As I stepped into our driveway, I asked myself, “Did that really happen?”
Before I try to answer my own question, it probably makes sense for me to provide a little background.
I'm a seventy-one-year-old retired guy who is bored ninety percent of the time. I was “retired” by my law firm a year ago, even though I was a senior partner and still productive. The firm gave my caseload to a junior associate and at a going-away luncheon, to me, a gold watch.
I didn't play golf and I hated fishing. I didn't have a woodshop in the garage and I didn't want to tune the carburetor of a classic car.
According to my wife of forty-seven years, I was in a funk. It didn't help that I was sexually frustrated.
It was kind of pathetic. With no wills to draw up and no trusts to draft, I became the poster child for “Idle hands do the devil's work.”
If I walked into the kitchen and Julie was concentrating on washing the morning’s dishes, I'd fantasize about sidling up to her quietly. I'd wrap my arms around her and cup her 38DDs. I’d hump her ample ass and whisper into her ear, “Pull up your smock. I'm gonna fuck you back to the stone age.”
Of course, it truly was a fantasy. Julie and I hadn't fucked in over twenty years. Long before that she had pronounced both sucking cock and eating pussy to be “disgusting and demeaning.”
As one might expect, I had become pretty much an expert at jerking off. Not that it is overly relevant to the broader theme of this accounting; but my go-to method for an explosive climax was a tad pervy.
When Julie was out of the house shopping, I'd shed my khakis and boxers and head into our dimly lit walk-in closet, closing the mirrored door behind me. I'd straddle the wicker dirty clothes hamper, drape my balls along the edge, and face the mirror.
I'd sort through the clothes and retrieve a pair of Julie’s used panties, turning them inside out. While watching my face in the mirror, I'd bring the cotton liner to my face and deeply inhale Julie’s musky-briney essence into my nostrils. Her pheromones would sledgehammer something deep in my brain. I'd go from zero to sixty in seconds, hardening into full erection.
Reversing her panties, I'd use the silky surface to jack the shaft with my right hand, while I encircled the base of my cock and scrotum with the left. The veins of Mr. Johnson would gnarl and he would become violaceous.
While fantasizing about fucking Julie’s pink anus, I'd frantically pound my meat, slamming my balls into the side of the hamper.
Just thinking about the tightness of her backdoor would bring me to a climax. After quickly releasing my manual cockring, I would cup my left hand at the end of my prick and shoot several ropes of hot jizz onto my palm. Not wanting to make a mess in the hamper and while watching myself in the mirror, I would bring my hand to my mouth and lap up my warm seed.
I loved the taste of my own cum and would have swallowed even more; but unfortunately, I was a one-and-done kind of guy. Despite this thirst for cum, I did not consider myself to be gay or even an any-port-in-the-storm bisexual.
Let's get back to the issue at hand.
Approximately eighteen months ago, Nate and Pam moved from Hartford, CT to our neighborhood; two blocks up and down a cul de sac. Nate was an overweight jovial redhead with a pale complexion. When floating on his back in the community pool, he brought to mind Moby Dick.
Pam was the polar opposite. She walked or jogged daily, always past our house. If I were working in the yard, she’d smile and wave. I decided to get a better look. Don't get me wrong. I didn't believe in putting the moves on some other guy’s wife; I just wanted to look and not touch.
I started working in a street-side flower bed and coincidentally Pam started pausing for a few minutes to catch her breath and to chew the fat.
I got a better look. The best word to describe her would be “cute”. She was almost bug-like; maybe 5’ 1”, 95# or so, with very shapely legs and big tits. She reminded me of Sarah Jessica Parker, but with a less equine face.
I liked her a lot.
Let’s fast forward to this morning. My cardiologist prescribed metoprolol and forty-five minutes of aerobic activity per day at my last office visit. I’m too old to jog and I hate bicycles; so I started walking in the neighborhood. I actually relished the time out of the house and away from Julie. I walked rain or shine.
I considered bagging it this morning. It was cloudy and the thermometer hovered at eleven degrees. I drank a hot cup of java and headed outside wearing a knitted cap, a Columbia parka and a pair of ski gloves. I looked like Nannuck of the North.
My route took me down Pam and Nate’s cul-de-sac. Just as I was reaching the end and ready to head back, Pam ran out of the house to the mailbox. To say she wasn't dressed for the weather would be an understatement. She was slogging in untied Sorel snow boots and wearing only sweatpants and a crop top tee. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but her belly was exposed to the elements. Her erect nipples suggested she was braless.
Pam retrieved the mail and surprisingly tarried by the box. She uttered a “Brrrrrr” and against all odds, added, “Are you crazy, walking outside in this weather? Come inside. I just put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Who was I to turn down an invitation from a young braless cutie?
Both of us kicked off our footwear and I hung my parka on a hook in their mudroom. I forgot to remove my hat and in retrospect, probably looked like Waldo.
Pam led me into an open-floorplan kitchen/family room and pointed to a couch. “Grab a seat and make yourself comfortable. You can use that afghan, if you want. I'll check the coffee.”
She headed toward the kitchen, but not before turning on the natural gas fireplace.
Pam returned with two truck-stop-style mugs of steaming coffee. I couldn't help but notice that her nipples were still tenting outward the thin crop top fabric like hidden thumbs. The combination of these pointies and her 34Ds resulted in the bottom of her crop top gapping away from her chest by a good three inches. I could see the bottom of her orbs.
Pam sat down beside me and spread the afghan over us. I was warming up from not only the fire and blanket, but also Pam’s body heat.
We sipped our Peet’s and made small talk. After nine or ten minutes, Pam put her mug on the coffee table and snuggled up to my left shoulder, stating, “This is a good way to warm up, isn't it?”
Without giving it much thought, I draped my left arm around her, drawing her head onto my chest. Pam placed her left hand on my chest and began lightly massaging my pecs. I sprung a woody.
“You know, Bart (my name). I've seen the way you undress me with your eyes when we talk. Do you fantasize about touching my boobs and sucking my nipples?”
Before I could answer, she questioned, “You think about me when you masturbate, don't you?”
This was like asking me, “Have you quit beating your wife?” Yes or no? It seemed like an answer to the affirmative was in order, given the circumstances.
Pam knew what she wanted. She moved her left hand from my chest down to my right wrist. She lifted my hand and brought it to her bare belly. I almost fainted. I did swoon when I felt her other hand on the top of my thigh, not more than an inch from my boner.
I snuck a peek at her face. Her eyes were shut, but her lips were parted. She clearly was poised for me to pleasure her. I almost had a premature ejaculation.
I shrugged off the afghan and leaned toward her torso. I pulled off my cap and gave it a toss.
My lust was on autopilot. I slowly inched my hand up her toned belly, then under the edge of her crop top. I cupped her left breast, then the right and lightly pinched each nipple as I reversed. I heard her sigh and I felt her warm breath on my cheek.
Pam used her left hand to fold the tee up and over her knockers. I blurted out, “Holy shit!” I was briefly embarrassed, but Pam’s tits had to be in the top one percent of all the tits in the tata universe. Each mildly pendulous breast was the size and shape of a perfectly round grapefruit half. Sitting an inch above the equator were Hershey Kiss-sized areolae, constricted and wrinkled from their cold exposure, my stimulation and her arousal. Her nipples, each the size of a #2 pencil’s eraser, seemed to beckon, “Come suck me.”
I guess I'm good at taking orders, as I was on those beauties in a New York minute. I took my time licking and sucking and twirling and pinching each pokey, then repeated.
Pam seemed to be enjoying herself. She began rubbing my bald head and uttering, “Yeah, Baby. Suck my tits. Pull my nipples. Bite ‘em.”
I couldn’t get enough of Pam’s boobs. She seemed to be enjoying my attention to her mams, so I saw no reason to change up my technique and rock the boat.
At some point, Pam had stopped rubbing my head and instead moved her left hand down and into her sweats. It was pretty obvious she was giving her clit a thorough workout. Her arm was banging the top of my head and she began growling almost unintelligible phrases in a voice reminiscent of the Exorcist. I thought I heard, “Fuck me. Put it in my ass. Cum on my face. Linda.”
I'll have to ask about the “Linda” some other time.
Pam was clearly ambidextrous. As she sped up the pace of her self-gratification; she additionally (for better or for worse) jacked me faster. I rued not extracting Willy on minute one; hindsight being 20/20, I've heard.
I heard Pam inhale a deep breath. Then her body jerked, her chin hit the top of my head and she shouted, “Oh fuck, I'm cumming.”
I didn't have time to respond “No shit”. She jacked my cock one time too many. For the first time since adolescence, I had dumped a load in my own pants.
Fast forward fifteen minutes.
Luckily Julie was at Krogers. I'm not entirely sure how I would have explained the partially frozen cum stain on my Eddie Bauer rock-climbing pants.
Pam and I had agreed that a cigarette might have been in order, but neither of us smoked. I explained that I was a love ‘em and leave ‘em sort. She laughed, gave me a peck on the cheek, and walked me to the mudroom door.
