It was a gray, dark fall day. A menacingly thick layer of clouds hung in the sky. The air was loaded with electricity and thick with moisture as it had been for several days as if someone had forgotten to open the gates of heaven and flood the earthly world with a second deluge.

The biting wind had shooed everyone save for two figures who were not scared off the cemetery by these hostile conditions. A suggestive hole in the ground gaped prominently between the pastor and the young man dressed in black whose facial expression was rendered unreadable by his dark shaded sunglasses. He was the sole visitor of the funeral procession.

A pink peony flew onto the oaken coffin – her favorite flower. He had forgotten the true symbolism of it; never really been aware of it, in fact, despite her repeated attempts to explain him. Judging from the reverend's barely visible nose-wrinkling, the young visitor's choice of flower was probably not exactly appropriate.

The young man crooked the corners of his mouth to an unclear expression as he vaguely remembered the peony used to be associated rather with birth than with death. Still, it had been her favorite flower, period, he thought.

Unmoved by the pastor's routinely rattled off speech, he lit a cigarette after the latter had declared the ceremony ended. As the tip of the cigarette got extincted by the first thick drops of the falling rain, the young man forwent to relight it; he just kept it uselessly pinched between his lips as he picked a quicker pace in order to catch up with the reverend.

“Father,” he said, placing one hand on the priest's shoulder, “do you have a moment?”

The elderly man sighed accusingly and cleared his throat before speaking: “How can I help you, son?”

“Concerning Lady Blackwood, father, may I place a confession?” asked the young man in reply.

The pastor sighed again. “We're outside the usual hours, but you're the only one who showed up for her funeral. An exception would not hurt, I guess. See me in the confessional in five minutes, so I can change into a dry cassock.”

The lonesome visitor smiled faintly and took off his sunglasses. “I was more thinking of grabbing a shot or two at a bar. Treat's on me.”

He paused, pressed his lips together, awaited the priest's reaction, and resumed his request as he realized it cut no ice, “please, father. I need someone to talk to.”

The father chuckled and adjusted his glasses. “No one is coming to visit the church with this weather, I reckon. A stiff drink to warm up these old bones won't do any harm. Let's go, son.”

In the Red Kitty – a formerly well-frequented house of pleasure, now a shaggy bar with one last remaining surgically altered, yet aging exotic dancer of no longer intelligible facial expressions – three shots of the cheapest whisky the bar offered were joylessly downed by the younger of the two newly arrived customers before he dared to resume his confession concerning the departed lady.

“How well did you know Lady Blackwood, rev?”

The young man slammed his fourth greasy shot glass the barista named Tom – according to the huge letters on his flamboyant name tag – had filled the headache- and putrefaction-reeking liquor in on the counter. The elderly priest raised his eyebrows in dislike of his interlocutor, but leaned in as if to make sure his whisper would predominate the spiritless rockabilly/blues band playing while swiveling the glass he held between his fingers, although he had no intention to speak. He preferred drinking in the setting of the place for a moment. The poorly lit bar would have given the perfect atmosphere for an episode in the Philip Marlowe or the Jerry Cotton series.

“She frequented my church quite often, but I wasn't her shrink as I'm apparently about to be for you, if that's what you're asking,” he joylessly whispered at last, looking at the liquor in his hand.

“You're not very good at hiding your lack of sympathy, rev,” laughed the younger of the two, “so she didn't really see you to confess, you mean?”

The reverend slowly shook his head wordlessly before hammering down his own fourth portion of liquor to keep up with his newly gained client who went on speaking: “In that case, buckle up for a bumpy ride, old man, for that lady did indeed have quite some shit to confess, believe me.”

He paused for effect.

“I, for starters, once used to be her rent boy, or whatever you wanna call it.”

The young man waited a moment to let the words sink in.

“Sorta...”

*****

Our confessional story starts way back when I was one of these lazy ass students. I used to cut most classes and hang out in that oh-so intellectual café like all my fellow hipsters and read my share of Sartre, Nietzsche, Milton and Salinger, you name them. And no, my confession will not be based on my hedonistic lifestyle as the disreputable slacker I was, wearing fake glasses to fit the stereotype.

Back to said café: of course there were always the few odd ones out among the guests. Someone has to comply with the quota, don't they? One of these very people – she would have been the only one really fitting the décor, judging her age, in fact – caught my eye from the first time I caught glimpse of her.

Despite her advanced age, I was not able to take my eyes off her. The mere number of years that separated us was not that far from twice my age, yet my eyes were glued to her lips as she took a spoonful of the café's delicious strawberry tart, flipped the spoon around in her mouth and slid it over her bottom lip as though she was sensually kissing someone. The sight was utterly erotic. Even her gracious way of wiping her lips with her napkin made my hormones jump in excitement.

Then suddenly, the realization hit me that I was checking out my own grandma, well figuratively at least. The hot coffee ran through my nose back into the cup as I was choking on the sip I had in my mouth. Of course the center of my attraction hadn't failed to notice my being clumsy and giggled in response to the ridiculous outburst of my lung's flood prevention. Yet her reserved way of expressing her amusement had me suspecting her of somewhat noble descent. To that day, I would have never expected it possible that an impish wink and a soft smile from a lady her age would leave such a seductive impression.

For the rest of my stay at the café, I wasn't able to concentrate on my literature any more. My head was just too busy with impure thoughts about a granny – okay, I may be exaggerating on her age back then a bit. My thoughts, however, were filled with a growing unhealthy obsession about her. Although I usually was a careful ogler, this time, I was afraid the victim of my well too obvious observations would notice my perverted interest in her.

The next thing that struck my eye was that she seemed to be of quite a fragile nature as all her movements were done with an almost meditative caution. Watching her warily take her cup to her lips as if she might otherwise break her jaw or her fingers from too abrupt movements was a true eye candy. These perfectly kempt fingers had to feel heavenly wrapped around my cock while her ruby lips would squeeze its helmet, I fantasized.

Strangely, some part of me was convinced, against all odds, of doing a rather good job at observing her from my corner until she talked to the waiter just before paying and tipping him generously for a little service she had apparently plotted. I saw her pointing to me from the corner of my eyes while whispering to the waiter.

A quick distraction from the shattering noise of a heavy glass falling to the floor was enough for me to miss noticing the old lady leave the café – as well as someone dropping a note on a neatly folded tissue into the pocket of my counterfeit Burberry trench coat.

How had she...? Never mind, I thought opening the folded handkerchief to find a handwritten note and a lipstick mark.

The note read: “I couldn't help notice your interest. Call me.” and a landline number was added.

The handkerchief was made of cotton, perfumed and had squiggly ornate initials embroidered on it. I approached my nose to it and inhaled the intoxicating perfume that immediately made my heart skip a beat in growing desire for that old lady. I didn't even know her name, yet already I had fallen for her.

It took me two days of hesitation until I insecurely picked up my phone several times on the third day and finally dialed the number she had given me. The characteristic tooting of the ringback tone rang in my ear like an annoying tinnitus.

I was about to hang up the phone and give up on the foolish idea of trying to reach an old hag who enjoyed pranking young students as a female voice came to my ear: “Blackwood, how can I help you?”

Her matured voice had me intimidated to a point where I had to clear my throat and inhale deeply in order not to have mine cracking like a boy in the middle of puberty: “Good day, Ma'am. I have a handkerchief that I believe is yours.”

“Oh,” she coquettishly replied, “how gallant of yours that you really do call me, young man. May I know your name, dear?”

“My name is Alexander, but please call me Alec, Mrs. Blackwood, I insist.”

She laughed softly, and answered, “you have good manners, Alec, yet I have to insist on you calling me Ms. and not Mrs .”

“Oh, were you never married, Ms. Blackwood?”

“No, alas! It was my great misfortune to be engaged to a young man who was deployed to Vietnam back in the days – and never made it back.” I heard a hesitation in her voice, before she resumed, “and after him, well, no one ever fell for my charms again.”

We had a lengthy chat and got to know each other. The more we talked, the more I knew I had to see her. I promised to bring her back her handkerchief, so we arranged a date.

On said day, after knocking on her door, a sudden shudder ran down my spine. It made me realize how stupid and insecure I felt. What was I doing again? Courting a woman who was almost fifteen years older than my own mother? Come to think of it! The lengthier while she took to finally open the door was enough to make me change my mind over and again, to turn around, walk away two steps, walk them back again, look at the flowers in my hand, feel they wouldn't make do and decide to throw them in the next dumpster. At the end, I really was about to really toss them onto the street when the door shrieked open and out came the mature lady I remembered from the café.

“Please accept my apology for having taken so long, Alec,” she said in the smooth, seductive voice I knew from the telephone, “us old people have our... um... peculiarities, you know?”

I smiled at her and took my hat off as I had been taught when I was younger. She slightly bent her knees and lifted her laced skirt a bit in response, smiling while doing so. Just to be clear: her skirt was not displaced at all; it was chosen rather tastefully in line with her age.

She then looked at me and said, “oh, and don't you throw these wonderful peonies away, young man. It would be too much of a shame, for they are magnificent. You even picked my favorite flowers without me mentioning them. What a wonderful boy you are.”

She took my hand to gently pull me inside the place she called home. However humble it seemed from outside, being your typical town house, the inside testified – as I had suspected – of a long forgotten nobility. She led me to the living room and motioned me to sit on her settee which looked as though it even predated the last century.

Once sat down, I was offered cake and coffee as well as a glimpse of her cleavage when she brought me these goodies on a silver platter – yes, actual silver. While pouring the black liquid into my cup, she pressed her generous breasts together with her upper arms, making me gulp as I wasn't sure where to lay my eyes on: her flirtatious eyes, her knowing smirk or her seductive cleavage.

Intimidated by her frivolous advances, I drank in the setting of her living room.

The walls were filled with faded paintings recounting from times long gone and forgotten heritage. One could faintly make out an artistic representation of her family tree.

She slowly sat sank back into the settee and casually let her blouse open a little more and reveal enough décolleté for me to see her breasts were bare underneath. With one hand, she padded the soft cushion and with the long, thin fingers of the other hand, she lured me to sit right next to her. I obliged to her request and let her place her arm around my shoulders.

She pointed to a thin, worn out pocket book that was lying on her coffee table. The title read: Romantic Poetry – A Collection.

“Open it on page 25”, she said, “it's my favorite.”

I did as I was told and let her pull my body closer to hers once I had opened the booklet on said page. I read out loud line after line of a translated version of Joseph von Eichendorff's Moonlit Night. Although the poem only consisted of three verses, with every word I read, I felt how Ms. Blackwood's breathing became more elaborate and she gradually fell for the sound of my voice. She pulled my body against hers and pressed my face so hard against her soft breasts that I was hardly able to read the last line, let alone articulate the words.

Once I was done reading, I closed the pocket book. Then she pulled me so hard I flipped over and landed halfway on top of her. I let her press my face into her cleavage and feel the softness of her sweet pillows. Then she gently had me moving up to plant a shy peck on her lips.

“With that voice of yours you should come here and read me poems from time to time,” she said in a playful voice, “I'm sure as a student you can need some financial aid, am I right?”

Her grin was devilish and full of lust for the appetizing chunk of fresh meat I was in her eyes. She was well too aware I couldn't resist the temptation of seeing her squirm from the desire caused by me reading poems to her, for too great was my attraction to this matured beauty and her generous breasts I had just had the occasion to rub my face against.

Paying her a visit to have a cup of tea or coffee, a chat and read her romantic poems about the fugacity of life became an almost daily routine. For me, it was a fair deal. Since I lived alone in my apartment, no one was expecting me to come home after the lectures (which I skipped, mostly) and I got to let flourish my best kept secret: my unhealthy obsession with big titted mature women. Further, I had found me a well-paid job and sometimes even earned a reasonable dinner in good company. I had become a very special kind of male escort just for Ms Blackwood, so to say.

Of course our so cherished coffee time was just a pretext to get each other excited from the innuendo-filled small talk and teasing in order to have a more intense reading experience. I would sit in her armchair, enjoying the sight of her slowly closing her eyes to the sound of my voice, how she'd let me hear a longing sigh and let her cleavage fall agape even wider. She'd bite her lips and roam her hands over her sparsely covered stomach, slightly squirming from her own touch.

If you're wondering if we ever did hook up together, I'll have to disappoint you, however, for she made it clear to me from the very beginning that this was out of the question. Why, you may ask, if we both obviously were hungry for each other, only waiting to devour each other. Well, the old lady suffered from a weak heart; the cause for her death, ultimately. The excitement given by a proper-hook up would have shortened the duration of my employment for her from roughly a year to a few sessions or so. Her heart wouldn't have been able to handle it, unfortunately. Yet it's not as if I ever went home unfulfilled – sexually speaking, that is. Especially that one time.

There was one time she told me she couldn't take it anymore, that she felt sorry for her failing ability to deliver reasonable sexual relief. To put things right, she offered to ease my accumulated lack of release by oral sex. And boy, could she suck cock!

First, I was taken aback by her offer for it had never occurred to me to have her return the pleasure orally. It was way out of our habitual routine, you know. It had become normal not to actually touch each other except her occasionally letting me dig my face between her gorgeous tits. Feeling them almost suffocate me and smelling this intoxicating perfume of hers sent me straight to cloud nine. I had almost forgotten about my initial intentions to savage that poor woman and now she actually offered me what I had been secretly waiting for all that time. A dream come true. Before she fulfilled her offer, nonetheless, she requested me to take a shower and get cleaned up, handed me a towel and had me promise not to take too long.

Once the water temperature was set to a comfy, steamy shower, I let it dribble over my face. I felt nervous, yet excited and sensed how the adrenaline slowly flooded my body. I was getting ready to receive proper head from the woman of my dreams. Wow! I had to take a few deep breaths not to lose my cool over the mere idea of what was about to happen. Despite my promise to hurry, I took all my time to soap up my body, for I wanted to be well-groomed for her.

Suddenly, I felt a finger tap on my shoulder. Having halfway expected this, I wasn't surprised to find Ms Blackwood in her bathrobe standing right there. She untied the knot of her belt and let the bathrobe slide off her shoulders to the floor. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry from the sight of her naked body. She was even more beautiful than I had imagined.

Wordlessly she stepped under the falling water and kissed me, wrapping her arms around me. I joined in the deep, passionate kiss. Our tongues entwined in a devouring dance of desire. She pressed her frail body against mine and I – in fear I might hurt her – gently pulled her close. Between our bellies, my hard cock grew to full hardness until it pushed into her belly button.

Then, I felt her fingers trace my shaft up and down and up again, squeezing it a little more with every stroke, causing me to moan into her mouth in response. Her touch was gentle, yet intense. By the time she had a firm grip on my boner, she broke our kiss in order to lavish my neck and with her lips' soft touch and cheeky pecks.

Next, she traced my breastbone with her nose and placed a shy kiss on it, another one closer to my nipple, one more halfway in between, then let her tongue slowly slide to it. She sucked on my nipple and bit it. To that day I had no idea a man's nipples could be just as sensitive as a woman's. The touch of her lips on it felt electric and sent shivers up and down my spine.

Still stroking my shaft, she sank to her knees and looked deeply into my eyes before forming a ring with her lips that contracted around the very tip. A gentle suck, a tongue poking out and enwrapping the glans. She let go and looked into my eyes again. I saw just the tip of her glistening tongue lick her upper lip, a cheeky wink and her upper incisors dig into the soft fleshy cushion of her bottom lip and slowly release it again. I gasped from the mere sight of her teasing. Exactly knowing the effect her little games had on me, she enclosed my glans with her lips again and lowly hummed, sending the pleasurable vibrations right through my erection.

Next, she cupped my balls that were sagging from the hot water and allowed my shaft to penetrate her lips until my head disappeared between them. Sucking on it, she slowly pumped my cock building up my pleasure, while fondling my balls like a true expert in the field.

Before long, I felt my precum starting to flow. Yes, flow, not just ooze out, I tell you. And that was the moment she released my glans from its hot, moist confinement. She took her hand off my balls and smeared the colorless liquid over her middle finger. Doing so, she threw me a glance I could not yet decipher, but looked like a sign for a coming surprise.

Distracted by her mesmerizing glance, I didn't realize where she placed her hands until the feel of her finger on my anus turned my whole body rigid from shock. Before I could express my protest, however, her finger had already passed my tight sphincter, sending an intense jolt of pleasure through my spine. A bit reluctant, still, I subconsciously moved my hips forward just a few inches to escape her finger, allowing my cock to slide between her lips she held ready as if she had foreseen my reaction.

With her mouth sliding up and down my shaft, her hand pumping it supportingly and her middle finger slowly inching its way up my butthole, I couldn't help moaning and shouting her name into the vapor inside the shower cabin. She kept me on the brink of a mind-blowing climax for as long as she hadn't sunk her finger knuckle deep into my ass to reach my prostate, which felt like hours of agonizing orgasm refusal.

She used the never ending stream of precum to lubricate my erect shaft and make it glide in her still pumping hand more easily. I simply couldn't stop groaning and begging for her to release me from my frustration. Her experted treatment was pure, sweet torture.

Then, I felt it: I felt her fingertip press firmly against my prostate and stroke it. She knew the exact moment I'd come and let her lips go off my cock. She held it pointed to her amazing breasts and pumped it vigorously, looking into my eyes, hers begging for me to splash my semen all over her.

She let the first two ropes of my most intense orgasm ever hit her breasts and the three remaining less copious ones hit her face and open mouth.

I was so exhausted from this experience that I didn't really register her cleaning the mess on her chest and face and how she dried me and let me fall asleep on her bed with my head resting on her chest.

*****

The reverend and the narrator were the only guests in the otherwise empty bar. The band had finished their set hours ago with a rather listless cover of Stray Cat Strut by the Stray Cats and thus put an end to a lengthy series of poorly interpreted musical jewels of past times. Due to lack of clientèle, the stripper had left long ago; the only remaining staff member was Tom, the barista and owner himself.

“I guess that's where the story comes to an end, doesn't it? So I hope, because I think I have listened to your carnal escapades for long enough,” said the reverend annoyed, raising his eyebrows from his tired and uninterested eyes, a smoking cigarette between his fingers and the thumb of the same hand scratching his forehead; all this to underline his piled-up frustration from his lack of sexual relief and the countless confessions thereof he had had the pleasure to hear through his career.

“Not quite,” replied the young man, sighed, and resumed his story, “we repeated this a few times over the during next months. One day, though, she very politely asked me not to pay her visits any more, as she felt her end coming near. She emphasized, however, how much I had revived her frigid heart and made her feel like a woman again. Just a few days later, she suffered a heart attack which nailed her to a hospital bed for a few weeks.”

He sighed deeply before proceeding: “She wouldn't even recognize me after she woke up from the artificial coma they had put her in. She was simply too drugged to live decently any longer. She recovered, still, though badly. She was well enough, though, to live one her own, yet having a transfusion cannula attached to her arm all the time. It took just a few more years until her heart finally gave up the struggle and she died sitting in her wing chair, reading from her favorite poetry collection. She never came to remember me, however.”

After a long moment of quiet seeming like a minute's silence without having agreed upon, the old barista spoke his first words of the evening: “That was quite a story, son.”

He slammed three freshly filled shot glasses on the counter and raised one of them in the air.

“To Lady Blackwood!” he proclaimed.

“To Lady Blackwood!” the others followed, and all three of them downed their glasses in one sip.