Eight-thirty in the morning and Mary Proudfoot was clearing the breakfast dishes, as her husband set off for the golf course. Much as it annoyed her, Walter's heading off to the Golf Club every Sunday morning felt of late to be one of the few remaining pillars of stability in Mary's life.
They'd been married for almost forty years and holidays aside, Mary could count on her fingers the Sunday's on which Walter hadn't gone there; rain or shine, Walter spent each Sunday with his golfing friends. Eighteen holes, a light lunch then an afternoon in the clubhouse watching whatever sporting event was on TV. If the course was deemed unplayable, Walter simply spent all day in the bar!
He'd telephone Mary late in the afternoon to advise what time the Sunday roast was to be on the table; usually giving less than an hour's notice, what use was that! Before driving home -- damn the drink-driving rules! - to eat it and then fall asleep in his chair.
At least Sunday's had become easier to deal with since the children had grown up and left home. Though their departures had perhaps been the first dominoes to fall in the up-skittlement of Mary's well ordered life; Walter's retirement two years ago had done the rest. Mary herself hadn't worked since their eldest son was born; wasn't 'Home-maker' the term in modern parlance?
The Proudfoots had lived in Kingston Gardens for thirty years, a huge rambling house with an even bigger garden, immediately across the road from the park, five minutes walk from the tennis club with its swimming pool and well within the catchment area for the town's best schools. A superb location for raising their three children.
In addition, Kingston Gardens was an easy ten minute walk to the railway station; perfect for commuters like Walter, heading into London. The fact that it was also a short downhill stumble from the Golf Club. was something of a bonus; Walter didn't drink to excess quite so often back then but when he did, the car got left at the club and he walked home.
The house was worth a small fortune and with Walter retired and the children grown and gone, all of those advantages were 'going to waste'. Far better to cash-in and move somewhere smaller and more manageable, releasing capital to help the kids buy homes of their own. Mary's pleas that she didn't want a low-maintenance garden fell on deaf ears.
Hardly surprising; only two months later did Mary discover that the sale of Kingston Gardens had been agreed and a deposit paid on their new house, before the subject of their moving was ever mentioned to her. Mary was especially disappointed in the children -- they'd known too! - as with Walter, such behaviour was simply par for the course.
Don't misunderstand me, Walter hadn't moved them into some hovel and for just the two of them it is undoubtedly more... practical; of course it's still only a five minute drive or fifteen minute walk from the golf club! Though in the opposite direction, they were now out in the suburbs, disconnected from all the friends Mary had made over the years and far from her beloved garden.
The new neighbours were pleasant enough, but they had little in common with the Proudfoots; for the most part they were far younger, working and raising young children rather than retired and waiting expectantly for their grandchildren to arrive. The wives too all seemed to be holding down jobs, so it was proving rather lonely; not for Walter of course, he just spent more time with his cronies at the golf club!
Their immediate neighbours were the one ray of sunshine in Mary's existence and something which Walter clearly hadn't considered when he bought the house. To the left were Marcus, a spectacularly gay chap of about Walter's own age and Harry, his equally camp lover, who can't be much more than twenty; while to the right, lived Devin.
Devin was quite clearly heterosexual and Mary guessed his age somewhere between mid twenties and his early thirties. Mary always found it difficult to gauge the ages of Afro-Caribbean people, but from conversations that she'd had with Devin, he was clearly a deal younger than her own kids. Poofs and Blacks... it's a toss-up as to which Walter hates the more.
Walter might well be a bigot, but good breeding and an expensive education precluded him from showing it overtly. Walter often came home to find one or more of the men sat in their lounge or garden, or his wife sat in theirs and good manners obliged him to join them. Mary enjoyed watching his discomfort; perhaps Walter's just desserts for having sold Mary's beautiful house and garden?
Don't misunderstand me, Mary didn't purport to be some paragon of Politically Correct Liberalism. But she is a live and let live sort of person and knowing how much Walter despised their neighbours, encouraged Mary to make friends with them especially; to be honest that proved easy as all three men were relaxing company and generally home throughout the day too.
Marcus was an author, or more specifically, a Ghost-writer; many of those autobiographies you might've read started life on Marcus' word processor. While young Harry appeared to spend his days either playing computer games, doing the housework or pandering to Marcus' needs.
Devin meanwhile Managed -- though didn't own - a local nightclub and Mary often saw him heading out at around eight in the evening or returning home again soon after she got up at about six-thirty in the morning. While Devin invariably left in his car, he regularly arrived home by taxi and quite often with a young lady, though rarely the same one twice, sat beside him.
When a taxi stopped outside Mary's door that Sunday morning she was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes and didn't see it arrive. It was almost nine o'clock so far later than she might usually spot one pulling-up outside Devin's house anyway. Mary was still facing the crockery cupboard when her front door swung open.
Turning in response to the sound of the door, Mary had anticipated finding Walter; no doubt having forgotten his mashie-niblick or some such? Instead she saw her neighbour Devin striding boldly into the kitchen. Mary yelped out in her surprise, that surprise being equally evident in her expression.
Devin's face also registered surprise, though that surprise didn't reach his eyes; those were somewhat... glazed and his pupils were as wide as saucers. Mary may have led a rather sheltered life, but she was savvy enough to recognise that the young man was either drunk, or high on drugs... perhaps a little of both?
As Devin peered slowly around the room, that look of surprise on his face morphed first into an inane grin and then a rather wicked smile. "So Mrs. P, what brings you around here this early in the morning? From the way you're dressed, you look ready for some action... Is Walter not taking care of you properly? Why does that not surprise me."
Mary was flabbergasted! Devin clearly thought he was in his own house and that it was Mary who was the interloper. As for Mary's mode of dress, well Devin would've had a fair point if she had been the one visiting; Mary had intended returning to her bed once Walter had left, so was wearing just her slippers, nightdress and a bathrobe, the latter none too securely fastened.
Mary was still trying to frame a reply when Devin caught her by the hips, swung her lightly into the air and sat her down on the table's edge. When it arrived, Mary's response proved unintelligible: "Dev-Wha-No-Sto-Oh my Go-Eeeek"
Mary might've coped with her unexpected transition onto the table, but Devin's hands then tugged at the belt of Mary's bathrobe undoing her in more ways than one; his muttered words completed the job: "I've always thought you were wasted on Walter; a twenty-two carat MILF sat at home gagging for some cock and the daft twat spends his days at the golf-club... Fucking dickhead."
While Mary had never before heard such language in her own house, she understood Devin's sentiments. Mary even knew what a MILF was: She'd Googled it after hearing more than one her sons' friends use the acronym about her... But that had been almost twenty years ago; hearing Devin use the term today stirred up an even more shameful tremor than it had done back then.
Mary was hoping to shortly hear news of a grandchild; would that then make her a G-MILF or perhaps a GILF? Mary's a tall, slim, brunette -- a high jumper during her teenaged years -- and even at fifty-six, everything remained close to where the Good Lord had placed it; OK, the grey hairs might encroach more with each passing year, but Mary had a God-like hairdresser to take care of those.
Those naughty thoughts had momentarily distracted Mary from more urgent matters. Mary realised with a start, that those wicked tremors in her stomach had intensified rather than eased and that the most likely reason for that might well be Devin's roving hands; her robe was now wide open and Devin's palms lay against her belly and were sliding northward!
Those hands had reached Mary's breasts before she could move and for a second time in under a minute, Mary's appeal -- no demand! - that Devin cease and desist, came out as a jumble of gobbledygook. Having arrived there, Devin mauled -- it went way beyond a fondle or a caress! - at Mary 's breasts and sent yet another wanton shudder through her body.
No man and especially not Walter, had ever dared to... grope Mary in such a cavalier manner; a liberty which Devin only emphasised with his words: "You've got a cracking pair of tits Mrs. P, I'd never have guessed they were that big... And still bloody firm too." Mary knew she should be appalled by Devin's coarse assault, but those tremors continued; more embarrassingly, Mary felt her nipples swell and harden beneath Devin's hands.
Devin began manipulating Mary's swollen nipples in a similar manner, catching each with a finger and thumb Devin rolled and twisted them between with a careless roughness. That impertinence lasted only a few seconds before Devin released Mary's left breast and a second later Mary felt his hand at her knee, scrabbling at the hem of her nightdress.
That really was going beyond the pale, but once again Mary was unable to express her dissent; Mary's vocal chords were still engaged with the protracted squeal which Devin's assault upon her nipples had triggered. Did Devin realise that Mary's howl contained as much pleasure as it did complaint? The grin now evident on Devin's face suggested that he had.
