of the weakness of flesh.... Pt. 2

[continued…]

Mrs D looked a little nervous as she entered the kitchen at last.

“There was something you wanted to tell me”

“Yes…” she said, though she didn’t sound entirely sure.

Showered, dressed, and perched in the big chair in front of the wood-burner, Mrs D looked far from a woman at her ease. Ours is not a domestic arrangement; so it is perfectly understandable (even predictable) that she would be far less comfortable sitting quietly in my kitchen, than she would fastened face-down onto the wooden bench with my fingers hooked deep inside her cunt. It is all about context after all. The shared cosiness of the kitchen was the more unfamiliar territory - to both of us. In an effort to help her feel more ‘at home’ I opened my robe and permitted her to rest her cheek against my still fragrant cock.

“Such a nice smell,” she whispered.

“It’s as much your… perfume as much as mine,” I said.

In an effort to settle her further I instructed her to undo her blouse and un-cup her breasts from her bra. Her relief was almost palpable. I pinched her nipples as, almost absent-mindedly, she brushed her lips against my shaft and began to tell me about the woman who lived two doors down. She explained that they had been neighbours for almost thirty years, but had hardly spoken until after they were both widows.

“She was always that much older than me… and very… proper… like a lot of women her age. I’m fifty now… so fifteen years doesn’t feel so much these days. But I always thought of her as the ‘old woman’ from two doors down… and nothing more than that.”

Mrs D described her neighbour as a neat woman, with neat figure, who kept a neat garden, and was extremely scrupulous in all her habits.

“She’s one of those women who always looks as though she’s wearing her Sunday Best. Probably why I always thought of her as a bit… stand-offish.”

Following the loss of their husbands the two women had found themselves with far too much in common to continue to ignore each other. Rather than merely nodding politely as they passed each other in the street, they began to pause so that they could exchange some pleasantry or other. Now and then one would enquire how the other was coping with their loss. Then, one day - and out of nowhere it seemed to Mrs D - her neighbour declared herself ‘well rid of the bloody man’, and more than pleased to have the house to herself at last. Instantly recognising the sentiment, Mrs D couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

“Actually,” her neighbour had continued - her eyes beginning to twinkle. “I could put up with him in the rest of the house… it’s my bed I’m glad to have the little shit gone from.”

Mrs D said that she had honestly worried that she might pass out she had laughed so much.

“And in the street too… and all the curtains twitching…!” she said, stroking her fingers along the underside of my shaft.

Over the following months the two widows had become firm friends, and would meet up regularly to share a couple of bottles of wine, and swap ‘wives-tales’. Soon they had few secrets left to keep from each other – at least in matters relating to their husbands’ sexual appetites – or lack thereof. The woman from two doors down revealed that her husband rarely touched her at all, and never in an ‘intimate manner’. She was, on occasion, permitted to touch him, but only very selectively.

“He would have me… massage his feet, while he… pleasured himself. And that was about as exciting as things ever got. I wasn’t even allowed to watch. He’d cover himself with a towel and I’d have to keep my eyes closed at all times. If I complained he would tell me that he could do so much better than a skinny, plain little bitch like me, and I ought to be grateful he didn’t send me out of the room.”

When he was done, she would sent to fetch a face-cloth from the bathroom, and told to wash his belly and chest. She was not permitted to look at his penis – even flaccid – but was required to wash that too, as he said he couldn’t sleep if his ‘thing’ was ‘dirty’.

“You never saw his… thing?” Mrs D asked, not entirely in wonder.

“Oh I sneaked a look once or twice when he was sleeping - more to spite him than anything.”

“And he never… put it inside you?”

“Once or twice… when he’d been drinking. But it never stayed hard… not for long. And… frankly it was less… disappointing just to let him get on with it all himself. At least I knew that there was no pleasure in that…!”

“You’re not plain,” said Mrs D.

“No… he never managed to convince that I was really…. Not really!”

The woman from two doors down attempted a smile, but did not sound entirely convinced.

One evening, when they had drunk even more than usual, Mrs D ‘confessed’ that she was ‘seeing somebody’, and that her attitude to sex had altered considerably in recent months. Her neighbour did not disguise her curiosity. She said that, though she herself was obviously too old to start with ‘that sort of nonsense’, she saw no reason why she should be spared any of the more… salacious details of her friend’s recent sexual awakening.

“If you don’t have a life yourself,” she said, cheerfully. “Then live… vicariously!”

Mrs D wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but thought she’d probably caught the gist of it. To begin with she was reluctant to share. However, as the evening progressed, she felt a less, and less inhibited. Not sure quite how to explain her situation, she dared her neighbour to speculate on the some of the more ‘sordid’ details. The woman from two doors down said that this was ‘cheating’ as she had barely any points of reference.

“I can just about describe the missionary position,” she said. “And even then I wouldn’t be certain. Not one hundred percent…!”

“Why not google it then?” suggested Mrs D, in what seemed to her then to be an inspired moment.

“You wouldn’t dare…!” her neighbour giggled.

Mrs D did not hesitate.

“Oh my… God!”

Mrs D’s neighbour mocked horror as the first image search bore fruit.

“That’s not missionary,” said Mrs D, squinting at the screen and almost frowning.

“I did wonder…!” said her friend. “I thought why on earth would a missionary be putting it in her mouth like that…?”

Giggles erupted in little fits as Mrs D made a very poor job of explaining the practical ‘ins and outs’ of the sixty- nine. Her neighbour said that couldn’t really see what the pretty girl in the picture had in her mouth. She knew what it was, obviously, but said that she would want to see a lot more of it before she could properly judge the wisdom of the girl’s actions. It was all so light and playful (and fun), and it wasn’t long before the widow from two doors down was a great deal more familiar with the anatomy the penis than she had ever been in her all her sixty-five years. One thing led to inevitable other, and before long they had progressed from stills to video. Every so often her friend would halt the process to enquire if Mrs D had any personal experience of the things they were looking at. Mrs D was a little surprised at how often she was forced to admit that she had.

“But not that surely?” her demanded, pretending not to look as the young ‘cowhand’ in the video shot his huge load over the oily arse of his ‘rodeo bride’.

“Oh yes… that!” said Mrs D, almost casual by this point.

“An that?”

(An older woman was on her knees, fingering herself as a young man painted her lips with his pre-cum. It was all a little tame in Mrs D’s opinion.)

“At her age too…!” said the widow, quite unable to wipe the smile from her face..

“Yes… that too…!”

Mrs D found herself blushing less and less as the evening progressed. In contrast her friends’ cheeks became more and more flushed. At first Mrs D wondered if she had gone too far. She worried that her friend might actually be horribly embarrassed, and was just too polite to say so. However, when she offered to close the computer down it became clear that this was not the case at all.

“Then I knew,” said Mrs D as she tipped her tongue along the length of my cock, before pressing it to her cheek again.

“Knew what?”

“That she was aroused of course. My friend… my… neighbour… was in an advanced state of… arousal. She reeked of it… I mean… I hadn’t really noticed the smell, but once I did… it was… unmistakable. You know that smell…! And her eyes, I could see it there too. And she couldn’t keep her still. She kept stroking her hair, and touching her mouth… so I knew. And because I was so sure that I recognised the all the signs I… let her see….”

She placed her fingers around the stiffening shaft and massaged it, not vigorously, with her thumb. Her mind was elsewhere.

“Let her see what?” I asked.

“I let her see… me,” she said, her voice as soft as her lips.

“I let her see… us!”

Mrs D explained that she had one or two video clips that she kept for when she felt alone. Nothing special, she explained, but a little more to her own developing tastes. By that point of the evening the widows had already shared so much, so Mrs D hardly gave it a second thought when she clicked on that file.

“There’s more?”

Her neighbour fanned herself with her hand, but this only seemed to make her hotter. She was so engorged by then that she could barely press her knees together without some slight shudder visibly passing up her spine. The modest portion of her breastbone -revealed when undone the top two buttons of her blouse – looked almost raw it was so red with the heat of her. Mrs D said that she was so encouraged by the other woman’s arousal that it simply hadn’t occurred to her that were some things that her neighbour simply wouldn’t be want to see.

“It wasn’t even a particularly… extreme image,” she insisted.

“There’s a woman on chair… that’s all. It’s a high-backed chair, and she’s been bound to it with some leather straps. Her legs have been raised… almost parallel to her body, and there’s some sort of pole that’s forcing her legs apart, and straps around her ankles. Her… vulva is all swollen and wet, like she’s already cum, and more than once. Her inner thighs are… pink as though she’s been spanked… and quite hard too. She looks… exhausted… this woman. And the man in the film he puts his fingers into her, even though she already looks so… tender, and he forces them deep inside her even though she begs him not to… and you can see that she would scream only she doesn’t have the strength for that any more. You can hear her voice, even though it’s weak, and she’s saying… over, and over… that she can’t cum again. ‘Don’t make me,’ she says. And she keeps saying it even as he drives his fingers deeper inside her… and faster…. ‘Don’t make me cum,’ she’s begging him by this point. Then she’s cumming, and she can’t help herself, and when he pulls his fingers out of her there’s this big… plume… that’s the word… plume of cum… gushes out of her… and not just one… but it keeps spurting out of her… and you can see that the floor is already so wet and… can you imagine how that would smell… how it would taste? Can you…?”

Mrs D paused, and sighed, and pressed her lips firmly to the tip of my cock, and wound her tongue around the rim of it. When she had taken all the comfort that she needed, she continued with her story.

“I was so busy watching the clip… for myself I mean… that I didn’t notice at first that she… had stopped… watching I mean. Maybe I felt her eyes on me, so I turned, and… there she was so, and she was so… pale… grey almost. And she wasn’t giggling or… making any noise…. She just kept… staring at me. The only sound in the room was the… the sub in the video… I didn’t have the volume up… but you could hear her almost screaming… ‘Not again…! Please! Don’t make me cum again…!’ And that’s my favourite part of the whole video. Her begging and him putting his fingers into her… again!”

She said that the woman from two doors down rose to her feet then. All the heat was gone out of her then, said Mrs D. She said that she had never seen anything so cold as the look in that woman’s eyes as she picked up the shoes she had kicked off earlier.

“I thought… some small part of me thought… that she might just have taken ill. But when she turned to look at me I knew it wasn’t that.”

“Have you done… that…?” the icy widow had demanded.

Mrs D told me that she wasn’t sure exactly how she answered that.

“I was just saying… stuff. Telling her that it wasn’t what it looked like. That the woman in the film wanted to be there… that it only looked ugly if you couldn’t see the beauty in it…. That it was just sex, and that it was more than just sex… it was… it was…! I wanted her to understand but she was already… gone!”

Mrs D sat quietly on her chair by in front of the wood burner. Her hair was still damp and she smelled of soap.

“I don’t have all that many friends,” said Mrs D.

“Did you steal anything from my bathroom,” I asked.

“No,” said Mrs D, though it was obviously a lie.

I pinched and tugged at Mrs D’s hardened nipples a moment or two longer. Then I told her that it was getting late and that she should probably start to make her way home. I knew that Mrs D didn’t like to drive in the darkness. She arranged herself, kissed the tip of my cock one last time, and put on her coat.

At the door she told me that the woman from two doors down had phoned her that morning.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about really,” she said.

“You see… she phoned me to ask if you might be willing to meet her.”

The late evening air was chill, and there was hint of frost on the gatepost.

“Do drive carefully I said.”

Though I said no more than that, I was confident that Mrs D was already certain of my answer.

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