May and December

Author's preamble:

May and December is a fictional story containing graphic descriptions of a sexual relationship between a 67 years old man and a woman in her early 30s.

The story contains elements of cunnilingus, fellatio, fisting, mild bdsm, water sports, pot smoking and heavy drinking.

If material of this nature is illegal where you are viewing it, please surf away now.

If this kind of story is in any way offensive to you, may I respectfully suggest you hit the back button on your browser and select a different category. I have no wish to offend my readers.

Note: I try to write a story so the build-up is slow but gets hotter for those who are patient;)

To those who have chosen to stay and read this story, I hope you enjoy it ...

~oOo~

May and December.

Rock bottom! That's where my life was as I take up this story. I won't go into the bitter details but I was a reformed heroine addict. I'd been 'clean' for two years but my habit had cost me everything: husband, my two lovely daughters, my home, my dignity. Everything.

Three years ago I had been sleeping rough when the social workers got onto my case. From then, for the most part, at least I had a roof over my head when I slept. Mostly it was run-down B&Bs so I was once more trying to get warm on the streets during the day. Eventually, after I had come off the drugs (except for the odd spliff,) they found me a place in a semi-permanent 'half-way' hostel. There, through the girl in the next room, I met Billy -- he was such a sweet lad even though he was totally fucked up on drugs. One thing led to another with me and Billy and we had sex a few times. Then the silly bugger got into an argument and got himself wasted by a dealer's minder. But I had his baby in my womb.

Time passed, as it does. 'They' thought it was inappropriate for me to have my baby in the hostel so, with the help of the local council, they found me a flat of my own. It was in one of four identical blocks, each having twelve identical flats, surrounding a grassy courtyard, if that wasteland could be called grassy. Most of my neighbours were the jetsam of society. Next door to me was the local dealer; that was John, and he put the word out on the estate that I wasn't to be touched.

But my flat had been a doss for up to a dozen of John's customers until the place was raided and the official tenant was evicted. The council sent their cleaners in but it was still a mess when my social worker, bubbling with enthusiasm, took me to the flat, opened the door and handed me the keys.

I stepped inside cautiously, aware of the smell of disinfectant, unsuccessful in the battle with urine and other obnoxious fumes. I looked around at the filth on the walls -- the graffiti partially obscured by other daubings of god knew what. I slowly walked onto the concrete floor inside the door. There were four doors off the central passage, all of them open. To my right was a living room, to my left, a bedroom. Both rooms were carpeted. The carpets were rank.

The social worker said some furniture would be delivered that afternoon. I was to be given a bed, table and chair, an electric kettle, a couple of pans and some basic crockery and cutlery. Surprisingly, the kitchen was relatively clean. The bathroom was disgusting.

So that was it. Of course it needs a bit of work, I was informed by the social worker. What did they expect me to do with a belly full of a baby due next month? It would take Pharoah's pyramid squad a year to clean that place. I did the best I could in the bedroom. I ripped out all the old carpeting and bought myself an offcut of cheap new carpet down at the market and put it down, though not fitted.

Three weeks after I moved into my flat I was taken to hospital. My son was stillborn. A few days later, New Year's Eve, I was back in my own place. It would have been so easy to knock on John's door and get a deal but I was so depressed I couldn't even summon the energy to do that. I just crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep.

The next few months were just a bad dream. I hated the flat and refused to do anything to clean it up, except the bedroom and kitchen. I was just drifting from day to day. My social worker would often tell me I could do better. Yeah, it was all right for that stuck up cow with her big car and her patronising 'pep-talks'. She didn't live on the Downton estate!

One day in late July dawned with the promise of a beautiful day. I opened my window to let some fresh air in and heard a couple of blackbirds trying to out-sing each other. I felt something kind of 'snap' in my head and thought it would be nice to get out and about for the day. Yes, I thought, I could go and have my hair done properly. But I had been wearing the same very minimum set of clothing since I got back from hospital so first I had to do some shopping.

I've never let on to any of the people I met in the various hostels, or my neighbours now, but I had only drawn enough from my bank for everyday essentials so my social security money had been building up quietly. I wasn't rich but I could certainly afford some little luxuries.

I drew some cash at the post office and went to the local shopping centre where I bought a sexy bra and pants for today. No, I wasn't thinking about sex but I knew I would feel good. I saw a lovely pale yellow gingham check summer dress in a charity shop. In the same shop, I picked up a pair of patent leather shoes with a three-inch heel - they were still in the box - and a narrow black patent belt. I also picked up a small handbag to match the shoes. I bought some basic cosmetics and returned home with my treasures. I gave myself a good strip-wash (no way would I use that bath,) washed my hair and tied it in a ponytail then put my new clothes on. Truly, I felt like a new woman.

It was now getting close to lunch time so I decided to get the bus a couple of miles to the centre of one of those villages swallowed up in the city conurbation which was a lively shopping centre. There was a hairdresser there who had been praised by one of the friends I had before I started on the drugs. I wanted a good cut and shampoo and everything to make it nice and make me feel pampered. I used to be so proud of my blonde hair and always had it looked after by my favourite hairdresser in the old days. I wanted it back again.

The salon couldn't fit me in until 4:30 after I had confided to the receptionist that I had neglected my hair for too long and it would need a lot of work. No problem, I could get some lunch then sit and watch the world go by on this lovely day. I had a delicious salmon salad sitting in the sun outside the café then had a walk around the village square.

My new shoes were pinching a little so I decided to sit down on a bench right next to a flower bed to rest my feet. There were a few bees buzzing around but I'd always lived with the philosophy of I don't bother bees, bees don't bother me. On one end of the bench, when I arrived, sat a woman of about my age, eating from a pack of sandwiches; on the other end sat a little grey-haired man who was smoking. Pulling out a ciggy of my own, I asked if I could sit between them; there was lots of room so they both murmured their assent and the man flicked a lighter for my cigarette.

After a few minutes, the woman finished her lunch and hurried off down the street, glancing at her wristwatch. The man and I started talking - the usual stuff about the weather and so on. He offered me another cigarette and as we smoked, I noticed he quite often glanced to my left to an attractive redhead who was making a charity collection outside the convenience store. "It's her first day," he told me, indicating the woman. "I'm just showing her the ropes. She's OK: doing well."

Our conversation drifted along and I found myself telling him about my day, and how I had another hour to wait for my appointment. One thing led to another and parts of the sad story of my life came out. At one stage he excused himself, asking me if I'd like a coffee. He had a word with the redhead then disappeared only to return a couple of minutes later with three steaming cups. He gave one to the redhead, sat down and handed me a cup then stuck his hand out. "My name's David. Call me Dave if you prefer."

"Hi Dave," I shook his hand, "I'm Beatrice - yes, it's a bit old-fashioned but my Mum was like that. I answer to Betty or Bet."

"Beatrice is a lovely name. What do you like to be called?"

"Betty," I smiled.

He smiled back and for fully a minute he looked at me quite intently. Not staring and trying to dominate me and, even though he cast a look up and down my body, I didn't get that creepy feeling you sometimes get when a man is mentally stripping you naked. No, it felt more like he was committing my looks to memory.

I took the opportunity to look him over, too. He was a short man. His hair and beard were both neatly trimmed grey all over and his exposed skin was deeply tanned. The eyes behind his rimless spectacles were a pale blue-green with laughter wrinkles at the corner. He was wearing an open-neck lemon sports shirt and light fawn slacks with a pair of open sandals on his feet. On his left hand he wore two identical gold bands, one on his wedding finger and the other resting next to it on his little finger. Two chains dangled round his neck, both worn outside his shirt: a large piece of amber was on the heavier chain while the smaller held a cylinder of lapis lazuli.

We both broke off looking at each other at the same time and both looked away, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he murmured in apology, but I told him it was OK and I was staring, too.

We got to know each a little better: I told him of my home before drugs and what I had lost through my own fault. I learned that he had nursed his wife through emphysema until her death five years ago. "That was her ring," he said pointing to his little finger. I swear his eyes rimmed up with moisture. He heaved a deep sigh then smiled at me.

Where had the afternoon gone? I wondered. It was only a few minutes to my appointment. I almost didn't want that magic afternoon to end.

"Betty," he said, a little unsure of himself, "Look, I know I'm a stranger, but would you like to have a drink and maybe a meal with me this evening. No," he assured me, "not a date or anything like that. I've enjoyed this afternoon and would like to extend it into the evening with no ulterior motive. You have your hairdresser to see, I have to take Celia home," he indicated the redhead, "but I could come and pick you up from the salon afterwards. We can take it from there."

I had had nothing but good vibes from Dave all afternoon and he didn't come across as a dirty old man. When we stood up I saw that I was much taller than Dave; I could even see the bald patch at the crown of his head. As he 'escorted' me to the salon I told him, "That would be nice, Dave. I'll be about an hour getting my hair done."

"I'll be back before then."

"Come into the salon, they'll let you wait."

"See you soon." Dave smiled, turned and got into his car which, by coincidence was parked close to the salon.

About 45 minutes later he popped his head round the door of the salon. I saw him in the mirror and waved him in. "This is Dave, who I was telling you about." The hairdresser welcomed him and pointed to a chair near the window. She was almost finished her work and had done a lovely job. It looked so healthy and shiny, I couldn't believe the change from the stringy mess it had been when I woke up this morning.

The stylist finally finished all those last-minute pats and tucks then removed the cover off my body. I stood up and smiled at myself in the mirror. OMG I looked as pretty as I used to look. Smiling right back at me in the mirror was a young woman with blonde hair set in a loose ponytail. She had eyes as blue as the deep sea. Her skin was pale, almost the classic 'peaches and cream'. The bodice of her dress was nicely filled and the narrow belt accentuated her slim waist. The skirt flared out over her broad hips, ending just above her knees, showing her trim calves and ankles.

"You look lovely, Betty," said Dave with a big smile. I paid the stylist and, as we walked to the car, I linked my arm in his. He opened the door for me, ushered me into the car then went round to the driver's seat. "That's Bonzo in the back," he said by way of introduction to a medium-sized dog of obviously mixed heritage. Soon we were heading out of town and onto the motorway. About 15 miles up the road, he took the exit and, after not too long, he parked up by a canal. "I thought we might go for a walk before dinner," he said. "Not too far, just a stroll along the towpath. That lazy bag of bones on the back seat needs some exercise."

There were quite a few people, often with dogs, on the towpath. Bonzo didn't wear a leash but Dave kept him well under control as we passed other dogs. Bonzo was obviously well-trained. We chatted about almost anything under the sun; Dave often interspersed the conversation with amusing anecdotes gleaned from his life. If we had differences of opinion, he would listen to my ideas, not just ride roughshod over them. We had been walking slowly for maybe half an hour when Dave suggested we turn back and find somewhere for dinner.

I won't mention it again but whenever I got in or out of the car, he always opened the door and closed it behind me. His old-fashioned courtesies made me feel special. I think we women paid a big price for our 'equality'. We didn't return to the city via the motorway, but along the older country road which ran more or less parallel. He pulled into the car park of a country pub which was advertising carvery meals and escorted me inside.

"Let's find a quiet table," he said and we looked around. I spotted a table in the corner. The customers were just leaving.

"Will that do?" I tugged his arm and indicated the newly vacated table.

"Perfect," he replied, "let's grab it before anyone else." We rushed over and he seated me. "OK, what would you like to drink, Betty?"

"What are you having?"

"Just one small glass of wine with the meal; I'm driving. But you're not: have what you fancy."

"I'll bet they don't have what I really like, it's not very popular. Do you think they will have Campari?"

"Yes, I know they stock it here. Do you like Campari? I love the stuff but everybody says it tastes like medicine. I've changed my mind; I'm going to have a Campari and soda with lots of ice and lemon. What would you like with yours, Betty?"

"If I were doing some serious drinking, I would have what you're having, but with a shot of vodka."

"You're not driving so why not? Don't worry about me: I'll have a drink or two after I've got you safely back to your place and myself home."

"OK, get me a vodka, Campari and soda. Ditto on the ice and lemon." As he walked to the bar, I felt a twinge of sadness that he had mentioned my flat. Today had been a dream in his company. He was always charming, polite and witty. Even knowing what he did about my past, he was treating me as a lady. Dave had reminded me that the evening would come to an end eventually, and I would be back in the real world. He soon returned with our drinks, set them on the table, and said, "Let's go find some food."

In an alcove off the main restaurant was the carvery. The place was rather busy so we had to stand in line behind four or five other couples. I noticed that the chef was being generous with the portions he was slicing off the huge joints. We got our meals, filling our plates with veggies, and returned to our table.

While we were eating, we held a lively conversation and had a friendly argument over Dylan and The Beatles. I love Dylan but Dave complained that his voice was a nasal whine and he was a whinging malcontent. The Beatles, on the other hand, had been real musicians who enjoyed life.

But Bob Dylan, I countered, cared, really cared, about the world problems; his songs made you think, he knew about life.

Listen to the words of Eleanor Rigby, was Dave's response, or Lady Madonna! Or the poignancy of She's Leaving Home if you want to hear about the meaning of life.

We kept up our conversation in the same vein all through our meal. When the waitress asked if we would like desert, Dave passed me a menu and we both made our selections. It was delicious and we discovered that we were both chocoholics at heart. Soon we were both full. I patted my tummy and sighed, "Thank you, Dave. A lovely meal but I'm bloated and couldn't manage another bite."

"Would you like a coffee or would you rather have another drink?"

"I'll have another of these, I think, but I'll get them: you've paid for everything else this evening."

He reached across and patted my arm. "I invited you to have dinner and a drink or two with me. When I invite a lady, I pay." He smiled to soften his blunt phrasing.

I didn't want to spoil things over a trivial argument so I smiled my acquiescence. He went to the bar and brought me my drink, and some pale concoction, which I learned later, was lime cordial and soda.

"Dave," I said, looking him in the eyes, "I enjoyed sitting talking with you this afternoon, you've bought me a lovely meal and I've enjoyed your company ever since we met. It's been a magical time for me; I don't want it to end." I paused, catching and holding his eye, "Can I come home with you, please, Dave, please? I don't want to go back to that dump tonight."

He sat back with a concerned frown. "That's not very wise, Betty. You know nothing about me. For all you know I might be an evil axe murderer. No, I don't think you should come back with me. If you like, I can pick you up tomorrow and we can spend the day together, maybe go down to the coast, or something else if you prefer. I'd like that." He smiled.

"Oh, Dave, I'd love that, too. But I honestly couldn't face going back to that place tonight. Please, please, please let me come with you."

"I wouldn't mind, my dear, you'd be welcome to stay the night at my place, but as I say, you really don't know anything about me but my name - and maybe that's a lie. Betty, what have you been warned by everybody since you were a little girl? 'Don't go with strangers.' I'm that stranger you don't go with."

"I still want to come back with you Dave. I know I can trust you."

He shook his head and smiled, "You really don't know you can trust me. But I know I can trust me so yes, you may have my spare room tonight. But there will be a condition, for your own safety: when we get to my place, or now if you wish, I want you to phone somebody who knows you and I want you to tell them exactly where you are going and who I am. You can read the details off my driving licence. Will you do that?"

"I suppose I could call Jane: she's the only one from my old days who has kept in any kind of touch."

"OK, let's go home. If I don't have to drive you home tonight, it's about time I started getting outside of a real drink. Do you want to finish that drink as you're calling Jane?" He handed me his mobile.

I took a gulp of my drink as the phone was connecting. "Hi, Jane, it's Bet. Look, I know this is a bit of a weird thing to ask; do you have a pen and paper handy?" I waited until Jane told me to go ahead. "OK, I said, it's like this ..." I gave her a brief rundown of the day. "The thing is," I continued, "Dave insists that I call you and tell you who I'm with and where we're going." Dave held his driving licence out to me and I read his full name and address from the licence. "Did you get all that?"

"Yep, Bet. I got it. Now you two enjoy yourselves. He sounds like a very nice man. Say 'Hi' to Dave for me. Bye bye bye bye ..."

I handed Dave his phone and licence back. "Jane says you're a nice man and says 'Hi.'" I finished my drink but noticed Dave ignored the remnants of his glass. We went back out to the car where he let Bonzo out to stretch his legs and have nose around and cock his leg, as dogs will. It took Dave about twenty minutes to drive to his place. I did note that it was the same address as his licence, blowing away any last lingering hesitation. Dave was an OK guy.