankle and then back up.
“Jesus!” I said, having to catch myself before I fell into the sink.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Kenny.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” I said, making a lurch to finally grab the elusive vase and climbed down the ladder fast, knowing that if I told the guys back at the drug store this story, they would never believe me.
“You’re all flushed, Kenny,” Mrs. Crowley said. “Let me get you a drink of water.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Well then sweetie, while you’re here, would you mind doing me one more little favor?”
…
Chapter Three: Putting away the ladder.
I followed Mrs. Crowley down the hall with the ladder, and when she ducked through the first doorway on the left I followed her, finding myself right in the middle of her bedroom.
It reminded me of being in the room my Grandma stayed in when she visited us, with everything all frilly and smelling like lavender. She wanted it over my the window, so that’s where I went with it. After I turned around, I was startled to find Mrs. Crowley right behind me.
“You’re such a nice young man,” she said with a smile, but it was a tight-lipped smile, and her face seemed strained. “Always so good to me.”
“No problem,” I said, and was trying to figure out a way to side-step her when she stopped me.
“I’d like to do something nice for you, if you would let me,” Mrs. Crowley said, and before she gave me a chance to answer she said one word, which I thought was “Please,” but I couldn’t be sure.
The reason for my confusion was because as she spoke, I felt her hand squeezing my crotch, and while her grip might have not been as strong as a vice, there was no problem with her aim, because she had found my pouch right away.
“Please?” Mrs. Crowley asked, and when I couldn’t do anything but stammer something unintelligible, I found myself being led over to her bed by the hold she had on my crotch.
I could have broken free with no problem, of course, but I didn’t and I don’t know why. Instead, I let her bring me over to her bed and stood in front of her while she sat on the edge and put her weathered hands on the top of my shorts and eased them down.
I was staring straight ahead at a picture of an old man, probably her late husband, as my underwear came down, and when I looked down I saw her smile at what she had exposed.
“So cute,” Mrs. Crowley said, and then her hand took my flaccid dick and gave it a couple of slow pulls, cooing a little bit when she saw in lengthen in her grip, and then she leaned forward and opened her mouth.
…
Chapter Four: Disbelief
My legs were trembling as I felt Mrs. Crowley’s mouth engulf my dick, and I put my hand on her shoulder while moving closer to her. Why was I letting her do this? I don’t know. It wasn’t like I was desperate for affection, because I usually had a somewhat steady girl.
It wasn’t like my cock hadn’t been in a woman’s mouth either, because it had been. It had been in four of them before, to be exact, and I suppose that if you added their ages together they might equal Mrs, Crowley’s.
The truly amazing thing was, as I quickly discovered, was that the things that Mrs. Crowley was doing to me were far beyond anything I had experienced before. When she found out that I wasn’t going to push her away, or laugh at her, what had already started out to be a very passionate act became much, much more.
Mrs. Crowley devoured my cock, her hands and mouth working over my dick and balls like they were a shrine she was worshipping. I was having trouble getting hard, mainly because of shock but from other things as well.
I looked down the back of Mrs. Crowley’s neck and saw the label of the house dress. Lerner’s, it read, and I remembered being dragged into that store downtown by my Grandma many times when I was young.
That man in the picture. Her husband. What would he think of this? His wife gobbling the cock of a stranger? How many delivery guys had she lured in here?
In the end, my misgivings were overwhelmed by the incredible passion and lust Mrs. Crowley was lavishing on my cock, and soon I was hard as a rock. Mrs. Crowley’s mouth slid back to the tip of my member, and as she held my cock in her hands, stroking the saliva-coated erection that was now pulsating in her grip, she exhaled and looked up at me.
“Oh my,” she said before going back to work. “I had no idea a little fellow like you could be so well endowed.”
When Mrs. Crowley went back to work, she wasted no time in taking me all the way into her mouth, letting all six or seven inches slide down her throat while her hand churned my balls. She was like a woman possessed, acting like my cock was a life-line of sorts as her lips went up and down the length of me.
As for me, I had forgotten that this was a senior citizen giving me head. I didn’t care that the hair I was stroking was gray. All I knew was that I was being given something incredibly special, and now I was no longer trying to get aroused, but instead was trying to hold back what was about to happen. It was a losing cause.
“Mrs. Crowley?” I heard my voice say as I felt my orgasm rising, but hearing my voice only made her suck harder, and when I could hold back no longer, I let myself go.
I heard Mrs. Crowley choke a bit as what seemed like every drop of semen I had suddenly erupted out of me, but she kept going, coaxing everything she could out of me until I almost had to pull her off my drained member.
I saw Mrs. Crowley’s tongue slip over to the corner of her mouth to capture a drop of my cum that had escaped, and when she looked up and saw me watching her as she seemed to be savoring the taste of my semen, she gave me a nervous smile before using her tongue to slap at the tip of my dick before giving it a kiss and letting it go.
Suddenly it was as if she had awoken from a dream and had realized that there was a guy standing in front of her with his shorts down to his knees, and looked away while I pulled up my underwear.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, and when I looked down at her I could her shoulders shaking and a tear trickling down her cheek.
“Mrs. Crowley?” I said.
The elderly woman who had attacked my cock so ravenously minutes before was now shrinking into the corner of the room, biting her lip and sobbing, and I didn’t exactly know what to do except I couldn’t just stand there.
“Mrs. Crowley?” I repeated as I came over to her, and her body shook when I put my hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“Please don’t report me,” she said softly, her eyes pleading. “I swear that I’ve never done anything like that before. Never.”
“Report you?” I asked, not really sure who you would report such a thing to, and it being 1970 with free love the rule of the day, all it had been was an innocent blow job. “I’m not going to tell anybody.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Crowley said, my words appearing to relax her, the frail body seeming to go limp in my arms as I held onto the elderly woman. “I know what you must think of me.”
What did I think of her? That was a good question. If some friend of mine had told me that an old woman had pretty much attacked him like Mrs. Crowley had me, I would have laughed and said that either he was lying or that they were both disgusting.
But this was a woman, flesh and blood, and while what she did hadn’t been expected and was apparently totally out of character for the distraught woman still trembling in my arms, it had been the most incredible sexual experience of my life.
“I think that you’re an amazing woman,” I told her, holding her face up to meet mine. “And what you did? It was beautiful. My knees are still rubbery.”
Mrs. Crowley laughed a little, blushing as she buried her head on my chest, and for some reason I found my hands lifting her face once more. This time, instead of looking at Mrs. Crowley and smiling, my lips met hers.
Was I actually doing this? I couldn’t believe that I actually kissed Mrs. Crowley, and what was even stranger was that what I had meant to be a little peck was turning into a whole lot more. When our lips finally unlocked, she looked at me as if in shock, even more stunned than I was.
“I’m sorry that I have to go back to work,” I said, and I meant it.
“Would you?” Mrs. Crowley asked, her voice breaking. “Would you like to stop by for dinner tonight? I mean, I know you young folks probably have a lot of…”
“What time?” I asked.
“Seven?” Mrs. Crowley suggested, and when I nodded I thought she was going to start crying again.
I ran out to the pill cart and drove back to the store to pick up the afternoon deliveries, not really sure whether I had just experienced had actually happened or not. Maybe it was some kind of hallucination or something, I thought.
That theory went by the boards when I used the bathroom back at work and looked at my dick. Along with the dried semen in my pubes was the unmistakable evidence of traces of Mrs. Crowley’s lipstick around the base of my cock, and when I saw that, my dick started to get hard again.
…
Chapter Five: Dinner with Agnes.
After taking a desperately needed shower at home, I drove back across town to Mrs. Crowley’s place, thinking about what I was doing. I was embarrassed about some of the things I was thinking, and wondered where this part of me had been hiding.
This morning I was recoiling at having to visit this old lady, and now I was thinking about what she would look like naked, and the thought must not have been too bad because my cock was throbbing as I recalled the feeling of her breasts against me when we hugged earlier.
Luckily my erection had subsided by the time that I was knocking on Mrs. Crowley’s door. She seemed surprised that I was actually there, and after commenting on how nice I looked, ushered me into her house again.
She had air conditioning, which made the night a success as far as I was concerned, because I would have been roasting at home. Mrs. Crowley could also cook, as her chicken was as good or better than anything my mom could do.
She was also an interesting lady, as it turned out. She was 68 years old, which seemed about right what I had expected, and had been a widow for eight years. She had met her husband-to-be in eighth grade, and that was it for the both of them. When he died, Mrs. Crowley said that a little piece of her died as well.
“That’s why this afternoon,” Mrs. Crowley said over dessert, “I still don’t – must have been from me reading too many romance novels. Or maybe it’s because of my soaps. Some of them are pretty racy.”
“You don’t have to keep apologizing for it,” I assured her.
“I just feel like a silly old fool.”
“That’s not the way I see you,” I said. “I don’t spend my time with silly fools of any age. And you’re a great cook.”
I helped her clear the table and started to do the dishes with her, but she stopped me.
“I can do that tomorrow,” Mrs. Crowley said. “Nothing else for me to do all day. Come into the living room with me and relax for a few minutes. I’m sure that you being a young and handsome young man, that you have places to go and things to do.”
“No,” I said. “No plans.”
So we went into the living room and sat on the couch, drinking coffee and talking. Mrs. Crowley became Agnes, and she seemed surprised to learn that I was 18 and about to go away to college in the fall.
“You seem so much younger,” Agnes Crowley said. “Don’t take that the wrong way. Maybe it’s your long hair that gives that impression.”
“You’re so much nicer than the other boys they have delivering,” Agnes continued. “The other boys, they always seem annoyed when I ask them to do thing for me, but you always do it with a smile. You must have wonderful parents, because they raised such a respectful young man.”
I shrugged at that, feeling a little guilty about being praised for being nice to her, when I had probably been just as irritated as the rest of the people had been when it came to performing the little tasks. Guess I was just better at hiding my feelings, and now I was glad that I had.
“I guess I just like being around young people,” Agnes said. “I have my friends, and we do things together, but being around them only reminds me of how old I am. Trust me, some of them are even older and worse looking that I am.”
“You look very nice,” I told her, and she really wasn’t a bad looking woman at all.
I couldn’t believe I was actually thinking that old Mrs. Crowley was attractive to me, but she looked a little bit like Miss Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies TV show. While that was a far cry from Ellie Mae Clampett, Agnes was not nearly the train wreck she seemed to see herself as being.
“You must be quite a hit with the ladies,” Agnes said, patting my hand and giving it a little squeeze. “Do you have a girl friend?”
“No, not right now,” I said. “Going away to college and all, it isn’t the right time for that.”
“I suppose not. Would you like to watch television or something?”
“No, this is nice. I see you have records.”
“Nothing you would know,” Agnes said, joining me as I wandered over to the row of vinyl filed next to the stereo. “None of those Rolling Stones or anything.”
“Why don’t you pick out something you like?” I suggested. “I’ll probably like it too.”
Agnes pulled out an album and put the vinyl on the turntable. It was a ballad – something about nightingales singing in a square – and as we watched the record spinning under the needle, I found myself leaning against Agnes lightly.
“Do you dance?” Agnes asked me, and although I admitted to not being able to do it well, my arms were already going around her.
We danced the only way I knew, which was pretty much swaying a little bit from side to side, but if Agnes minded she didn’t let on. We danced through the nightingales song, and right into one that I had heard of, “I’ll Be Seeing You”.
I could feel Agnes tense up as the song started. Maybe it triggered an old memory, or perhaps it was their favorite song, but she squeezed me tight as we danced, her slender and frail body cradled in my arms.
“You’re going to make some lucky lady a wonderful husband someday,” Agnes said as she song ended. “Hopefully you’ll both live a long and happy life, and if everything turns out right, when you go, you’ll go together.”
“There’s nothing worse than being left behind,” Agnes said with eyes that were sparkling with moisture. “You don’t really know loneliness until after you’ve been with someone that means everything to you, and then suddenly they’re gone.”
“Then you were lucky,” I said, and although the song playing was an uptempo number, we kept dancing out slow shuffle. “A lot of people don’t ever find that special, someone even for a moment.”
“I guess,” Agnes replied, nodding as she got a faraway look in her eyes. “If Walter could see me now, dancing with another man.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” I assured her. “I’m getting the dance, but he’s still got your heart.”
The music slowed down, and we kept dancing. While we danced, something began happenning and although I wasn’t sure whether Agnes could notice it at first, it soon became very obvious.
Agnes kept her body against me, continuing to dance, which indicated that she wasn’t offended by my erection pressing against her hip. Then the music stopped, and while the needle made that clicking sound for a bit as it waited for the mechanism to lift it up and away, Agnes spoke.
“What we – I – did today to you?” Agnes said. “If you would like, I could…”
“I had something else in mind,” I said, looking into her eyes intensely.
Agnes seemed confused for a minute, and then when she realized what I was suggesting, her lips moved. No sound came out, but I recognized the words and the question she asked, “You mean?”
I nodded, and followed Agnes as she wobbled over to the chair and sat down before she fell down. She seemed to have been blindsided by what I wanted, but I wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t out of pity, or any kind of desperation on my part. I wanted her and I told her that.
“I’ve never,” Agnes said. “Only with my Walter.”
“I know,” I told her.
“But why me?” Agnes exclaimed, “You’re a handsome young man. You can have any number of girls.”
“It’s you I want,” I said, my hand on her shoulder, and Agnes right at eye-level with my boner, which was bulging my khakis as it arched over to my right hip. “I understand if you don’t want me, but I want you.”
…
Chapter Six: Pictures down.
Agnes went over to the bedroom windows, closing the blinds and pulling the curtains tightly together, and then went over to the dresser and took a couple of pictures from their places and placed them face down on the wood.
She walked toward me nervously, turning the light down to the dimmest setting possible, but I could still see her well enough. I kissed Agnes and slowly unbuttoned her blouse, wondering what I was going to be uncovering. Would I be able to stay hard after seeing a woman 50 years older than I was? What would she look like.
“I don’t even know if I can. Please don’t hurt me,” Agnes whispered, and as I smiled and shook my head to reassure her, I figured out that she wasn’t speaking about hurting her physically, but more of a fear than I would say something about what I was about to see.
Her skin was ghostly pale, and I took her blouse off of her bony shoulders I was shocked at how very slender she was. Setting the blouse aside, I moved behind Agnes and worked on the bra hooks of the old harness.
Looking over at our reflection in the mirror, I could see Agnes had her eyes shut, almost dreading the moment when that last hook would come free. The bra eased off of her, and when I pulled the cups away I saw her breasts sag down.
Her breasts were small and pear shaped, and when I saw them I smiled when I realized that I had seen breasts very similiar to these before. Sue Cerniglia. She was a half-century younger than Agnes, but her constantly bra-less breasts had sagged just as much as these when I had enjoyed them last summer. Banana boobs. I loved them.
“Nice,” I whispered to Agnes as my hands replaced the bra cups, and as I kneaded her very spongy teats, Agnes gasped and leaned back into me, her eyes now open and rolling back in her head as she reacted to the sensation of hands caressing her breasts. “So nice.”
Her nipples – enormously thick and long pegs to begin with – blossomed under my touch, and as Agnes moaned she raised her slender arms up and held my head right against the back of her neck, where I was nibbling and kissing her skin.
A soft floral scent accompanied the raising of her arms, and when I peeked around I saw a tiny cluster of light brown hairs in the hollows of her armpits. Again Sue Cerniglia, I fondly recalled, although Agnes had nothing like the wild jungles of fur that adorned Sue’s underarms.
I stroked the sparse hairs briefly, which Agnes seemed to enjoy, before returning to her breasts once more. The pliant breasts, which filled my hands nicely, were irresistible, and it took a lot for me to move downward to pull her slacks down.
Her stomach was a little soft, and her hips and butt were a bit fuller than the rest of her torso would have suggested, but after the matronly panties came down, she was naked.
Agnes quickly turned around and embraced me, almost to deprive me of seeing her nude, seemingly unaware that I had seen everything in the mirror. The dim light wasn’t as dim to me as it was for Agnes, and I had seen everything of her that there was to see.
I would never pretend that she was a supermodel or anything like that, but the fact remained that she was a decent looking woman. The fact that she was so modest, and was giving me something that she had only given to one other man in her entire life, added to the excitement.
Agnes helped my pull my shirt up over my head, her hands sliding effortlessly over my hairless chest, and after she undid my belt my khakis fell to the ground. The boner that was stretching out my fruit of the looms seemed to shock Agnes, even though she knew what was under the cotton.
I yanked down the briefs and my cock sprang around wildly as a result of being freed. Agnes looked like she was about to faint as the reality of the situation hit her again, and so I took the opportunity to ease her down onto the bedding.
“I haven’t,” Agnes started to say, but I knew what she was going to say.
She hadn’t been with another man besides her husband, and that meant she hadn’t been intimate with anybody in almost a decade. Since Agnes didn’t seem the type to be using a vibrator or a dildo, I was going to have to do a lot of prep work.
Lucky for me, I love to eat pussy, and the sight of Agnes with her slim thighs parted, and those puffy pussy lips clearly visible through a thin dusting of golden hair made me forget all about age.
My face fell into that delicious channel, and as my tongue started to dance around her clit, her pungent aroma of her sex overwhelmed me. Strong and mossy in scent, it sent chills down my spine as I tongued her deeply.
I worked my thumb around her opening, and when I tried to slip it inside of Agnes, I learned that she was a tight as a virgin. Why didn’t I bring some kind of lubricant?
No sense asking Agnes if she had anything. I had a tube of Chap Stick in my pants, but that wouldn’t work, although the thought of standing there rubbing that on my dick make me chuckle inside.
Instead, I kept licking, my tongue working furiously up and down that long neglected pussy. Her thighs were twitching nervously as my hands stroked the smooth skin of her hips. Agnes must have had a really hairy pussy at one time, I noticed. The hair had thinned considerably over the years, but the bush covered the entire wide triangle of her delta.
My thumb gradually gained entry, and when I was able to get it inside of her, Agnes began to move her thighs in response. I wasted no more time. Not giving her a chance to change her mind, I climbed up on my knees and moved up between her legs.
Agnes looked down, her face reflecting her fear at the sight of my cock waving menacingly as I positioned myself. Working the tip of my dick into the opening that was dripping with my saliva, I watched Agnes, her chest heaving rapidly as she braced herself.
…
Chapter Seven: Inside Agnes.
If I was built like a lot of guys, what eventually happened in that bedroom would never have taken place. As soon as began to penetrate Agnes, I realized that this was one tight pussy. Partly through nerves, I sure, as well as lack of use and the aging process, her pussy had become incredibly tight.
Although my cock is pretty long, it’s also more slender than most. If it were not for that, I don’t think I would ever have been able to finally get inside of her, but I was determined and persistent.
I took my time, working slowly and as tenderly as possible, and while it took several minutes, I finally managed to get about half of my cock into her. We exchanged looks of relief, and as I began to move in and out of her, she smiled and gripped my arms.
“You feel so big,” Agnes whispered as I leaned down and kissed her, and while it wasn’t really true I liked to hear it.
It was around that moment that I made a decision. I had enjoyed sex prior to this, but it was usually about pleasing myself. Oh sure, I tried my best to get the girl off too, but it was mostly about me. This time was going to be different.
This was going to be the last time Agnes Crowley made love to anyone, or at least this was the way I saw it. Knowing that, I became determined to make it something she would remember, so instead of rooting away like I usually did until I got off, I tried to actually make love to Agnes.
For what seemed like hours, I calmly stayed on top of her, slowly moving my cock in and out of her tight pussy while enjoying her reactions. After a while, I began to get deeper and deeper into Agnes, but wasn’t able to actually get all of my cock into her for quite a while.
This kept me from changing positions, because while I would have love to have seen Agnes on top of me with those banana titties drooping down at me, I didn’t think that she could take it so I stayed on top.
I only sped my thrusting up once, when I sensed she was coming the first time. As our sweaty bodies clapped together, I fought to keep my own orgasm in check as I watched Agnes squirm underneath me, clawing at my shoulders while she came.
What a glorious sight, I thought to myself while I watched this silver-haired woman’s head jerking from side to side while she made the most marvelous noises. Her pussy, which was still as tight as a vice, practically crushed my cock as it convulsed with the force of her orgasm.
Her eyes were glazed when she finally stopped cumming, and she had a delirious look on her face when she saw that I had not cum yet. I smiled when I felt her skinny legs wrap themselves around my butt for a moment, suggesting that she was telling me that she wasn’t done either.
Now I began lavishing my affection all over Agnes. Crouched over her, I kept using long and almost agonizingly slow strokes while leaning down and sucking on her breasts.
As Agnes ran her hands through my hair, my mouth was everywhere, showering her without boundaries. I nibbled on her collarbone and sucked on her neck while she writhed and sighed. I bit her shoulders and tongued her armpits, pasting the sweet and salty hairs to the pale skin of her underarms and reveling in her sharp intake of breath as she squirmed with pleasure. We kissed passionately, and practically devoured each other’s mouths in the process.
After what seemed like forever, Agnes began panting and moaning, thrusting herself into me as best she could. She was on the verge of cumming, and when I sensed this I slowed my thrusting down until my movements were almost imperceptible.
Her body was trembling beneath me, her hands clutching and tearing at my back and shoulders as Agnes tried to speed me up. Soon her clutching became almost violent, as her little frail hands were slapping and clawing at me while she whimpered and wailed in my ear.
After she hung on the brink of orgasm for so long, she finally let out a scream, yelling out a name that she had admonished me for using earlier in the day. I didn’t call her on it, but instead enjoyed watching Agnes quiver and shake, bridging her neck off of the mattress with her head while her pussy savagely convulsed around my cock.
I had wanted to cum when Agnes did, but she had me in such a tight vise-like hold that it wasn’t possible. Now she was done, and I felt myself being squeezed out of her as her opening contracted.
“Let me,” Agnes said when she realized that I hadn’t cum, and although she was moving very slowly, she managed to get onto her hands and knees while I went onto my back.
“Poor baby,” Agnes said, holding my cock tenderly, and when I looked at my swollen member, which was a purplish crimson in color, I winced.
Agnes was going to take care of me, just like she had earlier in the day, and she ended up teasing me much like I had done to her. Her mouth worked over my cock and balls with compassion and tenderness that left me grabbing at the bedding in search for release.
When I finally came, I came hard and fast, blowing a load right down her throat while her lips were almost in my pubes, and I kept cumming while Agnes used her fist to milk my balls until they were drained.
She seemed to love the taste of my cum, even licking the back of her hand to catch what she hadn’t managed to swallow, and when she had finally gotten it all, she eased her petite body next to mine and cuddled up close.
I guess she fell asleep, and so did I, because when I opened my eyes again it was after one in the morning. Leaning over, I kissed the plump nipple that still looked delicious, and when Agnes squinted at me I told her I had to go.
“Don’t want you to get in trouble,” Agnes said. “That was so nice though. Especially the snuggling. I miss that so.”
I dressed under her watchful eye while she put a robe on, and then let her escort me to the door, sharing a kiss before turning to go. The pat on my butt Agnes gave me was not annoying this time, and the smile I gave when I glanced back was not forced either.
…
Epilogue:
I delivered several more times To Agnes Crowley’s house that summer, as well as the next year when I came back home to work during the summer. Every time I delivered I heard the familiar, “Sweetie, while you’re here,” and ended up doing some little chore.
I also listened to her stories, but I didn’t have to force myself to stay and nod while she spoke. I grew to enjoy seeing her name on the order list, and saved my extra time to spend with her during the day.
Did we ever end up in her bedroom again? No. We never shared more than an occasional peck on the cheek, although I admit that if her hand had found my crotch again and she had offered me another kind of tip, I wouldn’t have turned it down. To this day I can honestly say that, with apologies to my wonderful wife, in my life nobody has ever matched the incredible oral skills of Agnes Crowley.
Agnes eventually moved to Arizona to escape the New York winters, just like she had mentioned the last time I saw her. She had asked for my address that time, and I ended up on her Christmas card list. Although as a young guy I didn’t bother with such things, in time I began sending her cards as well.
Soon the cards came from ‘us’ when I got married, and then from all of us when the card became a photo greeting with our kids on them. Agnes seemed delighted when I got married, writing on a card the next year that my wife is the luckiest girl in the world.
My wife might not have agreed with that all of the time, and didn’t have a clue as to who the woman was, but would dutifully send her a card every year after I assured her with a laugh that we were only friends.
Agnes Crowley died a few years ago. There was an obituary in our local paper, stating that former area resident Agnes Crowley had died at the age of 99 in a nursing home, loved and mourned by her many friends and predeceased by the only man she had ever loved, Walter. Truer words were never written.