Creaming With Helen

This story is true mostly. The names have been changed, of course, and the narrative has been condensed for dramatic purposes. Thanks, Peter.

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I'm a drifter.

That doesn't mean I roam from town to town like that guy in the old song by Dion. It means, I guess, I'm a free spirit.

I 've had some college. Dropped out.

Worked for a while at a good job editing books in the city. Quit.

Had a really wonderful car. It was sunshine yellow. Made a real statement. Sold it.

And women, sure. I've had them too with about the same history of longevity.

I'm not a bad person, although I've done a few things I'm not proud of. Who hasn't? I'm more like the guy that your mom (if you're a woman) told you to stay away from. She'd be right. There's nothing about me worth investing in, and that's a fact.

These days I'm renting an upstairs room in a nice house in an "Ozzie and Harriet" kind of neighborhood that is so completely NOT me. But I like it. The people downstairs moved out a few months back so I really have the whole house to myself. A gardener mows the lawn and picks up the leaves. If something breaks, I have a number to call and they come out to fix it. I pretty much keep to myself while working -- for the time being -- at a junior college library in the reference section.

Which is why I was surprised when my next door neighbor, Scarlett, knocked on my door one afternoon after I got home. I had just popped a brew, put on some sandals and sat down to watch a rerun of NCIS on the downstairs television (It's a widescreen; I've just got a small portable in my little upstairs room).

I never had much to say to Scarlett except to wave. She must be in her mid-50s and I helped her pick up some tree debris after a nasty blow we had earlier this year.

Scarlett is pleasant enough. She's kind of heavy and not very attractive but smart. I thought she was flirting with me once or twice but was never really sure. I usually like to flirt but I didn't want to encourage her.

Anyway, here she was, not looking flirty at all. She actually looked a little harried and worried.

"Peter," she said, "I need a favor."

We drifter types don't like those words. We're not much into favors, being self-centered and all. I was leery, but forced myself to croak "I'll try."

"It's my mom," Scarlett said. "I have to leave town soon, today as a matter of fact. A dear friend is sick and she has absolutely no one to help her ." She paused.

"Okay..." I offered. "Your mom?"

"I guess you haven't lived here long enough but I live with my mom. She does pretty well for herself but I worry about her when I'm gone. She's got plenty of food but I want to make sure there's someone I can trust who can . . . help her if she falls or something."

If I was the best she could do, then I knew she was in trouble. Someone I can trust? I looked over my shoulder. Nope. She must be talking to me.

"Well," I stumbled. "Does she have any, you know, health issues? How old is she?"

Scarlett smiled. "No, she's healthy as a horse, although she uses a walker around the house and whenever we go out. She just celebrated her 84th birthday last month."

And I never even got an invitation, I thought. "What's her name? What does she want me to call her?"

"Just call her Helen," Scarlett said. "I set up one of those 'I've fallen and I can't get up' services' so if she has an emergency, she calls a central office. They'll call you."

"What if I'm at work?" I asked.

"Then they'll send a rescue truck out but that can be expensive," Scarlett said. "I see you're around most nights and hope you can be available if there's some kind of problem."

I shrugged. "Okay."

Scarlett brightened. "I've got to get going but I'll pay you whatever you think is fair . . ."

"Not necessary," I said, feeling magnanimous.

"Great," said Scarlett walking away. "I'll be back in two weeks. If you don't mind, check on her a couple of times even if you hear nothing. You're a doll."

Then chubby old Scarlett was gone. There may have been a time in her life when she could call a man "a doll" and he would get all quivery. Those days were long gone and the idea of being her "doll" did not do it for me.

I decided I better at least meet this woman while I was thinking about it. I knocked on her door.

"Who is it?" said an elderly voice.

"Hi, Helen," I said. "It's your neighbor, Peter. I just spoke with Scarlett about . . . making sure you had everything you need while she's gone."

The door opened and there was Helen. I remembered now seeing her a couple of times in recent weeks slowly getting into the car while Scarlett held the door open. She had an old face -- not unattractive -- and wore a long floral-colored shift with pretty pink slippers. She smiled upon seeing me. Nice.

"I know you," she said, leaning against her walker. "You're the young man who moved into the Stacker house some time back." Helen eyed me carefully. I was afraid she could read what kind of person I was so I felt a little uncomfortable.

"Well, it's nice to meet you at last," she reached over and shook my hand. She had delicate fingers and the gentlest shake you could imagine, as though I were an injured bird. "Thank you very much."

Then she closed the door. It wasn't an ugly or even abrupt gesture. It was just unexpected, as though she were saying, our business is done now, goodbye!

I shrugged. It really didn't matter much to me, but that was the start to one of the stranger experiences of my life -- and I'm including that thing that happened to me in Des Moines a few years back that involved a flood, sandbags and dildos without batteries.

I probably would have never spoken to Helen again if I hadn't received a telephone call one night a few days later at about 9 or so. It was Helen's "I've fallen and I can't get up" service. In very businesslike tones, they explained that her alert call button had been activated. I said I would go over there right away and check on her.

Being the selfish, self-centered bastard I am, this inconvenience would normally have annoyed me but it was summertime, there was nothing on television and I had no social plans . . . again. I scrambled around looking for Helen's house key and trotted across the lawn to her house.

I knocked at the door. No answer. I looked in the window and could see the television was on but there was no sign of Helen. I put the key in the lock and went in.

The house looked quite tidy and it smelled clean. I was a little worried about "old person" smells and wasn't looking forward to them but the place smelled good.

"Helen!" I called out.

"In here..." came a voice from the other room. I walked through the kitchen toward the sound of the voice, past a half-filled bottle of white wine into the dining room where I found Helen.

She was on the floor in a pair of silk pajama pants and a button-up sleeveless top. She was sitting up on the floor but her legs were spread wide as she tried to maintain her balance. Around her neck was hanging the alert button she apparently used to summon me.

"Oh, thank you, Peter," she said. "I tripped over this silly carpeting." Except she said "shilly" instead of silly. She held up a hand. While she wasn't a really heavy woman, there was some bulk to her and I wasn't going to lift her up by one arm.

I pulled a dining room chair out and got behind her and put my arms under her arms, lifted her briefly to a standing position -- and in the process touched the sides of her weighty breasts -- then settled her into the chair.

Her face was flushed. I don't know what she was doing in the dining room but she had the sense to put her wine glass down before she fell. Now she picked it up and took a healthy sip. She smiled at me, then took the glass again and drained the rest of the wine.

"And now," she proclaimed somewhat shakily. "I'm going to bed."

Helen tried to stand up, but fell back into the chair. She laughed a little but it was clear to me she wasn't going to make it to the bedroom by herself.

"Here," I said, taking the glass from her hand. "Let me help you."

She stood up successfully this time, put her arm through mine and we began the long, slow trek through the dining room, the living room, the long hallway and finally into her bedroom.

The way she held my arm, my elbow was pressed firmly against her breast and I discovered that its bulk and warmth was arousing me. "I gotta get a woman," I said loudly enough that Helen heard me but didn't know what I said.

We waddled along slowly, she clasped almost desperately to my arm. As she shuffled along I could detect through her pajama top that there was real heft to her tits and also noticed that she had a little pouch of a belly and a nice, full ass.

There was something about her dependency on me as I held her that triggered something dark in a lonely, horny SOB like me. Finally we were in her bedroom and she carefully sat down on the edge of the bed facing me, her aged face staring directly at my crotch. Depraved as I am, however, it was not moving into life. I have to admit, I was grateful for that.

"Thank you," said Helen. "You're a sweetheart. Could you do me one more favor? Could you reach to that dresser behind you and hand me the lotion there in the blue bottle?"

I looked around and found some kind of moisturizer cream and handed it to her. "I always moisturize at bedtime," she said, then she looked up at me with a smile almost mischevious and added "it keeps me young."

She then proceeded to squeeze out a dollop and begin rubbing it into her bare arms, from her shoulders all the way down to her fingers in a slow, languorous motion that was both hypnotic and sensual.

I couldn't help myself. I watched this little play in what seemed like slow motion, and she didn't seem to mind. I could see a great wall of soft, white tit flesh through the armhole as she rubbed the goo on her elbows. Her delicate old fingers danced deliciously over her body and before long, I felt like I was part of the play too.

Without really thinking, I picked up the tube of lotion. Helen only looked at me and smiled while still rubbing the stuff in. Her chubby little belly was resting easily on her lap. In a surprisingly quick movement, she then touched my bicep and forearm and nodded appreciatively.

"Nice arms," she said, and returned to rubbing herself .

Now my cock had started to get interested. I could feel it pressing against my jeans and, without thinking, really, I undid one of Helen pajama top buttons and slid the top off her shoulders. Nice shoulders, they were soft and only a little fleshy. I squeezed out some lotion and gently touched her shoulders with the stuff.

Her only reaction was a little jump as the cool lotion touched her skin. Then I began rubbing it in slowly and Helen took the lotion tube from me as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It was deliciously sensual.

To my surprise, Helen then unbuttoned the rest of her pajama top and two of the most magnificent tits I had ever seen plopped onto her belly. Without looking at me, she squeezed out some more lotion and slowly began rubbing the moisturizer under her tits. Big, warm, young-looking hangars draped down to her pajama-clad belly.

I moved my crotch closer to her face and discovered that my breathing was increasing as I massaged the cream into her soft, flabby shoulders . . . and watched her.

Now she was completely naked from the waist up and I was rubbing her shoulders, the back of her arms, the sides of her neck while my cock screamed for release. She was starting to breathe a little faster too as she lifted each great mammary and the nipples hardened from the air conditioner -- or my closeness. I got bolder.

I slathered some more cream into my hands and then gently began feeling up both great tits at once. Helen accommodatingly dropped her hands to her side. I picked up each aged dug and rubbed on top, under and between them. They were warm and heavy, the hard nipples hanging low from each one.

Helen's breath became faster and a tad wheezy.

I took a moment to free one of my hands and press it against her smooth, aged back, forcing her tit further into my hand, her face closer to my crotch. Her wrinkled mouth was moving slightly as though she were mumbling something.

There's no way Helen could miss seeing my throbbing cock now and, apparently, she didn't. Still without saying a word, she unzipped my pants, undid the belt and in what I can only call a smooth, almost athletic motion, she pulled my straining member out, lowered my pants and as calmly and naturally as though she'd been doing this all her life, she took some more lotion and began rubbing it into my balls, my groin, under my balls and finally on my throbbing cock too.

I increased the intensity of my feeling up her tits. It was nothing but a good old-fashioned mauling now. She was breathing harder, faster, still saying nothing, wheezing like a tiny bellows, stroking my cock expertly with her aged, greasy palm. I clawed at her tits, feeling the soft expanse of flesh against my palm, the hard nub of an aroused, elderly nipple.

"That feels wonderful, sweetheart," she said, and that did it for me. My cock started spurting like a machine cum, stitching a line across her wrinkled neck that slowly dripped down to her shoulders while she massaged me harder still, breathing even faster.

I snatched the lotion, quickly spilled some more into my hands, then rubbed my cum and the lotion all over her neck and her tits.

"Oh . . . Oh," she said, inhaling quickly. Then she finally smiled beatifically and raised her head to let me do my work more easily as I massaged the cum and lotion around her tits, her neck, under her arms, even her lips, her nose, touching her offered tongue with my cum/cream stained finger. All the while she pulled at my cock harder, loudly calling out "Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart . . .," reaching one hand to my ass and pulling my crotch to her cheek.

Then, finally, I rewarded her with one more magnificent gob-shot that caught the edge of her chin, then plopped slowly down to fall on her belly where it spread on her pajamas into a growing stain that looked like it would never disappear.