I've always had a real thing about older women, and moreover, older married women. Its definitely not a case of "the older the better", but when certain women reach a certain age they almost seem to reinvent themselves. Lethargic spouses that often take them for granted and seem happier with golf or drinking can lead to a whole new outlook for some women. Visits to the gym will return once sexy figures to their former glory; carefully thought out and applied make-up will highlight features that husbands have clearly forgotten and a new, more sophisticated wardrobe can make a woman feel innately sexy.
I think my love of the more mature woman started at high school. The young, leggy student biology teacher that caused so many adolescent erections and lewd whispered comments did little for me, and Mr. Jennings, the nineteen year old PT instructor, had most of the girls in my class squirming in their seats as he paraded around the gym clad only in shorts and a Lakers vest. It seemed that I was doomed to spend my entire youth alone in my desires for the older, more mature woman.
Eventually my school years passed and apart from the odd fumbling, unsatisfying embrace with a few girls my own age, I left my education behind having learned very little academically or romantically.
But my desires were still building. Having found the mothers of two of my school friends extremely attractive I had learned to suppress my feelings. But now I was free of the peer pressure that had been such a large part of my life. I felt liberated; able to express myself and my desires, the only problem was that my childhood had left me introverted and very shy.
Work, though, was first on the agenda, as was moving away from home. With little in the way of qualifications or experience it was a bit tough but, eventually, I managed to secure a position as an apprentice to a carpenter.
Life was pretty good. My boss, Stan Lennox, was a large jovial man who always seemed to have a joke and a smile for everyone and I found myself a small room in a boarding house. The only problem was food. The boarding house provided me with breakfast before I went to work, but there was nothing for the evening when I returned. I found myself living on take-out and junk food.
Then, one day after a really busy day, Stan asked me if I'd like to join him and his wife for dinner at their house. The thought of a real, home cooked meal as opposed to yet another burger appealed enormously and within half an hour I found myself sitting in a comfortable lounge sipping a beer.
Brenda Lennox was just as pleasant and jovial as her husband and conversation over dinner flowed easily. She asked all sorts of questions which I answered as best I could whilst trying not to stare too openly at her large chest. Brenda had a definite air about her. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly what it was about her but, there was no denying the fact that I was definitely attracted to her. And then, over coffee, she asked me.
"Danny, it seems so silly for you to live in that boarding house all the way across town. We have a spare room, why don't you move in here with us? What do you think, Stan?"
As always, Stan was just grinning. He nodded his head absently, I guessed that Brenda usually got what she wanted!
So it was settled. Two days later, laden with the few possessions that I had accumulated, I moved into Stan and Brenda's spare room. They were wonderful hosts and Brenda particularly really began to look after me. Stan would joke at work that it must be like being back living with my mother again and that he and Brenda must really cramp my style. I laughed at every joke and dismissed his jovial concerns with a wave or a shake of my head. I certainly didn't see Brenda as a mother figure. The last thing I wanted him to know was that I had no interest in girls my own age and often masturbated myself to sleep at night thinking about his wife in the very next room.
And so things continued along the same lines for several months. Stan and I would work together all day and then come back to the same house and spend most evenings together as well. My "Brenda Fantasies" were driving me wild and my right hand was being used more and more each night. I was sure that Stan and Brenda looked upon me more as the son that they never had until one morning early in June.
As usual I was up first but, instead of my usual shower, I decided to take a bath. Relaxing immersed in the hot, steaming water I closed my eyes and began to indulge in my favourite fantasy: Brenda. As I imagined her slowly removing the housecoat that she habitually wore to expose her large breasts, by cock began to harden. My lips felt dry as my hand wandered down to my groin and slowly squeezed my throbbing cock head. In my minds eye she was naked now and smiling at me as she walked towards me. Her arms were spread out in a welcoming gesture as I embraced her and she held be to her breasts. I could almost feel the warmth of her skin as she held me close.
My reverie was broken and my heart leapt as I heard the bathroom door open. I looked down at myself realising that my erection protruded above the water line and was easily visible. I couldn't believe that I had forgotten to lock the door! Quickly I pulled the shower curtain so that the bottom half of the bath was covered and thus protecting a little of what dignity I was left with.
"Oh, sorry Danny!" Brenda giggled as she spotted me in the mirror. "I didn't know you were in here. You don't mind if I just do my make-up do you?"
Clearly, as she made no attempt to vacate the bathroom, it appeared that this was a rhetorical question.
Brenda's robe hung loose at the front and as I looked at her through the mirror I could see the heavy roundness of her breasts: the epicentre of my lustful fantasies.
"Danny! I never knew that you thought of me like that," she said casually looking back in the glass, "although I suppose your condition is probably caused by thoughts of a much younger girl!"
