I suppose I have always been fascinated by the more mature woman, from the very earliest stages of my sexual awareness. My high school days were filled with a whole host of detailed fantasies surrounding several of my teachers, passionate dreams that although I knew would almost certainly never be realised, helped while away many an otherwise dull English, Maths or Geography lesson. In a similar fashion, I recall one particularly appealing bus conductress on my regular route, an extremely busty lady who worked in the local newsagent's, as well as a whole host of anonymous women, fleetingly glimpsed in the course of daily life only to be furtively recalled at a later time in the shape of discreet and colourful night-time imaginings.
My preference in no way hindered my sexual experimentation within the confines of my own age group, however, and throughout my latter teenaged years, I had a few one-time sexual partners. I heartily embarked - as, I suppose, do most young men - on a learning-curve that guided me through the various stages of experimental fumbling, premature ejaculation, tentative and awkward penetration and beyond, and had a thoroughly enjoyable time in the process; but still I retained, as much as ever before, my affinity with the more mature and experienced ladies of the world and my detailed fantasies thereof.
It was the day before my twenty-first birthday when I had my accident on the five-a-side pitch, breaking both my fibula and my tibia rather badly. The weeks of recuperation became months, my plaster cast was swapped for a pressure bandage, which in turn made way for endless physiotherapy sessions and slow and gentle exercise. It was during one of my daily walks, designed to rebuild and strengthen my musculature, that I encountered a lady I had not seen in a number of years.
Mrs. Jackson and I had lived on the same estate for, I suppose, as long as I could recall. She had always been a very friendly lady, imparting kind words and distributing treats to the local children, perhaps partly due to the fact that she had none of her own. I knew she had been widowed at a young age, though could not recall the circumstances, and to the best of my knowledge had never remarried - though I do remember overhearing a number of "neighbourly" comments regarding what I'm sure were her perfectly respectable "gentlemen friends." She had been one extremely attractive lady, and as I was passing her house that otherwise anonymous Tuesday afternoon, just as she happened to be making for her parked car, I immediately noticed this was still very much the case.
"Hello, Mrs. Jackson," I cheerfully greeted her, stopping by her garden gate as she approached me along the path. "How are you?"
I saw a flash of uncertainty cross her face, perhaps as she struggled to reconcile my vaguely familiar features with a name. I suppose the likelihood was that I had changed considerably more than she in the interceding ten years or so since we had last seen one another. I watched her trying to place me and silently admired her as I did so. Her shoulder-length, curly brown hair surrounded a facial beauty perhaps only slightly more enhanced by a careful application of make-up than had once been necessary. She had on a tight red sweater, beneath which her ample breasts strained provocatively and her above the knee, tight black skirt afforded me an excellent view of a pair of very shapely legs encased in black nylon. I realised Mrs. Jackson must easily be in her late fifties - possibly older- but in my humble opinion, she remained gorgeous.
"Stuart!" she exclaimed, recognition finally dawning, and smiled warmly at me. "My, how you've grown!" Then she frowned in concern. "Did I see you limping there?"
"Yes. Had a bit of an accident playing football," I admitted. "I'm on the mend, though. I'm out on my daily walk, building up my muscles again."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" she commiserated.
I shrugged. "One of those things. What about you? How are you getting on?"
Mrs. Jackson looked at her watch. "Stuart, I'm really sorry, but I'm already running terribly late for an appointment. Will you be out for a walk tomorrow about this time?"
"I'm out every day," I told her.
"Well, why don't you stop in for a coffee tomorrow and we can catch up. How would that be?"
"Great. Just about this time?"
"That'll be fine." She smiled, apologetically. "Now, I'm afraid you really will have to excuse me." With that, she hurried past me, the scent of her perfume trailing deliciously in her wake, and with a final little wave, got into her car and drove off.
For some unknown reason, Mrs. Jackson - stunning as she was - had never figured in any of my fantasies. It was an unexplained omission I certainly remedied that night. All through the hours of darkness and well into the dawn light, my thoughts were of this incredible lady and the host of erotic adventures I was sure we could enjoy together. As a result, I was tired and gritty-eyed the next morning when I finally coaxed myself out of bed and into a long, hot shower. I lathered myself again and again with the reputedly revitalising shower-gel, shaved, then splashed on some of the expensive cologne I had received the previous year as a Christmas present and reserved for special occasions. I took my time selecting what I should wear, carefully deciding upon what I believed were my very best clothes, but still found myself ready to leave the house by eleven o'clock. As it had been after two the previous afternoon when I had met Mrs. Jackson and we had agreed on a similar time for today's visit, I was left with some not inconsiderable time to kill.
I watched some anonymous daytime television; I tried to lose myself in what was the excellent novel I was half-way through reading; I devoured the sports' pages in the morning newspaper and much of what I found to be the intensely boring additional content; I even managed to prepare and consume a light lunch: but all the time I was watching the clock, counting down the minutes.. By the time two o'clock rolled around, I was so hyped up, I felt capable of sprinting the distance to Mrs. Jackson's house, some three streets away.
I managed to restrain myself from attempting this dangerous under the circumstances latter impulse, however, and set off at my slow, steady pace shortly thereafter, turning in at Mrs. Jackson's gate about ten minutes later. I couldn't believe how nervous I felt! After all, my night-time imaginings notwithstanding, the reality here was that this was likely to be a cup of coffee with an old acquaintance and a nice chat - nothing more. Telling myself to get a grip, I climbed the three front steps of what was a very well maintained semi-detached and rang the bell.
