The Dreaded Mrs Crowley

It was only a summer job for Ken Lanzi in the summer of 1970, delivering prescriptions in a beat up old VW bug with a giant pill bottle on the roof. It was easy money and it was fun to drive around all day in a car that he enjoyed beating into the ground, but one day it became something totally different.

*********

Chapter One: Summer in the city.

It was going to be a scorcher today, that much I knew and I didn't need a weatherman to tell me that the heat and humidity was only only to get worse as the day went on. I opened the door of the VW bug that I would be spending much of the day in, and was greeted by a blast of heat that reminded me of opening the oven door at the pizzeria I worked at last summer.

No air conditioning in the little shit box, which meant the windows went down and were going to stay down all day, even if the humidity brought thunderstorms. I was glad that I had dressed for the occasion, even if the owner of the pharmacy had frowned when he saw me in my tank-top and white shorts.

At least the casual wear was neat and crisp looking, even though I expected that by the end of the day I was going to look like a drowned rat whether the thermometer actually hit 100 as expected, or not.

I arranged the orders in the box to give them some kind of geographical flow, but I wasn't adverse to driving a little extra, especially if the breeze would cool things off inside the bug.

One order caught my eye, and when I saw the name Agnes Crowley I winced like I had been stung by a bee. That old lady must live on prescriptions, because I delivered there at least a dozen times so far this summer, and it was only mid-July.

Not only was she talkative and tried to extend the visit by asking me to do little odd jobs around the house. "Sweetie, while you're here," was the the usual line that had me doing something like bringing a box from her cellar or fixing a clothesline.

Her only saving grace was that she usually slipped me a nice tip, but even the extra buck wasn't worth it sometimes. Not only that, but she had a habit of patting me on the shoulder, or the butt, along with the tip.

She was a widow, and had been for several years, and I did feel sorry for her. I wondered how old she was - had to be close to 70 - and while I liked older woman, and had been lusting after a friend's mother all of my life, this little gray haired grandma was a little too old for me.

I saved her order for last, figuring that if I got T-boned at some intersection, at least that would get me out of delivering to her. Eventually, the box of orders had been whittled from 19 to just one, Mrs. Crowley.

I slammed the bug into gear and raced down Sand Creek Road, going about 55 in a 30, and took the turn onto Mordella Drive on two wheels, trying to console myself that after this delivery I could take my lunch break before picking up the afternoon orders.

I jogged up the driveway to the side door and hopped up the three concrete steps to the door, rapping loudly. The familiar voice rang out from the other side of the screen, telling me to come right in.

Couldn't meet me at the door like most of the others, I thought as I entered the house. Mrs. Crowley was sitting at her kitchen table as usual, dressed in her house dress and slippers, her silver gray hair cut short.

"Oh Kenny," Mrs. Crowley chirped, rising from her perch and greeting me as I entered the kitchen. "My, you certainly dressed for the weather today. You look so cool and comfortable."

"Looks are deceiving," I assured Mrs. Crowley, handing her the little white bag and handing her my pen, hoping to make a quick exit.

"Here you go," she said, handing me the pen after signing her name in beautiful script. "Sweetie, while you're here..."

...

Chapter Two: Up the stepladder.

The assignment I had been given was to climb up the three steps of the stepladder and get a couple of vases off of the top of the kitchen cabinets. I dutifully slid the ladder over and climbed up the two steps, grabbing the first vase with no problem.

The second one was much tougher, and I was tempted to ask her how the hell she got it up there, but decided to just climb to the top step. Mrs. Crowley then decided to help me, and in doing so almost made me fall off the ladder.

"Don't fall sweetie," Mrs. Crowley said, putting her hand on my hip as she looked up at me.

"I won't," I told her, and feeling her hand on my hip was even weirder than getting patted on the ass.

"Oh my, you've got hairy legs, don't you?" she clucked. "My Walter had hairy legs too, but not as hairy as yours. Are you Greek?"

"Uh, Italian," I mumbled, not in the least bit interested in any of her long-winded stories about her late husband, but that was the least of my worries, because after she told me how hairy my legs were, her hand proceeded to slide down from my hip and rub my leg, from thigh to ankle and then back up.

"Jesus!" I said, having to catch myself before I fell into the sink.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Kenny."

"Sorry, ma'am," I said, making a lurch to finally grab the elusive vase and climbed down the ladder fast, knowing that if I told the guys back at the drug store this story, they would never believe me.

"You're all flushed, Kenny," Mrs. Crowley said. "Let me get you a drink of water."

"That's okay," I said. "I'm fine."

"Well then sweetie, while you're here, would you mind doing me one more little favor?"

...

Chapter Three: Putting away the ladder.

I followed Mrs. Crowley down the hall with the ladder, and when she ducked through the first doorway on the left I followed her, finding myself right in the middle of her bedroom.

It reminded me of being in the room my Grandma stayed in when she visited us, with everything all frilly and smelling like lavender. She wanted it over my the window, so that's where I went with it. After I turned around, I was startled to find Mrs. Crowley right behind me.

"You're such a nice young man," she said with a smile, but it was a tight-lipped smile, and her face seemed strained. "Always so good to me."

"No problem," I said, and was trying to figure out a way to side-step her when she stopped me.

"I'd like to do something nice for you, if you would let me," Mrs. Crowley said, and before she gave me a chance to answer she said one word, which I thought was "Please," but I couldn't be sure.

The reason for my confusion was because as she spoke, I felt her hand squeezing my crotch, and while her grip might have not been as strong as a vice, there was no problem with her aim, because she had found my pouch right away.

"Please?" Mrs. Crowley asked, and when I couldn't do anything but stammer something unintelligible, I found myself being led over to her bed by the hold she had on my crotch.

I could have broken free with no problem, of course, but I didn't and I don't know why. Instead, I let her bring me over to her bed and stood in front of her while she sat on the edge and put her weathered hands on the top of my shorts and eased them down.

I was staring straight ahead at a picture of an old man, probably her late husband, as my underwear came down, and when I looked down I saw her smile at what she had exposed.

"So cute," Mrs. Crowley said, and then her hand took my flaccid dick and gave it a couple of slow pulls, cooing a little bit when she saw in lengthen in her grip, and then she leaned forward and opened her mouth.

...

Chapter Four: Disbelief

My legs were trembling as I felt Mrs. Crowley's mouth engulf my dick, and I put my hand on her shoulder while moving closer to her. Why was I letting her do this? I don't know. It wasn't like I was desperate for affection, because I usually had a somewhat steady girl.

It wasn't like my cock hadn't been in a woman's mouth either, because it had been. It had been in four of them before, to be exact, and I suppose that if you added their ages together they might equal Mrs, Crowley's.

The truly amazing thing was, as I quickly discovered, was that the things that Mrs. Crowley was doing to me were far beyond anything I had experienced before. When she found out that I wasn't going to push her away, or laugh at her, what had already started out to be a very passionate act became much, much more.

Mrs. Crowley devoured my cock, her hands and mouth working over my dick and balls like they were a shrine she was worshipping. I was having trouble getting hard, mainly because of shock but from other things as well.

I looked down the back of Mrs. Crowley's neck and saw the label of the house dress. Lerner's, it read, and I remembered being dragged into that store downtown by my Grandma many times when I was young.

That man in the picture. Her husband. What would he think of this? His wife gobbling the cock of a stranger? How many delivery guys had she lured in here?

In the end, my misgivings were overwhelmed by the incredible passion and lust Mrs. Crowley was lavishing on my cock, and soon I was hard as a rock. Mrs. Crowley's mouth slid back to the tip of my member, and as she held my cock in her hands, stroking the saliva-coated erection that was now pulsating in her grip, she exhaled and looked up at me.

"Oh my," she said before going back to work. "I had no idea a little fellow like you could be so well endowed."

When Mrs. Crowley went back to work, she wasted no time in taking me all the way into her mouth, letting all six or seven inches slide down her throat while her hand churned my balls. She was like a woman possessed, acting like my cock was a life-line of sorts as her lips went up and down the length of me.

As for me, I had forgotten that this was a senior citizen giving me head. I didn't care that the hair I was stroking was gray. All I knew was that I was being given something incredibly special, and now I was no longer trying to get aroused, but instead was trying to hold back what was about to happen. It was a losing cause.

"Mrs. Crowley?" I heard my voice say as I felt my orgasm rising, but hearing my voice only made her suck harder, and when I could hold back no longer, I let myself go.

I heard Mrs. Crowley choke a bit as what seemed like every drop of semen I had suddenly erupted out of me, but she kept going, coaxing everything she could out of me until I almost had to pull her off my drained member.

I saw Mrs. Crowley's tongue slip over to the corner of her mouth to capture a drop of my cum that had escaped, and when she looked up and saw me watching her as she seemed to be savoring the taste of my semen, she gave me a nervous smile before using her tongue to slap at the tip of my dick before giving it a kiss and letting it go.

Suddenly it was as if she had awoken from a dream and had realized that there was a guy standing in front of her with his shorts down to his knees, and looked away while I pulled up my underwear.

"I'm sorry," she finally said, and when I looked down at her I could her shoulders shaking and a tear trickling down her cheek.

"Mrs. Crowley?" I said.

The elderly woman who had attacked my cock so ravenously minutes before was now shrinking into the corner of the room, biting her lip and sobbing, and I didn't exactly know what to do except I couldn't just stand there.

"Mrs. Crowley?" I repeated as I came over to her, and her body shook when I put my hands on her shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"Please don't report me," she said softly, her eyes pleading. "I swear that I've never done anything like that before. Never."

"Report you?" I asked, not really sure who you would report such a thing to, and it being 1970 with free love the rule of the day, all it had been was an innocent blow job. "I'm not going to tell anybody."

"Thank you," Mrs. Crowley said, my words appearing to relax her, the frail body seeming to go limp in my arms as I held onto the elderly woman. "I know what you must think of me."

What did I think of her? That was a good question. If some friend of mine had told me that an old woman had pretty much attacked him like Mrs. Crowley had me, I would have laughed and said that either he was lying or that they were both disgusting.

But this was a woman, flesh and blood, and while what she did hadn't been expected and was apparently totally out of character for the distraught woman still trembling in my arms, it had been the most incredible sexual experience of my life.

"I think that you're an amazing woman," I told her, holding her face up to meet mine. "And what you did? It was beautiful. My knees are still rubbery."

Mrs. Crowley laughed a little, blushing as she buried her head on my chest, and for some reason I found my hands lifting her face once more. This time, instead of looking at Mrs. Crowley and smiling, my lips met hers.

Was I actually doing this? I couldn't believe that I actually kissed Mrs. Crowley, and what was even stranger was that what I had meant to be a little peck was turning into a whole lot more. When our lips finally unlocked, she looked at me as if in shock, even more stunned than I was.

"I'm sorry that I have to go back to work," I said, and I meant it.

"Would you?" Mrs. Crowley asked, her voice breaking. "Would you like to stop by for dinner tonight? I mean, I know you young folks probably have a lot of..."

"What time?" I asked.

"Seven?" Mrs. Crowley suggested, and when I nodded I thought she was going to start crying again.

I ran out to the pill cart and drove back to the store to pick up the afternoon deliveries, not really sure whether I had just experienced had actually happened or not. Maybe it was some kind of hallucination or something, I thought.

That theory went by the boards when I used the bathroom back at work and looked at my dick. Along with the dried semen in my pubes was the unmistakable evidence of traces of Mrs. Crowley's lipstick around the base of my cock, and when I saw that, my dick started to get hard again.

...

Chapter Five: Dinner with Agnes.

After taking a desperately needed shower at home, I drove back across town to Mrs. Crowley's place, thinking about what I was doing. I was embarrassed about some of the things I was thinking, and wondered where this part of me had been hiding.

This morning I was recoiling at having to visit this old lady, and now I was thinking about what she would look like naked, and the thought must not have been too bad because my cock was throbbing as I recalled the feeling of her breasts against me when we hugged earlier.

Luckily my erection had subsided by the time that I was knocking on Mrs. Crowley's door. She seemed surprised that I was actually there, and after commenting on how nice I looked, ushered me into her house again.

She had air conditioning, which made the night a success as far as I was concerned, because I would have been roasting at home. Mrs. Crowley could also cook, as her chicken was as good or better than anything my mom could do.

She was also an interesting lady, as it turned out. She was 68 years old, which seemed about right what I had expected, and had been a widow for eight years. She had met her husband-to-be in eighth grade, and that was it for the both of them. When he died, Mrs. Crowley said that a little piece of her died as well.

"That's why this afternoon," Mrs. Crowley said over dessert, "I still don't - must have been from me reading too many romance novels. Or maybe it's because of my soaps. Some of them are pretty racy."

"You don't have to keep apologizing for it," I assured her.

"I just feel like a silly old fool."

"That's not the way I see you," I said. "I don't spend my time with silly fools of any age. And you're a great cook."

I helped her clear the table and started to do the dishes with her, but she stopped me.

"I can do that tomorrow," Mrs. Crowley said. "Nothing else for me to do all day. Come into the living room with me and relax for a few minutes. I'm sure that you being a young and handsome young man, that you have places to go and things to do."

"No," I said. "No plans."

So we went into the living room and sat on the couch, drinking coffee and talking. Mrs. Crowley became Agnes, and she seemed surprised to learn that I was 18 and about to go away to college in the fall.

"You seem so much younger," Agnes Crowley said. "Don't take that the wrong way. Maybe it's your long hair that gives that impression."

"You're so much nicer than the other boys they have delivering," Agnes continued. "The other boys, they always seem annoyed when I ask them to do thing for me, but you always do it with a smile. You must have wonderful parents, because they raised such a respectful young man."

I shrugged at that, feeling a little guilty about being praised for being nice to her, when I had probably been just as irritated as the rest of the people had been when it came to performing the little tasks. Guess I was just better at hiding my feelings, and now I was glad that I had.

"I guess I just like being around young people," Agnes said. "I have my friends, and we do things together, but being around them only reminds me of how old I am. Trust me, some of them are even older and worse looking that I am."

"You look very nice," I told her, and she really wasn't a bad looking woman at all.

I couldn't believe I was actually thinking that old Mrs. Crowley was attractive to me, but she looked a little bit like Miss Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies TV show. While that was a far cry from Ellie Mae Clampett, Agnes was not nearly the train wreck she seemed to see herself as being.

"You must be quite a hit with the ladies," Agnes said, patting my hand and giving it a little squeeze. "Do you have a girl friend?"

"No, not right now," I said. "Going away to college and all, it isn't the right time for that."

"I suppose not. Would you like to watch television or something?"

"No, this is nice. I see you have records."

"Nothing you would know," Agnes said, joining me as I wandered over to the row of vinyl filed next to the stereo. "None of those Rolling Stones or anything."

"Why don't you pick out something you like?" I suggested. "I'll probably like it too."

Agnes pulled out an album and put the vinyl on the turntable. It was a ballad - something about nightingales singing in a square - and as we watched the record spinning under the needle, I found myself leaning against Agnes lightly.

"Do you dance?" Agnes asked me, and although I admitted to not being able to do it well, my arms were already going around her.

We danced the only way I knew, which was pretty much swaying a little bit from side to side, but if Agnes minded she didn't let on. We danced through the nightingales song, and right into one that I had heard of, "I'll Be Seeing You".

I could feel Agnes tense up as the song started. Maybe it triggered an old memory, or perhaps it was their favorite song, but she squeezed me tight as we danced, her slender and frail body cradled in my arms.

"You're going to make some lucky lady a wonderful husband someday," Agnes said as she song ended. "Hopefully you'll both live a long and happy life, and if everything turns out right, when you go, you'll go together."

"There's nothing worse than being left behind," Agnes said with eyes that were sparkling with moisture. "You don't really know loneliness until after you've been with someone that means everything to you, and then suddenly they're gone."

"Then you were lucky," I said, and although the song playing was an uptempo number, we kept dancing out slow shuffle. "A lot of people don't ever find that special, someone even for a moment."

"I guess," Agnes replied, nodding as she got a faraway look in her eyes. "If Walter could see me now, dancing with another man."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," I assured her. "I'm getting the dance, but he's still got your heart."