I'd known Helen Jones my whole life. My father and her husband David had met while playing rugby in the army and despite now living almost two hundred miles apart, the two couples had remained friends, visiting for the weekend two or three times each year. That said, I'd not seen the Joneses since before starting college two years earlier and only done so this weekend because of my parents' party:
It was Mum and Dad's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, so friends and family had gathered for the celebration; though for my elder brother Tony and myself, the day had been more about hard work than partying. As designated barbecue chefs and drinks waiters, we'd barely had a moments rest since two o'clock in the afternoon and it was by then after ten in the evening.
Things had eased off though, besides our parents there were only the three couples who were staying overnight -- Tony and I having been consigned to the summerhouse with sleeping bags -- and eight or ten locals who either lived within walking distance, or were prepared to risk a police breathalyser test. I signalled to Tony that I was going outside for a cigarette and that he was on his own for a while, then slipped out of the door.
I'd barely got my cigarette lit when a voice from the shadows enquired: "Could you spare one of those for an old lady?" It was Helen, though I'd not heard her follow me out.
"Sure.... though I didn't know that you smoked."
"I don't, or at least I'm not supposed to; I gave them up the first time I got pregnant and that was eighteen years ago, so don't you go telling anyone." I nodded my assent and offered the pack to Helen; she reached for one, then looking around furtively stopped and added: "Let's smoke somewhere more discrete... that bench seat, beyond the summerhouse."
Helen set off down the garden without waiting for a reply; though I was more than content to follow that sweet arse as it swayed in the moonlight. Helen's always been a bit special and discounting TV actresses and models in the tit-mags was possibly the first 'real' woman that I fantasised about while whacking-off :
She and David must be of a similar age to my parents, indeed their kids are only a year or two younger than Tony and I; but Helen has now and always, looked far younger, not to mention gorgeous. Though Helen's is an old fashioned sort of beauty, much like those Hollywood movie-stars of the 1960's as opposed to the athletic, increasingly androgynous look that's become fashionable nowadays; I guess 'glamorous' is the operative word:
Helen's probably no more than 5' 5" tall, though her crown of ermin-black hair appears to add a couple more and the ever present spike-heeled shoes a further two; great legs, a pencil slim waist, flaring hips, well rounded arse and while they're not outrageously large, very... prominent tits. Helen had been a walking,talking, wet-dream to a spotty adolescent and in all honesty, she still was.
I never questioned how Helen knew about the bench seat, it's always been there, but it's somewhere that family members take themselves off to when they need a little peace and quiet, rather than visitors; no view or anything, just a sheltered corner between the summerhouse and the garden hedge. Having arrived and sat down, I again offered my cigarette pack to Helen, but she shook her head and responded: "No... I'll just share yours Mark."
Leaning forward Helen rested one hand against my chest as the other plucked the cigarette from my lips; after one small draw on it she returned it to my mouth, while that spare hand stroked across my chest and onto my right shoulder. "God but you've grown up since I last saw you Mark. You're the spitting image of your father at your age; are you playing rugby like him too?"
That comparison was one I'd often heard, but I struggled to speak, wildly aware of Helen's hand sliding off my shoulder and down my bicep, before backtracking to press against my chest once more; eventually I stuttered a reply. "Y... yes, but I p-play at Number-Eight rather than in the second row like Dad and David did."
"Oh, so you've got some brains as well as brawn..." Helen's right hand was still sliding back and forth across my chest; her left now dropped onto my thigh and gently squeezed. "and with those legs you've no doubt got quite a turn of speed too... like a young black bull... one of those dangerous ones... those Spanish fighting-bulls."
I was way out of my depth; if it'd been a girl my own age coming on to me like this I'd have been lapping it up, but Helen Jones... the woman of my adolescent fantasies; she had to be just teasing, leading me on for a joke. I didn't reply -- I couldn't! - beyond an open mouthed nod of the head.
It was Helen who continued, her hands still stroking my chest and thigh: "That's what they called David and your Dad... The 'twin-bulls'... one white and one black, but otherwise mirror images. They played-up to the moniker too, sporting the same haircut, clothes and even matching scars; that one beneath your Dad's right eye was self inflicted, he did it to match the one that David got beneath his left eye."
That was news to me; but even that garnered nothing beyond another mute, open-mouthed nod.
"But of course they weren't a match in every way... It was only your Dad who had a cock like a bull's." Helen's hand moved from my left thigh to the right and stroked firmly upward "and it feels as if you've inherited that from him too."
That drew and incoherent, gurgling squawk from my throat, my dumb silence had probably been better; followed by a feral growl as Helen went to work on my belt and pants. It seemed barely five seconds before I was rising up slightly to enable Helen to slip those and my boxer-shorts to my knees; she was clearly no novice.
