Now, right from the start, let’s get the details over and done with.
My name is Jan, well, Janet actually, but let’s stick with Jan as everybody else does.
I’m fifty-two at the time of writing, but was fifty when the events I shall relate took place.
I am five feet six inches tall. Buxom, in fact very buxom, but its all firm. Nothing flops about, including my bosom – 40 C if you want to know, but then, I don’t often wear a bra because I like to show off my nipples. I’ve got very nice, strong legs, sturdy but not thick, if you know what mean, but after all, its what’s at the top of them that counts, isn’t it?
I’ve been married to Tom for thirty odd years. He’s about five years older than me, and gave up getting intimate with me about ten years ago. We’re a bit of a laugh when seen together because he’s a couple of inches shorter than I am and thin with it.
I once overheard some horrible male say to another after seeing the pair of us; “It’d be like a pimple on an elephant when those two are at it.”
Well, we are no longer “at it,” but in early days, Tom did manage to sire three kids on me, and that currently leaves me with four grandchildren.
I didn’t mention my face, did I? It’s a bit hard to assess one’s own face, but I think it looks okay. I’ve got wide set brown eyes that I enhance by having my hair dyed blonde. I always think brown eyes and blonde hair look good together, don’t you?
I have a sort of snub nose and what I believe is called, a “full mouth.” Talking of “full”, I’ve always taken great care of my teeth, so I’ve got a really nice set of white “pearlies”, all my own.
That takes care of the personal stuff so now let me give you the setting.
I live in a nice suburb of the city, you know, good neighbours, nice gardens and trees along the street.
In the house opposite ours lives a widow, Stella, and her son, Steve. Steve was about twenty-two at the time I’m telling you about.
When we first moved in Steve was about seven years old. I watched him grow up, and he turned out to be what I think is called these days, a “real hunk.” If that means he is a nicely shaped, sexy looking young man, then that’s what I mean. I used to think, “My God, if I were twenty-five years younger I’d have his shoes under my bed.”
Stella’s husband, Dan, died of cancer when Steve was about sixteen. He was a nice fellow, and Steve looks just like him, that is, before Dan was wasted away with cancer.
I suppose Dan’s death could have embittered Steve, because he got on well with his father, but it didn’t. He sort of became serious, and took on the job of being the “man of the house,” looking after his mum, doing the gardening, and so on.
I don’t know what Steve did about sex, but I never saw him with any girls, but I’m sure he would have had no trouble getting them with his body and looks. I thought perhaps that he just kept them well out of his mother’s sight.
Steve turned out to be a bit of a computer whiz – went to university and did a computer course that started out with say, a hundred students and ended with ten, it was so tough. Steve was still there at the end. When he graduated Stella held a party for him, and the whole street went to it.
It was at that party I first noticed something strange. No, I lie, I had an inkling that something was happening some time before the party, and in fact, it first came to my attention when Steve was about seventeen. But it was at the party that it really became clearer to me.
There were plenty of local girls at the party, some of them quite pretty, but Steve almost ignored them. I began to wonder if he was gay, but he didn’t latch on to any of the fellows either, and some of them were pretty too.
It was me he glued himself to. You know, getting me drinks and food, and chatting away. He hardly left my side all evening.
Even though I got a bit wet between the legs with him so near and attentive, I told myself that he was opting for safety with a woman about the same age as his mum.
Talking of his mum, it reminds me, it was that night of the party when she came over to speak to me, she told me that Steve was not going to go after a job with some company, but was going to start his own little business working from home.
Now, don’t ask me the in and outs of it because, although I now have a computer, what goes on inside that box thing is a mystery to me.
Anyway, Steve was going to be doing something with or about computers working from home. Stella showed me the front room that they were going to make into an office or workshop, or both – something like that. That room looked straight across the street to our house.
Steve started his little business and I noticed computers coming and going, so he seemed to be doing all right. I also noticed something else.
Steve had a sort of desk and workbench by the window. Every time I appeared I could see him working, and I could also see he looked up at me, and kept looking up as long as I was in sight.
At first, it was disconcerting having a pair of male eyes focused on you whenever you were out the front. I wondered what the attraction was. Then I fell in, I was the attraction. “My God,” I thought, “I do believe that boy fancies me.”
Then I began to recall how for some years, as I said before, he seemed to be interested in me. I’d taken no notice of his stares and how, if I were in the front garden, he would come across and chat with me, and seemed to take an inordinate interest in my breasts. Mind you, he wasn't the only one with that particular hobby.
Again, I must say, that despite my fancy for the horny youth, I put his mammary fascination down to “growing up,” whatever that means.
Now that I seemed to capture Steve’s attention every time I appeared out the front, I let myself think that this would pass eventually, but it didn’t. The result was, I began to enjoy his attention, and started to get evil thoughts about that young man.
My husband Tom did nothing around the house, including nothing in the garden. It was all left to me. And when Tom wasn’t at work, he was mainly off to play golf with his mates.
You could say that the flower of romance had wilted where Tom was concerned. As for me, I was fond of him and had no desire to part from him, but I had been left with quite a hole in my life – no pun intended, although he certainly left that hole empty.
I know there is a view held by some that when a woman gets to forty or thereabouts, she shuts up the sex shop and settles for knitting and television. Let me tell you, it is not true. At fifty, I still hankered after a big fat male organ in my nice little cleft.
Put your self in my place, if you can. Here was I, a virile matron longing for some hero to come and give me the joy of his body, and of course, I would give him the joy of mine, and across the road was a lovely penis looking for a home, or so I thought. Action was required.
The question was how could I lure that male organ into the vicinity of my genitalia?
I began with a programme of tantalising.
As I said, I may be buxom, but it’s all firm. I therefore began by dressing so as to stimulate. Not, of course, the bikini that is so popular and evident in these sorts of tales. Such a garment was not really suitable for me. Instead, I dressed up in very tight shorts and an equally tight top.
The purpose was to display my female charms to the best advantage. The shorts were of the sort that the cloth passing under the crotch sank into my cleft, while the top, with no bra underneath, displayed both my cleavage, that is deep, and my nipples that are long.
Thus clad, I would proceed to the front garden and commence some real or imagined horticultural activity. I made a point of bending over some of the time with my buttocks pointed in the direction of Steve’s workshop. This displayed the firmness of my posterior, and gave him some idea of the position of my vulva and its desirability.
