Readers please note... This story contains elements of voyeurism and exhibitionism and the main characters are a middle-aged woman who keeps her body in a mostly natural state and a much younger guy whose tastes run toward exactly that type of woman.
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The date was July 14, 1971 and it was just around noon when I walked down Exchange Street after stopping at the little grocery store for a soda. This was the part of the trip I dreaded, I recall thinking as I picked up my pace while nearing my ex-girlfriend's house, hoping that she wouldn't be outside.
It had ended badly, and even though it wasn't really love, when you're 18 everything seems worse than it really is, so even though I was the one that broke it off it still stung when I would see her, even more if she was messing around with a guy.
I knew she had school and probably wouldn't be home, but since she wasn't exactly a scholar and was already a year behind as it was, there was always the chance she was there, so when I saw the screen door open I cringed.
"Hi there Jimmy," came the voice from the doorway. "Long time no see."
"Hi, Mrs. Brown," I replied, relieved that it wasn't her daughter, and while I hadn't had much contact with her in the couple of months Becky and I had dates, she seemed alright.
"Why don't you come in for a minute?" she suggested. "It's hot as the dickens out there, and I'd like you to do me a favor, if you're not in a hurry."
"Becky won't be home until after 3, if that's what you're worried about," she chided.
I went into the kitchen, where it turned out she needed a light bulb changed in the kitchen, so being a nice guy I climbed up on the chair and fumbled around with the glass bowl the bulb was behind.
"Nice to have a man around the house," Mrs. Brown said as she put her hand on my thigh to steady me.
She might have meant well, but when her hand slipped down off my shorts and onto my thigh, that was no help at all, and got my hands shaking at the contact.
Mrs. Brown looked a lot like her daughter, I thought as I glanced down at the woman, only in a much larger size. Her hair was just as black as her daughter's, although Mrs. Brown's showed a little grey at the roots at the part in her wavy hair.
Big breasts, I couldn't help noting even though she was wearing a pink and white short sleeved shirt that was very loose. Becky sure didn't have those, with hers being banana boobs that were skinny and hung low, probably because she rarely wore a bra.
Her mother sure couldn't go without support, I figured, and I was having trouble enough with the light fixture as it was without mentally undressing a woman who was probably close to 50.
That's not the only thing that's close to 50, I thought as I tried not to look at Mrs. Brown's chest and stop attempting to guess what size bra she wore. One time when I had been in the backyard with Becky I had seen a bra on the clothesline that obviously wasn't my girlfriend's, and the cups were probably big enough to but my head in but the tag was too worn to read.
After I got home I would be running to my room to jerk off, something that was becoming a habit in the summer of 1971 without a girlfriend. That much was a given.
"Not much hair on your legs there, Jimmy," Mrs. Brown noticed as she ran her hand along the little down on the inside of my calf. "You shave them?"
"No ma'am," I mumbled, and as my face burned I was sure that I had turned as red as a beet with embarrassment.
"There," I declared after turning what might have been a 60 second job into an almost 10 minute project, and as I climbed down off the chair sweat was running down my face.
"You're all sweaty," she told me, like I didn't already know, and after handing me a paper towel to wipe my face told me I needed a drink.
"What's the matter?" she said as she handed me a beer. "I know you kids drink it, and it's noon, so go ahead. More where that came from too."
I popped open the can of Piels, a nasty and cheap brew that I was quite familiar with, and as I took a deep swallow I nearly choked on it.
"It's getting hot in here," Mrs. Brown had declared. "Either that or watching you sweat did it."
Mrs. Brown didn't look all that warm because the house was air-conditioned, but she had unbuttoned her blouse and peeled it off, and while she wasn't naked, she might as well have been because all she was wearing was a wife beater white t-shirt with nothing underneath.
Nothing underneath - that wasn't exactly right. What was underneath had to be the biggest pair of tits in the world, and those massive torpedoes hung down to her waist, with the nipples looking like bullets as they poked out the cotton.
She was no raving beauty mind you, but she was attractive in her own way, looking a little like Connie Francis only with a gigantic bust. Her arms were only a little plump but were solid, and that was where my attention was diverted after my staring was met with an amused grin from Mrs. Brown.
"Something wrong, Jimmy?" Mrs. Brown asked as she lifted her arms and ran her hands through her wavy hair, and the gesture was intentional.
I had tried and failed not to stare at Mrs. Brown's incredible tits, and now faced with what Mrs. Brown was showing me, it would have taken a roll of paper towels to dry me off.
Mrs. Brown had hairy armpits, and I knew that Mrs. Brown was smiling at my reaction to her little show, but there was no way I could not look at those thick tufts of hair that filled the cavernous hollows of her underarms. There were a lot of hippie girls around who didn't shave their armpits, but I had never seen any as hairy as Mrs. Brown's were.
"Becky wasn't kidding," Mrs. Brown said as she lowered her arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter, and even with her arms at her sides there were hairs peeking out of the fold.
"Huh?" I said, acting like I was in a stupor.
"Becky, remember her? My daughter? Your old flame?" Mrs. Brown said with a laugh. "She said you have an armpit fetish."
"I dunno about that," I said sheepishly, and knowing Becky I didn't think she knew the word fetish, but I was too embarrassed to say anything else.
"She said you kept asking her not to shave."
That was true, and as I nodded I recalled how I kept pressing her to let her underarm hair grow, but she was not going to do it for me.
"You have any idea how hairy I would be?" Becky had said.