Cricket Call

It was dark, probably about midnight, when I went into Sally's room. I stood looking over her room with a tremendous hard on pointing into the darkness like a searching finger. I looked down on her bed. As always, it was carefully made up, a modest but neat cotton blanket to keep the chill off during the cool summer nights. On the night stand was a picture of her 30 year-old son, barely visible in the darkness, a lamp and her Bible.

Sally, of course, was not here. I would never have dared step into her room if she were. After all, I was just 20 years old and I was renting a spare room in her house, just across the hall from her own bedroom. She was really more than my landlady. After all, she was only charging me $10 a month, mostly as a favor to my girlfriend who worked for her at one of Sally's dress shops. So Sally was really a friend.

When my girlfriend Abby introduced us for the first time I had called her Mrs. Josephs. I knew she had been divorced for many years, had one son, and lived alone in the big house on the edge of town. She went to church every Sunday, of course, but also attended church meetings during the week.

"Please call me Sally," she said as she hugged me. As I tried to thank her for giving me a room for the low rate while I finished my last semester in junior college, she dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

"I'm just glad to have a man in the house," she said. "Living way out there by myself..." then she went on to talk about her son who lived about 45 minutes away and how he never visited her enough.

Sally was a big woman in every way. About 58 years old, she always wore a big smile and had a broad chest and thick legs. She was almost 5 feet 9 inches tall and always kept her hair in an impeccable condition. I never saw her, day or night, when her gray hair wasn't teased, combed and styled nicely in place. She always looked nice but was certainly no beauty.

In the meantime, I was enjoying a relationship with my steady girlfriend, Abby. She was a bright, pretty thing but made it clear any sex would have to wait for marriage. I was not yet ready for marriage and thought it ironic that, in the midst of the sexual revolution of the 70s, I was not seeing any battle. Occasionally, I would gently stroke Abby's breasts and she would moan but then break off our petting and smile while explaining that "good girls don't do that."

My only experience with sex was with an enthusiastic member of a current events club at college. We certainly didn't linger over the act but what we lacked in technique we more than made up for in frequency. Eventually, we both found others. She found an older man. I found Abby.

And now I was standing in Sally's room in the middle of the night in a big house in the middle of nowhere with absolutely nobody here. Still, I was excited beyond all measure. And it was for the same old reason.

Abby and I would go out to a movie or an ice cream stand (that's all I could afford!) And then we would make out in the car in the driveway to her home. After about 30 minutes, her mother would start turning the porch light off and on which was her subtle way of saying it's time to go home.

I was anything but ready to go home. I had heard the term "blue balls" but never understood it until I started dating Abby. I felt so sexually frustrated that I thought my balls would explode by the time I got home. Usually I got home about midnight and Sally would be in her room, asleep. I could hear her gently snoring as I went into my room. Over time, I started thinking about Sally in a completely different way.

Of course it was crazy! I knew that. Here was this old, church-going grandmother who was doing me this big favor by charging me next to nothing to live here and I was starting to have, as Abby would put it, impure thoughts. As I walked back to my room after a date with Abby and my blue balls were throbbing, I wondered about Mrs. Josephs and if she ever thought about sex, specifically, sex with me. On more than one occasion, I hoped she would call out to me as I walked to my room. She never did, of course, but I would fantasize about her before falling asleep.

Once when I followed her upstairs I watched her two great ass cheeks as she took each step. I had seen her bra once in the bathroom and was amazed -- no, I was in awe -- of the size of the cups and I could only imagine what it would be like to suck such great big tits as hers.

Then there was her hair. Something about it really got to me. I wanted to snake my fingers through it and force her big round face to my cock. It was this last fantasy that usually did it for me. I would lay on my stomach in my dark bedroom and imagine my hot cum squirting down the throat of chunky old Sally. Instead, I would have to settle for squirting inside my underwear and listening to the quiet mewing of Mrs. Josephs in the next bedroom.

So it is probably a lot clearer now why, with Sally out of town, I strolled into her bedroom and looked down at her empty bed. I could smell the scent of her here. It was not a floral or perfumy scent , just a clean one. I sat down on the edge of her bed, then gently pulled back the covers which were tidily tucked under the pillows. Then I slipped under the covers.

This was far more exciting than I had expected and I almost came on the spot. I could smell the scent of her here and it was very exciting. This was the very place I wanted to be on so many nights and here I was. Sure, Sally wasn't here, but I could smell and feel her somehow. I reached under the pillow and found her nightgown hiding there. It looked like a low-necked cotton nightgown and was surprisingly short. I stretched my body on the full sized bed and let my hard, naked cock rub against the sheets, the same sheets that Sally rubbed her body against every night. I imagined her huge tits flopping out of the low nightgown and I rubbed by cock along the sheets, reveling in the fantasy. When I got out of the bed, I carefully retucked the sheets (I even turned on the light to make sure I did it right) and returned to my room. I felt guilty but aroused by the whole experience.

I thought nothing more about the incident or my feelings for Sally even after she returned home a few days later. But that afternoon when I got home after school, I saw something in my room that first puzzled me then flustered and shamed me. It was a pair of my underwear, neatly folded and placed at the foot of my bed. I knew I hadn't put them there and tried to think how they got there. Then I realized these were the same pair of shorts I had worn into Sally's room a few days back. Once I had gotten into her bed, I slipped them off and, apparently, I had forgotten about them. And here they were! Sally must have found them when she got into her bed.

I didn't know what to do. If the same thing had happened to me ten years later, I would have been much more composed. But here I was, a 20 year-old, caught with my hand in the cookie chair. I was mortified!

Of course, I couldn't look at her. For the next three days I made it a point to remain in my room until Sally had left the house or gone to bed. I was so embarrassed that I even missed some important classes rather than face her. Naturally, this couldn't last forever and when I finally took a deep breath and forced myself to pass her in the kitchen on my way out the door, I tried to be calm but it didn't work.

" 'morning, Sally," I tried to say nonchalantly as I walked out the door but my voice caught and it came out a mumble.

"Huh?" said Sally, turning to me. "Oh, hi, Atkins. Going to school?"

"Yep, see you later," I said and practically flew out the door. Sally did not seem comfortable either I felt like Barney Fife on the old Andy Griffith show, but at least I had broken the ice. Things went a little easier after that and neither of us said anything about the underwear incident.

Sally liked to take long bubble baths and she would usually take a book or magazine in there with her while she bathed. She kept her books and magazines in a little pull out drawer next to the tub and from time to time I would check out what she was reading. Usually, she read trade magazines and Good Housekeeping. This time, though, I saw a paperback book on the top of the magazines in the drawer. When I pulled it out and looked at it, my heart started pounding.

It was one of those books masquerading as something it wasn't. In this case, it was supposed to be a serious work about the causes of incest but what it contained were numerous graphic accounts of mothers with young sons, aunts with nephews and many, many accounts of young men having sex with much older women. One of the stories I still remember very well.

In this story a 16 year-old boy was sleeping in a double bed with his much older grandmother. It was an innocent (although looking back today it certainly seems damned suspicious) arrangement but in the middle of the night, according to the story, the boy's hand fell on his grandmother's breasts and she found herself aroused. Convinced the boy was asleep, she reached for his erect cock and stroked it until he came in her hand, then she fingered herself to orgasm and went to sleep. According to this story, grandma and grandson did this for some time, both pretending the other didn't know what was going on.

But it wasn't this crazy story that got my blood rushing. Sally had both book marked and turned down the corner of the page. Just this page. There was no way anyone picking up this book could have missed this selection. And the only person who could have picked it up ... was me.

What was I to make of this situation? Sally had no young men in her life at all. Except me. And she had never read or, at least, let me see her reading a book like this. No. This was new. And I thought I knew what it meant.

Sally probably understood at once how my underwear ended up in her bed. She would know better than to think I would be screwing Abby in her bed. For one thing, she understood all too well Abby's reluctance. And from a more practical standpoint, my bed was bigger than Sally's anyway. No, she understood exactly what I was doing there.

Perhaps, after all, Sally had feelings for me that were more than, well, maternal. And maybe she had decided I felt the same way about her. If that's the case, she was right.

When I found the book I no longer felt like I was living a fantasy with Sally Josephs. Now I felt more like a voyeur, visiting an intimate place in this old woman's world and wondering if I was being invited in.

That Friday night Abby and I went to a romantic movie with a particularly exciting love scene. If I had any thought that Abby would be aroused by the film, I was sadly mistaken. If anything, she seemed more distant than usual and got angry when I stroked her breast. To put it simply, it was a short evening.

When I got home, Sally was downstairs in her parlor. The rest of the house was dark and I could hear the sound of crickets in the woods surrounding this isolated house even when I got inside.

"You're home early," she said. Sally was wearing her nightgown but wore a modest robe over it. She was reading a paperback book and had a half-empty glass of wine on the table beside her.

"Yeah," I said. "We got into a little fight."

"Abby's such a sweet girl. I'm so happy for you two. You'll get over it" It was becoming clear that Sally had drunk more than just half a glass of wine. She was slurring her words and when she tried to get up, she seemed a little unsteady. When she put the book down, I could see it was our incest book. I looked up at her and gestured toward the paperback on the table.

"Interesting book," I said.

Sally half mumbled something, then picked up the book and turned the cover down as though she didn't want me to see it. For a moment, I had to catch my breath as I looked at Sally. Her two gorgeous tits had practically plopped out of the nightgown and with the robe half open, they were in full view. When she turned around to move the book I could easily see through the sheer robe to a wide pair of panties reigning in those two massive ass cheeks.

She turned around holding the half-filled glass of wine. "I know what you need," she said. "Just a minute."

I wasn't sure what was going to happen next but Sally left the room, went into the kitchen and she started talking to me from there. "Whenever I feel a little low or have problems," she was saying, "I always make up one of these." I heard her giggle. "Especially with problems of love."

As she came back into the room, I noticed she had rearranged those wonderful breasts back into her nightgown. I was surprised how white and soft her chest looked. "Here," she said,handing me a glass of milk and a plate with a sandwich on it. "Nothing like peanut butter and jelly to wash away the blues." Except she said "blue-sh" and I saw her wine glass was once again full.

If she had walked back into the room naked I couldn't have been more surprised. Sally and I always dined separately (I often ate at Abby's house with her family) and she had never so much as handed me a glass of water before. The truth is, we pretty much led our own lives around the house and seldom interacted or even spoke. This was about as personal as she had ever been.

"I like blueberry jam but raspberry is good too," she said, giggling again. I took a big bite of the sandwich and I noticed she was eying me carefully.

"Home grown preserves are best but I like some of the store brands too." Sally stood up a little unsteadily and walked over to me. I guess my eyes must have bugged out some as she took her little finger and wiped it on the corner of my mouth. There was a little dab of peanut butter there. Sally stuck her pinky in her mouth and sucked off the peanut butter. Then she continued talking, all the while leaving the finger in her mouth as though she had just forgotten all about it.

"Now men like crunchy peanut butter, I read it in the paper today. Women, they like smooth." She looked at me again, a little blurry glint in her eye. Then she took the finger out of her mouth and ran it along my upper lip, then around my bottom lip. It was wet and warm. I felt a little silly (and perplexed) but swallowed the bite of sandwich in my mouth.

"Yes, Atkins, I just love peanut butter." And she took another long sip of wine and began licking my mouth, my face, my eyes all the while holding my head still. "My poor baby, "she was mumbling all the while. "My poor, poor baby. I know what it's like. I do. Baby. Poor baby.

Then old Mrs. Josephs pressed her moist lips against mine and first flicked then jammed her tongue into my mouth. I was so shocked that my eyes remained open but Sally's were closed tight in passion as she held my head fast and tongue-fucked my mouth, licking my teeth, sucking on my tongue. I was awash in tastes of raspberry jam, peanut butter (crunchy, not smooth) and wine. She held me tight with one sturdy arm and, at last, let me go, looked at me smiling, then kissed me hard again.

Now my amazement was being replaced by something else. My cock was beginning to rise to the occasion. "I know, I know," she was saying and then she pressed my face against her chest where I nuzzled between those pendulous, elderly tits while listening to her soft words of consolation and the crickets chirping in the wide expanse of darkness outside.

I tried to do something with my right arm and wrapped it around her back, feeling her bulk and the warmth of her skin through the light robe and nightgown. I ran my free hand down the robe to the base of her ass and let it linger there. She held me tight to her breasts and finally let go and held my face again in her hands. Just when I thought she was going to kiss me again, Sally stood up. She looked at me warmly and I started first lightly touching, then squeezing her tits through the robe.

"I know, I know," she was saying again and I figured the only thing she could know is how damned horny I was. She took my hand from her breast and held it in her own warm, spotted hand and smiled at me again. "Come," she said, pulling me toward the stairs to the bedrooms.

My heart was pounding as I followed her up the stairs, her plump ass leading the way. She pushed open the door to her bedroom. It was dark but I could see the reflection of a full moon through the window and the Bible and picture on her night stand.

She turned to look at me and again kissed me, then sucked on my chin, my neck, even my hair. "You taste delicious," she said with just a touch of slurring. Now it was my turn to take control.

I removed Sally's light nightrobe and I thought she seemed a little amused. She opened my shirt and started kissing my chest. I wondered if she could hear my heart pounding. Next, I slipped the strap off her left shoulder and one great, elderly tit plopped out in front of me. I could see it clearly in the moon light. The aureole surrounding the thick nipple was half as wide as my hand. I bent down to take it all in my mouth but Sally stepped back.

For once, she seemed perfectly sober. She made no move to clothe herself but looked at me a little sadly. "I am sorry," she said. "I am so old and fat. I know you're not interested in an ugly old woman like me." And she moved to cover herself. I stopped her and looked her in the eye.

"I think you are beautiful," I said and moved her hand gently from the strap. I bent down and stroked the great old tit, then put my mouth on it and sucked and sucked while my cock groaned against my zipper.

"Oh, you sweet boy," she was saying. "You sweet, sweet boy . . ."

It took both my hands to hold the massive tit for my sucking. I flicked at it with my tongue, chewed on it and sucked harder and harder. It was the sucking that drew the most response from old Sally. She pressed my head to her tit and murmured something unintelligible. I took a break to catch my breath.

"You have the greatest tits," I said sincerely. "I could stay there forever." Then I gently removed the other strap from her nightgown and it dropped to the floor, exposing not only her other tit but the entire length of her body. This time I sucked on the right one while squeezing the other with my free hand. She wore a wide pair of old woman's panties and I let my hand brush against the crotch. Again, she seemed a little nervous about my probing.

"It's okay, Sally," I said looking the old woman in the eye. "There's no one around. It's just you and me and I think you are gorgeous," and while the crickets trilled in the darkness, I pressed my hardness against her and put my arms around her, feeling her soft back and hooking my fingers through her panties. Then I dropped to the floor, and in the process, pulled off her pants so she was standing there naked in the moonlight before me. She was clearly aroused, but unsure what to do.

I looked at her body, the round, full belly, the thick thighs culminating in a heavy mat of grey-brown hair over her cunt and pushed her back against her bed. She sat down and I spread her legs and forced my head into her crotch. This certainly surprised her and she seemed to resist but when I kissed the inside of her thighs, she relented and I dove into her pussy with a reckless abandon that may have lacked in form but more than made up in enthusiasm.

Sally smelled like baby powder and I could feel the wetness there as I probed with a finger, than darted my tongue in and out of her elderly vagina. She was trying to say something like "it's been so long..." and later, "I never . .." but before long it was just a loud and almost continuous moan of pleasure that drowned out even the sound of the crickets.

I tried to take a breath but old Mrs. Josephs would not let me. She pushed my head between her legs saying, at first quietly, then louder, "suck it, suck it, lick it, yes, there, there, Atkins,Atkins" and she pumped at my head so pretty soon all I had to do was leave my tongue in her pussy and she fucked herself on it.