Fleet Wee

A wisp of brown-gray hair fell before her eyes.

And there was a hint of spittle on her lips

I remember thinking how odd it was that this 65 year-old woman, whose manner and appearance was so proper, so in-place, was now riding me like something possessed.

Thinking back, I know she grunted like a sow while she was on top of me and I was fucking her. Yes, I remember the hard grunts as she thrust her hungry, aged cunt at my cock. I remember the folds on her neck and how the loose skin on the backs of her arms slapped back and forth while she grabbed at my ass with her hands.

I remember the surprisingly attractive tits swaying over my face, my lips . . . just out of reach unless I lifted my head and tongued the nipples, like grapes, I thought. Or melons.

I remember pressing my hands into her soft floppy ass while we were fucking and I remember very well how she screamed and came the very instant I inserted a finger into her yawning asshole while I fucked her. I remember all these things very well.

But more than anything else, I recall the quiet. Yes, despite the grunts, the screams, more than anything else as I think back, I recall the quiet ticking of the grand clock on the mantle in the living room of Mrs. Durnstedt's upper east side apartment in New York City.

The quiet. The lovely slushing of our fucking. The softness of her ass, the carpet, the very air. And -- oh, yes -- the sound of 5 crisp $100 dollar bills going into my wallet.

But Mrs. Durnstedt knew nothing of that. She was too proper. Of course she was.

But I get ahead of myself.

Back in the early 90s I was a young naval officer on the battleship, USS Wisconsin. This was my first assignment and was both a privilege and responsibility I did not take lightly.

Each year -- and I think it's true to this very day -- U.S. Navy ships pull into New York around May or so and visit the town. It's called Fleet Week. The town loves the Navy and rolls out the red carpet. It's quite a show.

There was a program called dial-a-sailor where locals could phone this number and a sailor -- an enlisted man usually -- would visit with a family and have dinner with them. It's a great way for the Navy to meet the community and for our young sailors to get a home-cooked meal.

I was coming off duty the second day in port. A Vice Admiral was hosting a reception on board for some local community leaders and I was looking to get off the ship. All my buddies in the wardroom were already gone so I figured I would be on my own.

The Officer of the Deck approached me with a stupid grin on his face. "You won't believe this one," he said. "Some woman called the dial-a-sailor program and insisted that an officer come for dinner. They told her this program didn't work that way but she insisted on officers only and now I'm supposed to be looking for volunteers."

I had nothing in mind. I had been to New York a few years ago and really planned on sitting at some friendly bar and waiting for the locals to buy me drinks. "What did she sound like?" I asked the OOD.

"Actually, I asked them that very question. From the info I got, they said it sounded like a young woman, 20s or 30s. Are you interested now?"

It was about an hour later that a dark-colored stretch limo pulled onto the pier and stopped in front of the brow. Believe me, this attracted a lot of attention from the sailors on the ship.

A uniformed chauffeur got out, walked up the brow and addressed the officer of the deck who had spoken to me earlier. To my surprise, he gestured in my direction and the chauffeur walked up to me. He practically bowed as he addressed me.

"Good afternoon sir. Would you please follow me."

I was wearing my very best service dress white uniform as I followed the chauffeur down the brow. There were whoops and catcalls from the assembled crew and I could only smile and wave back at them. The chauffeur opened the car door for me.

Inside, behind the darkened windows, was a very attractive woman in her late 20s or early 30s. She was smartly (and expensively) dressed and as the door was shut behind me, I sensed the subtle smell of perfume from her.

"Hello," she said holding out a gloved hand. "I'm Barbara Durnstedt."

I introduced myself as the car sped off toward Manhattan.

She removed her gloves now and looked me over briefly. No smile. No reaction whatsoever. It was not exactly a welcoming glance.

"Are you married?" she asked. Now this is a question that you might expect to come up in a social conversation but in this situation it seemed forced.

"No," I said.

"Serious relationship?," she asked.

I smiled a little at her arrogance but answered anyway. "No," I told her.

"Do you go to church regularly?"

I laughed out loud, both at the question and the suggestion. What was going on here? "It's a little hard to attend church on a U.S. Navy battleship," I said.

"Well, do you . . ." but I cut her off.

"Listen," I said. "I'm just a sailor on liberty in New York City who appreciates and is looking forward to the opportunity to get a home-cooked meal and some adult conversation. I'm not applying for a job. I've got a good one."

I was staring right into her face as I spoke but I smiled a little to take the edge off.

"Of course," she said. "I'm sorry. You'll do just fine."

What did that mean? I was soon to find out.

I don't remember the address in Manhattan where we went but it was on the Upper East Side in a very posh apartment complex. The limo stopped at the awning and a doorman opened the car door.

He touched his hat and said, "Good afternoon Mrs. Durnstedt."

She nodded and walked inside without a word to me. I slid across the seat and hustled after her.

We stepped into a small but elaborate elevator with an elevator operator. Barbara Durnstedt seemed a little nervous which I thought odd, but it made me feel better for some reason.

"This is a lot nicer than the place I'm staying now," I said in an attempt to inject a little humor. Apparently, it was a futile attempt as Barbara Durnstedt just looked at me blankly, then straight ahead. The elevator doors opened and we got out.

This was one fancy place! There was a carved mahogany door as we got off the elevator and she walked though it so quickly I wondered what I would do if she closed it and I was left in the hall. She left it open, but just a little. I went inside.

There was a sense of richness to the place but it was so dark I couldn't see much. Barbara went to the other side of the room and opened some curtains that threw a little light into a parlor filled with Queen Ann chairs and a thick green and blue oriental rug.

"Lovely," I said and, as expected, Barbara Durnstedt said nothing as though this was obvious. She was a hard woman to warm up to.

Now here was something interesting. In the shadows -- and there were a lot of them in that place -- somebody was standing absolutely still. I could make out a form and a face but little more. Barbara went up to the person and said something and then led the person into the light.

Barbara looked at this person, then at me and forced a smile. "This is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Durnstedt."

The woman was about 5-2 and in her mid 60s. What surprised me most was that despite the obvious opulence of this place, she looked like her hair had been done at K-Mart, unlike Barbara's. It was neat but plain, as was her whole appearance.

Mrs. Durnstedt wore black-framed glasses and a blue and white polka dot skirt (another K-Mart blue light special) that went down to mid ankle. She was without a doubt the mousiest, plainest Jane woman I had ever seen. Like an old-maid librarian but not as exciting.

When I shook her hand it felt remarkably soft, like a child's hand. Now I have a confession. Some guys are tit men. Other leg men, ass men, even feet man. Me, I'm a hands man. When I see delicate, soft fingers, I'm gone. And this mousy old woman had lovely hands. There were a few brown age spots but the fingers were soft and delicate, just the way I like them, and the nails were short and neat.

There wasn't a whole lot of small talk and I was led right into the dining room where a nice meal awaited us. Then . . . quiet. There I was in my whites trying hard not to splash any shrimp sauce on my uniform while these two looked down at their plates and said barely a word.

"I hope you are comfortable," the older Mrs. Durnstedt said out of the blue.

"I'm fine," I said, not sure what she was referring to, then took a chance. "I love New York. The entire crew does. It's such an exciting town."

"I mean your chair. Is it too low?"

I felt pretty stupid and nodded that it was fine. "How long have you lived here?" I asked. I mean, it seemed a safe question. But one of the servants coughed uncomfortably and moved out of the room and Barbara looked at me like I had just farted.

"The Durnstedts have lived in Manhattan for more than 150 years," she said as though I should have known this. "Mrs. Durnstedt has been in this house for about -- well, for a number of years."

"Our family was among the first in Mrs. Astor's Society of 400 circle," the older woman said, and then she got up from the table and went over to the bookcase at one end of the room. "Here," she said. "Come here and look at this."

I went over to her while she held an old book with photos from turn of the century New York. I could look over her head and down at the photos but it was hard to see in the dark room and apparently the upper classes didn't need light to see. "There my Great Uncle Harry," she said poking at a dim form on the dark page. "He was quite a gay blade back then. He married late in life to a Vanderbilt woman on the rebound."

It was odd to hear Mrs. Durnstedt say "on the rebound" but even more odd was the sweet, gentle scent arising from her hair as I stood near her. I enjoyed watching her finely sculpted finger poke at the page while she prattled on in obvious pride at pictures of relatives in the book.

We went back to our soup.

The meal wound down with barely another word being spoken. At some point Barbara looked at the elder Mrs. Durnstedt who finally nodded just as we were finishing a wonderful dark chocolate confection with a raspberry drizzle over it.

"That was wonderful," I said as the servant took the plates away. Of course there was no reaction from anybody when I said this. I figured it was time to go.

Then Barbara leaned over and asked me into the foyer.

The foyer was dark like everyplace else and I was definitely ready to leave. This place was giving me the creeps. But despite the darkness, I could sense that Barbara was nervous. She spoke in quick, clipped sentences.

"I hope you enjoyed dinner," she said.

I nodded.

"Mrs. Durnstedt would like you to . . . stay for a while."

More pictures, I thought. Wonderful.

Abruptly, Barbara reached into her purse and handed me an envelope. Now what?

I looked at her, then peeked inside and saw three, no five, 100 dollar bills! I looked back at Barbara, stunned.

"Can you stay?" she asked, her voice breaking a little.

"Sure," I said. Hell, I'd look at photos all night for 500 bucks. Barbara turned away toward the door and seemed to be speaking to it.

"Mrs. Durnstedt has been . . . lonely since Mr. Durnstedt passed away a few years ago. She would really appreciate your company. A car will take you back when she's ready for you to leave."

I laughed. "I'll leave when I'M ready," I said. "Just what's going on here?"

"Just be nice to her," Barbara said to the wall. "And you'll get another envelope just like this one later on."

Now this was getting confusing as well as creepy and since my commanding officer always said I was a little slow on the uptake, I put the question to Barbara that had been kicking around in my head. "Do you want me to have sex with your mother-in-law, Barbara? Is that what this is about?"

"Don't be crude," she said a little too coolly, then, "She's lonely . . ."

"What if she doesn't like me?"

"She likes you just fine," Barbara said. Then she opened the door and was gone.

Now I've been to a lot of places. I've been around the world a couple of times, been to a few country fairs, as they say. But I'd never had anything like this happen to me. Never.

I turned from the darkness at the door to the other darkness in the dining room. It was so quiet. Deathly quiet. Nothing. No noise, breathing. Nothing. Then I heard the tireless ticking of the mantle clock and I followed it in the dark like a sailor following the pings from his sonar.

Mrs. Durnstedt was standing at the bookcase again with her back to me, apparently looking at the book. How did these people see in the dark?

I surveyed her in the plain dress. I could see a hint of ankle just above the simple shoes. She was so still. Motionless. Then she turned a page. Ah, signs of life.

From the back, she looked a lot younger although I could see the outline of her thick arms. Low slung ass. That's about all I could tell. But of course there were those fingers. Delicate and soft. As I thought about them wrapped around my cock I felt a little tingle. Seaman Johnson ready for duty, sir.

I walked over toward her. I've got to be honest. I was getting annoyed with this whole jump-through-the-hoop thing. Be here, go there, say this, don't say that, leave when I tell you, etc. etc. I mean, I got enough of that onboard the ship. 500 bucks or not, I wasn't about to take it here.

I remember one other thing very well as I listened to the barely audible turning of the pages by Mrs. Durnstedt and the louder ticking of the mantle clock. I remember a kind of sexual darkness coming over me. Maybe it had to do with this jumping through the hoop thing or maybe it was the situation, the darkness, this fragile woman.

Listen, the whole ugly Tailhook episode hadn't happened yet but the fact is that sailors, warriors of all kinds, have a dark, unpleasant side that military order and discipline tries to keep in check. For the most part it works pretty well. But that ugly dark side was starting to slip out now. All I know is I wasn't trying to stop it.

It had to do with possession. No, I'm not talking about Satanic possession. I'm talking about the need -- the hunger -- to possess this woman, to make her my bitch. I swallowed hard as I realized this and my heart was pounding.

What's more animal than sniffing? Despite her plain appearance, the old biddy had a wonderful scent about her and as I walked up beside her, I blatantly sniffed her hair and placed my left arm around her waist.

I decided it was just a cheap shampoo that gave the scent to her hair. Her finger, which was tracing a form in one of the book's photographs, jumped a bit as I put my arm around her waist. She had a nice little ridge around her waist. It reminded me of a chunky girl I danced with at a birthday party when I was 15. The fullness of that girl had really turned me on and I grabbed a feel of the 15 year-old's tit -- my first ever -- later on at that party.

The point is, that little memory turned me on. I could feel Mrs. Durnstedt's comfortable bulk. There was the light polka dot dress and I could feel a slip and, yes, panties, and a nice warmth from her body. Very nice. Still, she wasn't saying anything. Fine.

I reached down and took the book from her hands. She didn't resist and didn't react. She didn't even turn around, so I put the book on the shelf and gently took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me. At first, she was looking at my chest, then she slowly lifted her face to look at me. What was there? Desire? Confusion? Fear?

Actually, there was nothing at all. She seemed to be looking at me with the same passion as you might watch an alka seltzer commercial on television. Plop plop. Fizz Fizz. I bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

I know it was silly. I don't even know why I did it. The forehead? What was I thinking? Her skin was soft and I pushed down her head to sniff her hair again. Her hair smelled very clean but there was a little resistance as I tried to tilt her head down. I pushed harder until she got the idea and bent her head. So there it was. First shot across the bow. It would be ME calling the shots from here on out.

I pulled her bent head to my chest and put my arms around her back. I could feel her bra strap. Three, no four hooks. Strong enough to hold a nice little package. I could feel her tits against my chest and my cock hardened. I dropped my hands further down her back to the top of her ass. I could barely feel the fleshiness there because it was so droopy but I pulled her to my growing hardness.

Nice fit. It worked out that her crotch cupped neatly over my rising dick and even though she resisted, I held her to my body with my greater strength. Was she really resisting? Maybe she just wanted tea and cookies and to look at old photos. I had visions of the old biddy screaming 'rape' and calling on the help to save her. There I was: picture in the New York Daily News accused of raping an old woman while on liberty. Fines. Prison. End of career.

But I didn't care. Or maybe I read the situation intuitively better than I thought. I whispered in her ear. It seemed to go well with the darkness.

"Feel that, Mrs. Durnstedt?" I said.

Nothing.

So I reached down further, grabbed her two droopy ass cheeks (which felt wonderfully soft and brought me to full attention) and forced her crotch against my cock. "Do you feel it now, Mrs. Durnstedt? It's okay. I know you don't like to talk much so I'll do the talking for both of us," I whispered. "You're going to take those lovely fingers of yours and wrap them around my cock. Then I'm going to shoot my cum all over you right here in your high society dining room."

God but her ass felt good! I rubbed it through the slip, the panties. My heart was pounding. I lifted her chin again and kissed the dry, old lips gently at first, then I flicked my tongue over her teeth (apparently she still had her own) then searched for her tongue. She didn't resist. She didn't help. She let me play with her tongue but didn't really participate. But then something really got me going.

I noticed her eyes were closed and that turned me on. I pressed her to me harder and started feeling her left tit with one hand while feeling her ass with the other. I could feel the nipple hardening and her breath, well, she at least seemed to be breathing now.

As I was probing with my tongue I was searching for her ass crack with my right hand. In the process, I discovered that Mrs. Durnstedt was not wearing a one-piece dress at all but had on a separate skirt and top. I found a button on the back of her waist and undid the skirt which fell to the floor. I backed off and looked at her in the semi-darkness of the room.

I couldn't believe how aroused I was! She made a half-hearted attempt to cover her chest with her arms which was funny because she was standing there in the practically dark room wearing a half slip. It looked peach-colored. Very attractive.

"Turn around," I demanded. She did.

I walked up behind Mrs. Durnstedt and even in the bad light could see the folds on the back of her old neck. Her back looked smooth. I began unbuttoning her blouse, slowly. Almost instinctively, her arms came up again. I pulled them away and placed them at her side while I began talking into her ear. Unbuttoning. Feeling the warm, barely detectable scent of her wafting up. I was almost shaking with desire, wonder. But my voice remained calm. Cool. The Navy training, I guess.

"The only thing I can think about right now," I breathed into her ear, unbuttoning the blouse slowly. "Is fucking your hungry, wet twat, Mrs. Durnstedt." And I pushed my hard cock against her ass while kissing, licking and sucking on her back and her neck. For a moment she seemed to collapse. A good sign, I decided.