Of all the places in the world where I imagined that my sex life might be changed forever, a lavish apartment above the Bengal Tiger restaurant on the otherwise grotty Meriwether Street was not even close to being on the list. The restaurant itself, owned by Mrs Padma Chowdhury, was a green-doored, wide-windowed local institution by literally everybody that I knew, even the ones that claimed they didn’t even like Indian food.
After my breakup with Tilly, and when her parents had finally come by the flat for the rest of her stuff, I was alone. I mean proper alone. I cried for the first week, and wanked myself silly, sobbing into the few crusty, pissy, used pairs of knickers she’d forgotten to take with her left underneath the sofa, each and every day, before shoving on whatever clothes I’d left draped over the banister to dry, passing by the restaurant for my breakfast, lunch and depressing set-menu dinner for one.
Each time I entered the place, with its tight, warm and spicy-laden air, and its obscure sitar music playing somewhere in the background, I was always greeted by the same familiar face of Mrs Padma Chowdhury. At nearly sixty years old, she’d aged like an old master painting: her tan brown skin, without the lines of her worry-wrinkled local contemporaries, who visited with their depressingly boring husbands. Draped around her curvaceous body, her trademark, taut saris made her seem as appealing as I remembered back during my teen years, when wet dreams were still a thing and Boyzone were dominating the charts.
To be honest with you, her simple, yet sultry smile, each and every day was something that I began to look forward to, more than the food, which of course was excellent. Yet, the sight of her breasts were the real treat: heavy, bouncy, hanging like flower baskets above her veiled mum-tum, her tits swaying each time she pottered around to clean tables or check on late food. My mouth would quite literally water in their presence, so much so that I often had to hide my face behind a menu while I tamed my throbbing cock into submission.
The first day, a Thursday, I came in after the breakup, she was sitting at an empty table by a large potted palm tree. Looking up, her face lit up.
“Teddy! My God, how long has it been? You’re so big now.”
Slowly, she swayed up to me, wrapping her arms tightly around me, until her bulging bosoms consumed me. “And so handsome too.”
“You too,” I said awkwardly, feeling my cock already pulsing in my boxers, as she pulled away. “I mean— you’re looking well Mrs Chowdhury. You always are.”
She smiled, raising her glasses to sit on her silvering black, long hair. I wondered if she’d felt the jab of my sex-starved penis in her tummy.
“It’s Padma to you. You know that. And I do have an anti-aging secret, but I’ll never tell.”
Slowly, she cupped the side of my face with a soft smooth palm that clung to my skin, lingering. There and then, I tried my best not to stare at her exposed lower neck, her lovely, homely breasts snug beneath a teal green sari, but they called to me, pulling my eyes closer like a perverted tractor beam that I couldn’t escape.
“No Tilly today?” she asked, a hint of concern palpable through her thick accent.
“Ah… well you see, Tilly and I…” I started, trying to find the words. “Well, in the end… you know… when a couple have been…” Shaking her head sternly in a way that I’d never remembered seeing, she combed her silver-black hair with her hand.
“You were too good for her anyway. Too bloody good. I’d always said it.”
“Thank you. It means a lot.”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what it meant. Here I was pathetically fantasising over a married woman, while Tilly was likely getting fucked silly every night. Before I could register the strange rush of emotions, she embraced me again, holding my face close to hers, planting a kiss beside my ear, long and wet.
“Don’t worry darling,” she whispered, “things will get better. There are always more fish in the sea.”
***
Nothing strange happened between us for another two weeks, but each night, I’d made sure that my masturbation sessions were dedicated to my renewed Milfy obsession. Giving up on internet porn altogether, I’d lay back in my lonely double bed, my cock nicely lathered with a thick layer of translucent lube, my free hand scrolling through her holiday photos on her husband’s Facebook page. The more innocent the outfit or setting, the harder I came, each time thinking about her tawny-brown nipples placed on my tongue, my cock buried between her generously-sized thighs, cradling her geriatric body that still had plenty of life in it.
The next time I went into the restaurant, one rainy Monday afternoon, Padma had her face buried in a book, stood at the front desk. I greeted her breasts with the same familiar leer as always, after about five seconds or so, she finally looked up.
“Hey handsome,” Mrs Chowdhury started, dog-earing a page, placing it down. “Same as usual?” I nodded.
She looked tired. I tried to glimpse the title on the cover, reading it upside down, but failed.
“How are you doing? You know, the balti today is—” Looking me up and down, her face was etched with shock.
“Oh goodness! You’re soaked through. And I thought that I was the wet one.”
Looking myself up and down, I wondered if I’d heard her correctly, a puzzlement that she could see on my face.
“Oh” she started with a generously nervous laugh, “I meant wet—because I had to take the bins out the back in the rain. Sanjay is so lazy sometimes. My brother. You remember him right?”
“Oh yeah, of course,” I feigned, looking at her slightly dry, yet kissable thin lips. “I can imagine.” Head to toe, Mrs Chowdhury was dry as a bone. She pinched the cuff of my jumper.
“Darling, listen—we’ll need to get you out of those clothes, OK? You’ll catch your death, if you stay in that.” She pointed a finger at me playfully.
“And your mother will have my guts for garters. She is my best customer, but don’t tell her I said that,” she said, lowering to a cheeky whisper.
Even with the distance between us, I could smell the tinge of her perfume— much like everything she seemed to own it smelled of wealth, loneliness and wasted desire. I protested.
“Mrs Chowdhury—Padma, it’s fine, honestly. I’m going to get an Uber home. I’ll be home in ten and—”
She shushed me, placing her dainty finger on my lips. There and then, I wanted to reach out and grab her breasts, smothering her mouth with kisses that her body deserved.
“Not another word, you. Now come on. We’re going upstairs and I won’t hear another word.”
We both smiled with one another, and following her through the tiled floor of the furnace-hot kitchen, through a series of doors, we ascended a thin ornate staircase, up towards an unmarked door. Opening it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The room we stood in was speechlessly opulent. As far as the eye could see, everything seemed to be either gold-rimmed, cream-white and glinting. A trio of ottoman sofas sat clustered beneath a chandelier that sent light flickering across each of the murals on every wall. Before I had time to fully take in what I was seeing, I felt a pair of hands tugging at my jumper again.
“Right, let’s get this off, shall we?” Mrs Chowdhury said, lifting the purple woolen layer upward, over my head, roughly. Over my hair it passed, with her tending to it, leaving me to adjust the underlayer of my vest.
“And that too.”
“What, my vest as well?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” she grinned. “You know my daughter, Devika—well she’s engaged to a GP, and he says the cold and flu that’s going around this time of year is simply awful. Just awful.”
I looked down at the sodden vest covering my torso and contemplated. This was my chance for intimacy, even in a tiny, nondescript way, with the Milf of my lonely dreams, and here I was chickening out when push came to shove. Waiting for my response, her face twisted with impatience, tutting as she placed a wooden hanger into the neck of my jumper, hanging it over a marble, electric fireplace, flanked by two shiny black panthers.
“You boys and your bodies. I’ve seen it all before, you know. It’s only me, darling.”
As simple as her sentence was, it was all I needed to encourage me. Taking a deep breath, I slowly removed my vest, exposing my torso. Instantly, her eyes lit up, widening, as she massaged her exposed chest in circular motions, impressed with what she’d been presented.
“It’s not much to look at, I know”, I said, with a grin. “Everything still works though” She gasped, leering with a smile.
“I bet,” she laughed, sitting on the corner of the farthest ottoman. “I don’t want to talk out of turn here, but that Tilly really was stupid to leave you. Stupid—stupid! I mean, an old bag like me—I’m no stunner, but I tell you, if I was twenty years younger, I wouldn’t leave you. No bloody way.”
Pacing over slowly, I sat down adjacent to her, trying to pose as naturally as my endorphin-pumped body would let me, shaking with excitement. In the bright artificial light of the apartment, her hair seemed greyer than before, her face more sallow and weathered. Yet, I still wanted her. More even. To feed from her motherly breasts— to be inside her, thrusting, biting, licking and tasting her as my body craved. It seemed closer to reality than ever before.
“No, Padma, you’re perfect. You’ve still got it. Really,” I said. Mrs Chowdhury snorted.
“Perfect?! Perfect?” she stood, shaking her head in disbelief, almost angry at the compliment. “Well for starters, I’m fat. I’m old—my knees creak like rotting decking. There are bags under my eyes so heavy that they could rival a socialite’s at a Harrods sale. And my boobs. My bloody boobs! I’ll have to tuck them into my waistband any day now at the rate they’re drooping! Perfectly ready for the knackers yard more bloody like!”
An awkward silence followed, as her smile faded into something melancholic, which she tried to fight, a grin rising in her pained motherly face. This was my chance. Finally it was here.
“Well, I like them,” I finally said. She froze.
“Well, you like what?” she quizzed, cautiously.
“Your breasts. I mean, I don’t want to speak out of line or anything. I just mean that they’re nice. They’re nice breasts. Objectively, I mean.” She mulled over my sentence.
“Only objectively?” Mrs Chowdhury asked, her eyes widening. At that point, I was terrified I’d crossed a line, but even so, it was too late.
“No, of course not. Even in their own right. They are lovely breasts. Not that I’ve been perving on you, or anything like that.” Catching my reflection in a large, Edwardian mirror on the wall, I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth in this strange room.
“Well, you know Teddy. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” Mrs Chowdhury said, her face relaxing into a sexy grin, before standing directly over me, blocking the light from the chandelier.
Slowly, she turned away, and to my shock, began unwrapping her ornate sari, layer by layer, undressing in front of me. As each layer came off, and more brown flesh was exposed, I began to lay back, my breathing quickening, pulse thudding in my neck as my cock pitched a pulsing tent against my sopping wet jeans. I was so hard that the constriction was painful, and yet, completely worth it, lost in the trance of the sexy older woman before me. Finally, letting the fabric flop down to the antique carpet below, she turned to me, my hungry eyes fed with the bare flesh of her breasts.
Near symmetrical, the two masses of flesh hung down either side of her torso. They weren’t as saggy as I’d imagined—thick and full, with large, dark erect nipples, topping each one, as they hung a fraction above a pierced belly button: a minor detail that surprised me. Shaking her head side to side slowly, as if in a trance, her long black hair fluttered freely, and lowering herself to me, sat directly next to me. With my heart rattling in my chest, I leaned forward as with a dainty hand, she lifted her left breast up towards me, holding it out, guiding it up, towards my wide, eager mouth for the very first time.
