‘Hi, Ali.’
‘Hi, Vera.’
I actually smeared her name, blurred the V into an M and faded out the ending too, so she probably only heard Mer, or Ver. It was embarrassing, but what could I do? She was standing on the kerb at her side of the road, hands on hips.
‘Looks like rain.’
I stopped polishing glass and glanced up at the gathering clouds.
‘Forecasters say not.’
‘And you believe those useless buggers?’
She had a point. On the day we had moved in, the forecast had been very similar, yet the weather had quickly turned to shit. I was sliding the first of many cardboard boxes from the back of the hire van when the first drops had begun to fall. I remember her sidling across the road, limply shaking my hand and cautiously introducing herself. I quickly released myself from her bony grasp then hefted the box into the house. When I returned, she was still there, standing in the rain. She took a long drag on her cig and peered rather too intently into my eyes.
‘Nice to meet you, Alistair.’
‘Yeah, you too, V…’
It almost certainly began with V and Vera was a strong possibility, though I couldn’t say for sure. She’d clearly remembered my name and I knew how: she had actually listened and had then repeated it several times under her smoky breath, ‘Alistair. Alistair,’ had then broken it down into syllables, ‘Al-is-tair,’ before finally building it up again, ‘Alistair’. I used to do something similar myself and it worked; why I let it lapse I will never know.
Some three years had flown by since that first encounter and we’d chatted so many times in between, I couldn’t possibly ask her name now. Could you? Well, there you go. So I smudged, smeared and blurred it and hoped for the best. In the greater scheme of things, what difference did it make anyway? I realised she was still standing there, watching me work, waiting for small talk. I obliged.
‘You can guarantee rain once I get the cloths and bucket out. Windows, cars, garden furniture, makes no difference what I clean. And it’s always that Sahara rain too, full of orange dust.’
She folded her arms and cackled.
‘Best not to bother. I never do. Waste o’ time!’
After another pessimistic glance at the sky, she went back inside her bungalow and closed the door. I finally finishing cleaning the windows at the exact moment it started to rain. Fucking wonderful. At least Rachel would be pleased that I’d done something today, however fucking pointless.
After we moved in, one of the first things I noticed about Vera was that she never closed her curtains. Every evening, draped in her dressing gown and with a cig in her mouth, she could be seen ironing, smoothing away till dusk, till all I could see was her glowing red end. Her behaviour begged many questions. Who irons every day? And with the light out? And while smoking? Her poorly-pressed clothes must have reeked of it, though she probably couldn’t tell: her whole home must have reeked of it too.
Her bungalow was right across the narrow road, close enough that I could see her reflection in the mirror by her door as she touched herself up before venturing out. She was no oil painting, our Vera, but she was tidy enough for an old girl, sprightly and slim, with a good and well-cut head of mostly grey hair. She dressed well too when she could be bothered, though after her retirement, she tended more and more to languish in her tattered silk dressing gown till noon and often beyond. Her hunched shoulders aged her and were almost certainly due to all the ironing.
After the late news, she habitually turned off her TV then sat smoking in the darkness, her cig end alternately glowing and dying till it finally expired. Then, lit only by the streetlight’s pale amber glow, she would rise and amble through the gloom to the doorway and on into the darkness.
As the months rolled on and turned into years, she continued her daily ironing, though the smoking stopped. Suddenly. And soon after that a hearse carted her husband Jeff away. No, I know, I never mentioned him. Why would I? He went to work. He came home. That was it. I never spoke to him. Not once. Never saw him except for the coming and going. He never looked well, to be honest. And when he was gone and she was alone, I felt sorry for her. She didn’t drive and quickly sold his old Ford, leaving an empty oil-splashed space on the block paving where it used to sit.
A couple of weeks after the funeral, I gave her a lift, picked her up in the rain and taxied her and her two bags of shopping the last half-mile home. She seemed somewhat overly grateful, patted my knee and peered over her glasses, her eyes damp and a little bloodshot. I could smell the whisky before she even opened her mouth. If alcohol had replaced the nicotine, her voice was as smoky as it ever was.
‘That was so kind, Ali. So kind. Thank you.’ She squeezed my knee till I felt the sharpness of her nails then she bit her lip with a yellow incisor. Warm whisky breath wafted my nostrils. ‘Fancy a drink?’ She quickly qualified, ‘Tea, coffee?’
Her hand released its grip, but was still there, had perhaps edged ever so slightly up my thigh. I shook my head.
‘Sorry, er…’ I couldn’t use her blurred name at this proximity, ‘Rach will be home soon and I need to get the tea on.’
Her heavy eyebrows twitched.
‘Oh, yes, Rach.’ She did her syllable thing again. ‘Rach-el. Ra-chel. Rachel.’ She smiled resignedly then frowned. ‘I hardly see Rachel these days. Working away a lot?’
What could I say?
‘Yes.’
But for my jeans, her talons would have cut my skin to the bone. She sighed.
‘Another time, maybe.’
I carried her shopping across the road, dropped it on her kitchen side and left her to her loneliness.
+
I knew he watched me. What I didn’t know was why he’d bother. I was well past my best and had never been up to much, to be honest. Don’t get me wrong, I still took care of myself – and, ironically, even more after Jeff died – though for what, fuck only knew.
As a girl, I had nothing more to offer boys than a reputation. A reputation for doing anything. I was wanking cock, licking cock, sucking balls, tonguing arseholes, swallowing spunk and taking it in both cunt and arse long before most of my friends were French kissing. The boys fought over me. Fucking loved me. And not for my looks, my figure, my intelligence – though I’m nobody’s fool – simply for my willingness to fuck. Then, once everybody had had their turn, they understandably lost interest. And very, very quickly. Thank god Jeff was there. After our first fuck, I felt so grateful I swore that, as long as he was breathing, I would never fuck another living soul. And I kept my word. Meanwhile, I worked, I retired. Somewhere in between, a son was born, grew up and moved away, and that, in a nutshell, was my life.
Stopping smoking was a no-brainer. It’s what killed Jeff and it would soon have taken me with it. We both stopped as soon as he got his diagnosis. After fifty years, I thought it would be a fucking nightmare, but it wasn’t. Though he was the one who was dying, he found it much harder to quit than I did and sometimes relapsed. He would shake his head.
‘Fuck, Vi, I swear it hurts more to go without.’
I squeezed his shrunken body.
‘Then have a fucking cig, Jeff.’
He refused to smoke in the house, said the passive fumes would still harm me, so we’d sit in the garden, or under the porch if it was raining.
‘How come you quit so easily, Vi? After all those fucking years?’
What could I say? When you can actually look death in its grey sagging face, can hear its every tortured wheezing breath, it’s a piece of fucking cake.
Curtains undrawn, I used to sit in front of the TV at night, puffing away in the semi-darkness, listening to the coughing from the bedroom, but never putting two and two together till it was too late. Once I quit, I watched TV with a drink in my hand instead. Whisky had always been my favourite tipple. It quickly became my daily staple.
All my life, I had never felt the need to close the curtains; my existence was such that it wasn’t necessary. The same seemed to apply to him over the road. Sometimes, I could see his silhouette in the upstairs bedroom window. Sometimes, the light would go on and he’d be there, towel around his waist, standing on the bed to reach those cupboards above the headboard. His body was athletic and very fuckable. If that towel would slip, I used to think. Then one night it did. He had a semi on and I was mesmerised by the fucker. I only got a glimpse, but my imagination quickly and generously filled in the gaps. His balls were full, swollen and dangling, his thick shaft parting them perfectly, while his trimmed bush formed a neat halo around the whole. My poor neglected pussy had not juiced up for what felt like years, but juice up it did. I rested my feet on the footstool, crossed my legs, and luxuriated in the warmth that emanated from my groin. The dressing gown parted. My legs uncrossed and my hand slid there, tested the wetness through my knickers then tested the moist flesh inside. His light was now off, but his static outline was faintly visible, lit by streetlight and framed by the darkened window. The pervy fucker had probably staged the whole thing to cause a reaction. And now he was watching that reaction. He was watching me. Me. Violet. Violet fucking Shaw. The erstwhile local bike. Once the most desired girl in the village and now an old woman who only my Jeff had been even vaguely interested in. The sags and wrinkles melted away and I was the girl again, young, firm and vibrant. I rubbed and rubbed, held the image of that swelling cock in my mind till my orgasm burned it away. Then I climbed into bed, cuddled up to my old man’s smoky pillow, and, for the first time in a long time, I quickly fell asleep.
+
I began every day that Rach was away by pulling on a pair of her unwashed knickers and wanking myself off. Sometimes, I stuffed them in my mouth then stroked till I squirted, wiping up the mess with the said garment before tossing it back into the wash basket. That fateful day, as the bed bounced and I neared my climax, a strange rhythmic scraping noise distracted me. I clambered from the bed and, on my knees, peered through the bottom corner of the bedroom window. Vera was standing on her drive, a pile of sand at her feet and a sweeping brush in her hand. The white calf length jeans and plimsolls made her bottom half look very girlish, while her top half told a different story. The white vest top hid nothing. Hunched and deeply freckled shoulders were on full display. As were her sagging upper arms and wrinkled cleavage. Even the lace on her bra showed through as her dangling tits fought against her clothing. It suddenly struck me that I’d never noticed those tits before. So it wasn’t the ironing, it was the weight of those fuckers that dragged her down. Mmm. Fuck. I bit down on the knickers and stroked myself to full length, imagining Vera tit-fucking and sucking me. That felt so unexpectedly pervy and dirty that I was soon very close. Right on the brink, she suddenly stopped sweeping, her tits stopped swaying, and she leaned on her brush looking very perplexed. Her sunglasses hid most of her features, yet her confusion was clear. Then she looked up and, though I couldn’t see her eyes, I was certain she’d seen me. What to do? I could have ducked down, crawled away and hoped I was wrong. But no. I knew straight away what to do: my cock told me quite clearly. I spat out the knickers and stood up, my naked top half on full view, and gave her a cheery wave. She half-heartedly waved back before dropping her gaze to the ground around her and slowly shaking her head. A few equally half-hearted thrusts of the brush followed before she gave up, dropped it with a clatter and stepped into the relative darkness of her house.
I pulled on a pair of shorts and ventured out into the sunlit back garden. What a beautiful day. After filling the watering can, I nipped through the gate and out to the front of the house, the block paving warming the soles of my bare feet. I drowned a couple of begonia-stuffed hanging baskets then noticed new movement across the road. The scraping recommenced, stopped, started, stopped. I deadheaded a couple of flowers. Silence. I live-headed a couple more. Waiting. Hoping. She cleared her throat. More silence. She cleared it again.
‘Ali?’
‘Hi! What’s up?’
‘What exactly the fuck am I supposed to do with this?’
The expletive shocked me. I never imagined she would swear.
‘With what?’
‘This sand. Jeff bought bags of it for the block paving and I promised him I’d do it, but he never told me how.’
Nodding knowingly, I put down the watering can and stepped purposefully towards her, as though I knew everything about it. In truth, I did know a little, had long ago laid a few blocks with my dad. I sized up her problem immediately.
‘Have you a pressure washer?’
She was undoubtedly sizing up my near-nakedness, her sunglasses almost-but-not-quite shielding her wide darting eyes. A sudden breeze whipped up a whirlwind of sand. My nipples tightened and so did hers, poking at her top like a pair of very pokey things. She folded her arms protectively.
‘No… I… Well, I don’t think so. What would it look like?’
‘I have one in the shed. Give me a mo.’
It took me exactly that. A mo.
‘Have you somewhere I can plug this in? I’ll need your hose pipe too.’
She took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. For some reason, she seemed to be crying.
‘I’m fucking useless without him. Useless. I don’t know where anything is.’
I smiled.
‘I bet he couldn’t find your pots and pans!’
She sniffed.
‘He did all the cooking, right up to the end. Housework too.’
‘Oh.’
‘So what do I do with this fucking sand?’
I squatted down and she slowly, achingly, squatted beside me. I pointed.
‘First you need to get up all the moss and then clear out the gaps between the blocks. The pressure washer will do it in no time. When it’s dry, this sand will flow into the cracks like liquid. It’s amazing stuff.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It will look like new.’
She sniffed.
‘Can you do me while yer at it?’
A bony blue-veined hand slapped my bare thigh. My accompanying laugh was forced and hollow. The hand stayed there. At last, she broke both the contact and the awkward silence.
‘Can you show me?’
So I did. After filling hubby’s rusty old wheelbarrow with the kiln-dried sand and clearing it safely out of the way, I pressure-washed her drive till the cul-de-sac was a muddy stream and her red blocks shone. She insisted on having a go and I was happy to let her. Giggling like a little girl, she blasted the moss into oblivion, soaking her plimsolls in the process and splattering her calves and white attire with inky spots. At last, she stopped.
‘Is that it? Is all the dirty work done?’
‘Yes.’
‘It needs to dry now?’
She learnt fast. I nodded.
‘Yes.’ I squinted into the clear blue sky. ‘This sun and that bit of breeze’ll do it no time.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea while we wait?’
What could I say?
‘Yes, please. Thirsty work, this!’
+
Ali didn’t follow me into the house. He unclipped the hose from the washer-thingy and proceeded to clean himself up. He was very dirty. Very, very dirty. His bare feet, calves and thighs, his shorts, his belly and chest. Even his face was splashed with soil and fragments of moss. I went into the bedroom and stripped, peeled off everything, bra, knickers, the lot, and stuffed them in the wash basket. After a very quick rinse in the shower, I threw on my tired old dressing gown, tied it at the waist and sauntered back through to the kitchen. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I watched him through the window while sipping on my third large whisky of the day. It didn’t kill the pain I still felt, but it numbed it. It took Alistair a while to get clean. As a final flourish, he tugged on his waistband and, with panting breath, doused his privates. Was that for my benefit? Did he know I was watching? He turned off and downed the now flaccid hose. I coughed, swallowed, and coughed again.
‘Come in, Ali. Kettle’s boiled.’
‘No, it’s okay, V… Ver… I’m dripping. I’ll stay out here.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’ll spoil nothing. Hard floors throughout. Just be careful you don’t slip. It gets very slippery when wet.’
That was definitely the whisky talking. He gingerly stepped just inside and stood on the coconut mat. His shorts were plastered to his arse and groin and were almost see-through. It was breathtakingly plain he was wearing nothing underneath. His cock seemed to be in the same state as that night with the slipped towel, not hard, but well on its way. And it seemed to be rising. I couldn’t help myself.
‘Somebody enjoys pressure washing!’
I motioned to the centre of his embarrassment. His hands fell there, began twiddling fingers awkwardly. He forced an equally awkward smile and glanced around the kitchen.
‘Nice! Where’s that drink?’
I ignored him. Leaning on the worktop, I pressed my right palm into an angular hip and asked a question of my own. Well, the whisky did.
‘You watch me, don’t you?’
He stammered a stream of incomprehensible syllables, like when he says my name, only worse. When he’d finished, I simply raised my eyebrows, implying that he hadn’t finished at all. His eyes fell to the floor, to where his drips splashed and joined.
‘Yes.’
Yes? Did he say yes? As easy as that? I downed the whisky in one, licked my lips and drawled.
‘Come here.’
He didn’t move. For a moment, I thought he was going to turn and run. But it was only a moment. He took three shuffling robotic steps, till he was at arm’s length. I reached out and eased his hands aside. He was hard. Not fully, not cunt-piercingly spunk-sprayingly hard, but hard enough to tell me that, with a little more encouragement, he soon would be. He raised a hesitant hand towards me. It moved slowly. It dithered. I fancied I could feel its heat. I shuddered. To help it on its way, I tugged my dressing gown aside and bared my left tit. Cold flesh made contact with warm. He weighed me, gently squeezed and weighed again. The nipple ached. I’d been reading and watching a lot of porn lately and had an opposite thought.
‘You want to call me Mummy?’
His response was, on the surface, unequivocal.
‘No.’
But I know men and pressed on.
‘Suck Mummy’s titty, Ali. Suck on my nipple, baby.’
He closed his eyes, lowered his head and licked it, flicked it with a stiffened tongue then closed his lips around it and rhythmically suckled. My own lips were dry and my voice cracked and shook.
‘Don’t neglect the other one.’
I bared it, untied the cord and let my gown part. The faded silk slipped from my shoulders and fell to the floor at my feet. I’ve always been slim, but age does things to a body that youth simply cannot imagine. I prayed he would keep his eyes closed.
He flinched when my fingers found his stiffness. They closed around him and wanked him through his shorts. Never mind my cunt, it could have pierced armour-plating now, but I had other plans for it.
‘Mummy’s going to suck your cock, baby.’
His response was forced through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, fuck.’
I fell to my knees, taking the shorts down with me. His freed cock slapped my face and momentarily stunned me. I glanced around. Jeff was standing in the doorway in his odd-job overall and odd-job boots, smiling wryly and slowly shaking his balding head. A nicotine-stained index finger pointed accusingly.
‘You’re a dirty fucker, Violet Grayson. A dirty old slag.’
He always used my maiden name when admonishing me. But this wasn’t admonishment, it was encouragement. His smile expanded into a grin. Another amused shake of his head and then he turned and shuffled out through the open door. He never coughed once.
Holding that shaved cock in my hands was like holding life itself. It was a real beauty. I cupped my palms and stared in wonder at the vibrancy and impossible firmness of his blood-strained flesh. I kissed it. Licked it. Explored the hole with the tip of my tongue. Sucked on his smooth balls and wanked him, remembering all those who had long ago gone before him. Jeff too. I remembered Jeff too and squeezed my eyelids closed to keep in the tears.
The cock pierced my face. I was somewhat out of practice and gagged a couple of times, but my nose soon rested against Ali’s firm belly. Then my slowly bobbing head fucked him. He grabbed my hair and dictated the pace. Precum oiled my tonsils and I steeled myself for the deluge. He tensed, released, tensed again and his breathing quickened.
‘Stop, V…, fucking stop! I’m going to cum.’
I spat him out just in time.
‘That didn’t take long!’
‘No, well, I…’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve been wanking all morning and…’
I took a punt.
‘While watching me?’
‘No!’ He spread his palms. Again his candidness surprised me. ‘Yes… I was wanking while watching you, imagining tit-fucking you.’ He coloured, ‘Sorry, V… Ver… I didn’t cum though!’ As if that somehow made it better. He coloured some more. ‘I can’t believe I told you that!’
‘Like this?’ Ignoring his apology, I wrapped my tits around him and fucked him with them. I gazed almost lovingly into his eyes. ‘Mummy is fucking you with her titties, baby.’
In unbridled bliss, his eyes drifted to the ceiling. He whispered.
‘Can Mummy suck me too?’
‘Yes.’
Again he grabbed my hair.
‘If Mummy keeps doing that, I will cum in Mummy’s mouth.’
‘Mummy wants you to. Cum when you are ready, baby. Mummy wants your cum in her tummy.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’
He was panting, pulling my head onto him with surprising violence. He tensed. One, two, three times. He groaned. Four, five, six times. Cum flowed. I gargled, gurgled, swallowed and awaited his next load. It too flowed. I choked, but kept it down and swallowed again. It was thick, tangy, delicious. More and then even more. Again, I kept it down. Only dribbles now and he was already softening as I drained and swallowed his last drops.
‘Mummy loves your cream, baby. Mmm…’
‘Sorry, V… Ver…’ The change of tone was as abrupt as it was unsurprising. ‘I’d better get off, you know? The neighbours…’ He glanced around, seemingly surprised at where he was. Suddenly aghast, he hissed. ‘Fuck, the door was open!’
I leered.
‘I know. It turned me on even more.’
‘Fuck, V…’
My outrage was pure pantomime.
‘Listen! Really listen, you rude cunt! It’s Violet. Vi to my friends and the people I fuck. Not Vera, Vicky, Val, Veronica…’
His face was pained by concentration. He spoke slowly.
‘Violet. Violet. Vi-o-let. Vi-olet. Viol-et. Violet. Violet.’
My wink was as extreme as my old face could make it.
‘Or you can just call me Mummy, if you prefer.’
Frantic fingers were tugging up his shorts.
‘Listen, V… Vi, about that…’
A raised palm silenced him. The other halted his shorts’ upward progress.
‘That’s our secret, Ali. What happens in Vi’s kitchen stays in Vi’s kitchen.’
‘But I’m not even… I mean I…’
I took his now flaccid cock in my puckered mouth and bit gently before drawing on his dregs like I used to draw on a cigarette. His protestations ceased. I didn’t care what he called me as long as he wanted me. And he had wanted me.
I grabbed my dressing gown and, with his help, creaked to my feet. He was staring at the floor. I followed his questioning gaze. There, between my feet, enough cunt juice for a hundred fucks. I shrugged.
‘Jeff used to say I was always ready for a good seeing to and he was right. There was always a lot. Sometimes too much…’
He grimaced, but not for the reason I’d first imagined.
‘Christ, I’ve been selfish, haven’t I? I never thought…’
‘What? That an old woman might want her poor old cunt fucking? That she might want her own climax?’
‘I’m sorry, V… Vi. Let me…’
He reached out, but I gently guided his hand away. If I’d been twenty, he’d have struggled to fully enjoy touching me so soon after his own climax, so he surely would not have taken any pleasure from my saggy old flesh. I shook my head.
‘No, it’s fine.’ But desire quickly overcame embarrassment. ‘Just watch me, will you? Stay and watch me?’
His smile was warm and sincere.
‘I’d love to.’
I almost believed him.
Leaning back against the worktop, I closed my eyes, raised a tit to my mouth and started to suck. Fingers found the dripping slit between my thighs and began to massage. With this fit semi-naked young man in close attendance and with the taste of his cum still fresh on my tongue, I knew it would not take me long.
+
Mummy.
Fuck! I’d honestly never thought of that scenario before, but, fuck again, it got me harder than I’d been for ages and I came harder and for longer than I could remember. For a sweet old lady who lived across the road, she was a really dirty fucker. I prayed I hadn’t got too noisy as I’d squirted down her gullet, hoped the neighbours had no inkling of what had just transpired. It had been awesome. And all she wanted in return was for me to watch her bring herself off. Pretty good deal, I thought.
Vi leaned against the worktop, lifted a pendulous tit to her mouth with her right hand, while her left started furiously frigging. It was noisy. It was messy. Her squelching juices dribbled down the inside of her thighs and her heaving breaths and rasping gasps were going a long way to clearing her lungs of a lifetime of heavy smoking. My heart thudded, my aching cock started to swell and I expressed the thought that had caused both.
‘Would Mummy like me to lick her pussy?’
She moaned and her eyes rolled.
‘No.’ My disappointment was only temporary. ‘Mummy would like you to lick her cunt. And suck her clit. And shove at least three fingers up her and fuck her hard and fast with them. Can you do that for Mummy, please, Ali, baby?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
I pushed the door closed then dropped to my knees with a thud and instantly buried my face in her hairy twat. I sucked on her dangling cunt lips, lapped at her clit then shoved two, three, four fingers inside her. She splayed her knees even more, lowered herself into a semi-squat and growled.
‘Fist me, Ali. Fist your slutty Mummy. Oh, fuck, yes! Harder, you dirty fucker! Harder! Do it! And suck my clit! Suck on it! Oh yes, yes. Yes! Mummy is cumming. Don’t stop, baby! Don’t fucking stop!’
My left hand tugged down my shorts and I started to stroke. Despite my recent ejaculation, I was soon very close again. I pulled it back and paused, waiting for her climax to start. I didn’t have to wait long. Her belly contracted and her legs buckled. Only my right arm, buried up to the wrist between her surprisingly girlish thighs, kept her upright. A long low moan emanated from her depths. Internal muscles clenched on my hand as she yelped like a dog, over and over, each yelp squeezing a cupful of cum over my pumping fist and down my pistoning arm. At that moment, I emptied my balls for the second time, spattered her right shin and foot with spunk. A loving hand on my cheek ceased my movements.
‘Stop, baby. Mummy is done. Fuck! Mummy is done good! You’re a very naughty, very dirty boy. But Mummy forgives you. She fucking loved it.’ I slowly and carefully withdrew my hand from her insides. Sweat stuck hair to her face. She brushed it aside and glanced down. Her eyes widened. ‘You’ve cum again?’ She seemed incredulous. ‘It turned you on so much that you’ve cum again?’
I grinned.
‘It was fucking amazing, Vi. Fuck!’
‘She lowered her voice to a mother’s croon.
‘Lick your mess off my foot, baby. Mummy wants you to suck her toes clean.’ I licked. I swallowed. I sucked on her toes till she groaned with pleasure. ‘Now kiss me, baby. Kiss Mummy goodbye.’
In a flash, I was on my feet, kissing her soft lips before parting them with my probing tongue. She sucked it into her mouth, pulling me to her till her heavy tits pressed against my naked chest. We kissed and kissed. It was beautiful and, from a sexual point of view, totally superfluous. But it was essential and the perfect way for this to end.
+
‘Here, take these. Oh, and these. They were Jeff’s. He doesn’t need them now. But you might!’
He looked momentarily bemused then grinned and nodded.
‘You’re amazing, Vi.’
Thrusting back my sagging shoulders and reaching my full height for the first time in an age, I squeezed out my reply through quivering lips.
‘I know.’
I watched a lot of ‘mummy porn’ on my massive new Smart TV after that. Lots of it. In the darkness. Lit only by the flickering screen. Curtains open. Naturally. As I eased back into Jeff’s old armchair and placed my feet on his well-worn footstool, I let my dressing gown fall open. A quick glance at the darkened bedroom window across the road confirmed what I already knew. He was there. Jeff’s binoculars pressed to his eyes. Out of sight, but not out of mind, I knew his rigid cock was firmly grasped in his thrusting fist and I knew that soon, as he watched me fingering and writhing, he would shoot his cream into the dirty knickers I had given him. And I knew too that when Rach was again away, he’d be back to cause and then claim another pair.
+
How long had I shut out the world, shut my eyes and tossed myself off into the darkness? Too fucking long. Violet had opened my eyes. I began to take more notice of my surroundings, seeing things I had not seen before. Nothing deep, profound, or life-changing. Simple things. Quirky things. Sexy things. Especially the sexy things. Provocatively dressed dog walkers. Mini-skirted delivery drivers. Hot Jehovah’s Witnesses. Glad-eyed nodding neighbours and their sad-eyed daughters. I began to see possibilities where before I had only seen problems. It was a small step. A baby step. And for the first time in a long time, it was a forwards step.
+++++
