The Old Er Ones Are The Best Pt 02

It isn't quite desperation in her fingers, but she's certainly in a hurry as she tugs at the button and zip on my jeans: either she's worried that I might stop her, not much chance of that, or more likely, she just plain wants to get in there.

And get in there she does: although at one point she'd tugged so hard on the zip that it had momentarily jammed, she'd paused, taken a breath to calm herself, then eased it up to release it before slowly sliding it all the way down.

There hadn't been much of a lead up to this. I'd hardly known her before today, in fact I still hardly know her.

We live on the same long lane and I regularly pass this way each time I go deeper into the woods.

Until recently it had been "their" house. I'd occasionally seen one or the other of them in their garden and, in a neighbourly gesture, I'd waved and they'd waved back. But that had been it; the sum total of my "knowing" them/her.

But then, two months ago, her husband had, what I understand to have been unexpectedly, died.

There had been a funeral, to which I hadn't been invited, hadn't expected to be. And a wake, also to which I hadn't been invited, and again I hadn't expected to have been.

I hadn't seen her since all that, and, honestly, I hadn't really thought about her. Until this morning.

When she'd knocked on my door.

A very slender woman, similar height as me, possibly in her 70s with grey hair tied tightly back in a short ponytail, wearing jeans and an oversized white tee-shirt. And, even though her face rang no bells with me, I'd had the vague feeling that I knew her from somewhere,

She'd smiled. 'Hello, I live down the lane and I was wondering if you could help me with something.'

It had dawned on me who she was. 'Ah yes, you......your......' I'd paused, not knowing what to say and suddenly concious of saying the wrong thing.

'Yes, he died.' She'd seemed a bit matter of fact about it.

'Oh......yes......I'm sorry.' I'd tried to sound sympathetic.

'Thank you.' Again she hadn't seemed too concerned.

And, in an effort to overcome my slight embarrassment at nearly saying the wrong thing, I'd said, 'Please, come in, would you like a tea or coffee?'

'Thank you, a tea would be lovely.' She'd replied and followed me into the kitchen. 'Nice place, must be quite old.'

'Thank you, yes, two hundred years at least. I can't find much information about it, just seems to have been one of the few built along the lane for the woodsmen and estate workers. Most of them have been swallowed up into bigger houses: you can still see that some of them have this in them, your's would probably have been one of these originally. I was told by the engineer who did the buyers survey for me that this was the original part of the house and everything else was added later.' I'd said, still trying to cover my embarrassment.

'Seems the perfect size for you?'

I'd had the impression that there was a question in there. 'Yes, perfect size for just little old me,' I'd shrugged. 'I think so anyway.'

And after putting the mugs of tea down I'd held out my hand. 'I'm David, a pleasure to meet you.'

She'd taken my hand in a light handshake, her's was small and delicate. 'Hello David, I'm Jen, a pleasure to meet you too.'

I'd held her hand for a second longer than I'd needed to, enjoyed the warmth of it. And in those couple of seconds I'd studied her.

She had a narrow angular face that seemed quite severe but her smile showed bright white teeth and crinkled her blue eyes into a fine web of crows feet. It was a pleasant face but you could see that she had been under a strain recently.

Letting go of her hand I'd stepped back. 'Please sit down Jen, how can I help?'

Sitting at the table she'd taken a breath. 'I know you didn't, don't know either of us but......before I get to what I'm here for, I'd just like to explain a couple of things. With......what happened I've been trying to decide what to do with myself now that I'm on my own. I realise that the house is far too big for me, but I love it, always have done, it was always my house; not in a possession way, just in a loving it sort of way, he didn't really care about it but then he didn't really care about quite a lot of things.'

It had been quite a personal, private thing to say to a stranger on a first meeting but she hadn't seemed concerned about saying it, it had been said in an almost reminiscent and regretful way, she'd then paused for a moment and had seemed to mentally shrug it off.

'Anyway, I've decided that there's no way I want to leave it, or here, but I do need to have a huge sort out, get rid of some stuff.' She'd laughed. 'A lot of stuff. I've been boxing things up and now I need to shift what I don't want into the shed at the back of the house while I work out what to do with it. But I need help to do that.' She'd looked at me, hopefully. 'I'll pay you.'

I didn't have to think about it. 'Of course I'll help Jen, be happy to. But I don't want paying, you're a neighbour, happy to help out. But what brings you to me, we've never met, don't know each other.'

'Oh I've had offers, but mostly from Bob's old friends,' I'd made a guess that Bob was her husband. 'but most of them would have a heart attack if they lifted more than a golf club, and I'm sure that a few have a certain idea in their heads.' She hadn't elaborated, but it hadn't been hard to work out what she'd meant. 'So I asked a few people I know in the lane and you came up a couple of times, so I thought I'd give you a go. And here I am.'

I nodded, it was true, I had helped a couple of people out in the past. 'Nice to know I come recommended.'

'You do, which is, like I said, why I'm here. And thank you. When are you free?'

My plan for the day had been nonexistent. 'How about now? I've nothing on my social calendar.'

'Really? That would be brilliant.'

'Just let me get changed and we can get on.'

She'd talked all the way down to her house; about how they'd moved here over twenty years ago, how she'd loved the house at first sight, how she loved the lane, and how much she loved the woods. She had two sons: both in banking: one in Hong Kong, the other in Australia and how the one in Australia wanted her to move there but that she had no intention of doing so. She had a very bright, breezy voice, very easy to listen to: I barely got a word in but that was fine, she clearly wanted to talk, so I let her.

The house wasn't huge, but it was big, definitely too big for one person; four big bedrooms: all ensuite, a large lounge, a breakfast room with a conservatory attached, a smaller lounge - she called it a snug, a big dining room with a seemingly endless table, an office and a ridiculously big kitchen diner. And, with the exception of one bedroom, it all had a very definite womans touch to it: that one bedroom was much more masculine and had obviously been his; Bob's. They'd had separate bedrooms.

There was a triple garage attached to the house and the gardens were extensive, probably an acre, and very well cared for with manicured lawns and flower beds. Definitely too big for one person. But she seemed set on staying. She'd said that the pluses of staying far outweighed the negatives. Who am I to argue?

There were boxes and piles of things in every single room, including the bathrooms. It had looked an impossible task. But she'd had a plan. I was to learn that Jen was rarely without a plan.

The "shed" she'd talked about was more of a barn, with a ride-on mower, a neat stack of firewood and a clutter of unwanted and discarded items scattered across the floor. I'd spent an hour clearing one end then had spread a tarpaulin I'd found in a corner over the cleared area and Jen had taped A4 pieces of paper to it with destinations, like "charity" "friends" "sell", even peoples names, written on them: I'd chuckled at that one and she'd chuckled back. 'I know, I know, Miss Organised.'

'You are, but that's a good thing, at least we only have to sort the boxes once.'

'And furniture.'

'Furniture?'

'Yes, I want to get rid of some furniture.' She'd been smiling at me.

'Right.'

Then, after a short break for lunch, we'd started the hard part.

Box by box, piece by piece they'd gone down. And it was box by box, it didn't matter how heavy they were, their size meant that they'd had to go one at a time. The lighter ones one of us moved, the heavier ones the both of us moved, and we'd quickly gotten into a rhythm.

And Jen hadn't hung back, she'd done just as much as me and, for all her slight build, she was surprisingly strong. The whole shifting of the dozens of boxes and numerous pieces of furniture had gone extremely smoothly.

And through it all we'd spent a lot of time in close proximity, sometimes in very close proximity. Lifting, moving, carrying. Shoulders touched, hands touched, even heads touched.

The first few times one or the other of us would mutter an apology. But, after I don't know how many of those close contacts, we'd just stopped acknowledging them, they were just accepted as inevitable and not worthy of mention.

And once we'd started the move, we hadn't stopped.

But it had still been nearly six o'clock by the time we'd stepped back and surveyed the sorted stacks and rows.

'Blimey Jen, you've sure got a lot of "stuff".'

'Hmmm, I know, a ridiculous amount of "stuff". And thank you so much for helping me, I'd never have done it without you.'

'No problem at all,' I'd grimaced. 'although my back might be saying otherwise tomorrow.'

'Ah, tomorrow.' She'd said tentatively.

Looking at her I'd said, 'Yes Jen?'

She'd blushed. 'Err, I was hoping that you might be free to help me move some furniture.'

'Move some furniture.'

Her voice had been a little subdued, she'd probably expected me to say no. 'Mmm, yes. Now I've cleared what I want I'd like to rearrange the rooms, try some different looks.' Her face had taken on a crestfallen look.

I hadn't been able to help but laugh. 'That face.' I'd laughed again, exclaimed, 'You've been practicing that!'

She'd grinned guiltily and pouted. 'I have not.'

Grinning back I'd replied, 'Yes you have. And of course I will, after you've treated me so gently how could I possibly say no.'

'Ha, good, thank you.' She'd grabbed quickly at it, not wanting to give me a chance to change my mind. 'Will you stay for dinner?'

'What? Oh, no, but thank you. I think we've worked hard enough for today, I don't want to put you to any trouble.'

'Oh it's no trouble, I've got loads of stuff in the freezer, it'll take no time at all.'

'In that case Jen I'd love to stay.'

And it had been really pleasant. We'd each selected a single meal portion from her freezer: she clearly did exactly the same as me when cooking; making more than she needed and freezing the rest. She'd opened a bottle of wine, and we'd sat side by side at the breakfast bar, eaten, chatted and gotten slightly squiffy.

We'd chatted long after we'd finished eating until I'd realised how late it was getting.

I'd sat back and said, 'That was lovely Jen, thank you so much for dinner and far too much wine, but I'm going to go now, hopefully I'll turn the right way when I leave here.' And, slightly unsteadily, I'd pushed myself to my feet.

Jen had stayed seated. She'd looked undecided about something, conflicted.

Then, without warning, she'd put her hand on my crotch and rubbed her upturned palm up and down.

The effect on me had been immediate.

I'd felt myself thicken, harden, grow inside my trousers.

She'd taken a deep breath through her nose, it had shuddered back out again. She'd glanced up, then back down.

Then, without giving me a chance to say or do anything, she'd pulled my belt apart, spent a second fumbling with the button then moved to the zip, she'd tugged too hard and it had jammed.

She'd taken a breath to calm herself, then slid off her stool and dropped to her knees at my feet.

And now I'm watching the top of her head as she again takes hold of the zip, carefully releases it and eases it all the way down.

She pushed her fingers into the top of my jeans and I feel them against my skin as slowly, almost tentatively, she pulls them down.

Her fingertips brush my cock. It twitches and she makes a soft noise: she sounds surprised at the reaction she's caused.

I can feel myself lifting, still growing; still getting harder, thicker.

Her fingers slide around me, massage slowly up and down.

I feel the touch of her wet tongue, then her lips as they slowly encircle my now swollen glans, her tongue swirling and probing.

She sinks further down, my cock against the roof of her mouth, her tongue pressing up. She slides up and down, her teeth lightly touching my hot flesh. Then there's the pressure of a hard suck before she pulls back with an audible smack of her lips.

Both her hands wrap around my length and they slowly massage up and down, they get faster and faster before slowing. Occasionally she stops for a second and the wet flick of her tongue swipes across the tip or her mouth swoops in to cover me in saliva before her hands begin their dance again.

Oh god, even after these few minutes it's already getting too much: I can feel the heat building in my groin, know that if she's not careful she's going to get a face full.

I clench my bum, try to stave it off. And her mouth drops onto me.

Her hands stop.

She doesn't move, seems to be waiting. But I feel the need subside, the heat dissipate.

She groans, I'm not sure if she's disappointed or pleased.

Her head dives in again.

Her mouth engulfs me. I feel myself slipping deeper and deeper, the wet warmth enveloping me, feel the back of her tongue, she pushes ever deeper, I sink into the back of her throat.

She stops, holds me there for a second, then another. Jumps back, coughs and gasps for breath.

She gulps, takes another breath then pushes me back into her mouth.

Her head bobs and her mouth, warm and very wet, slides up and down my ever more sensitive cock. Her tongue probes and licks, the rougher back of it sliding against the soft, underside. She starts to throw in a few twists, follows with short, hard, jabbing, her hands squeezing tightly.

It's as though she's constantly remembering old tricks: remembering how she used to do it.

Suddenly she stops and lifts clear, says, 'I have a confession to make.' And immediately she's said it she swoops back down.

I almost miss her words, not quite sure what she'd said.

Then, after a few rapid turns she once again pulls back. 'More of a confession of an omission really.'

This is not the way to hold a conversation, I thought, as once again her hot mouth sucks me in.

This time she left me with a long dangling trail of saliva between us. 'I omitted to tell you that you had a recommendation from someone other than a neighbour.'

It's the long, slow dragging of teeth that ends that particular sentence.

'A mutual friend.'

And I thought that was it: end of confession. She spends the next few minutes twisting and sucking, short pumps then long deep pushes as far down as she can go.

Fuck! She'd started very tentatively but she's obviously gotten her confidence back and she's really going for it now. It won't be long before one of us has to make a certain decision.

Then she pulls off with a gasp for breath. 'Stella.' And with that one word she dived back down.

'Stella!?' I groaned. The groan is more from her jamming me right into the back of her throat than the revelation that she knew my Stella.

Stella and I had met only the twice. At some stage I'd given her my number and, after that second, memorable time, I'd hoped that she would get in touch, she never had. A couple of times I'd even gone looking for her in town on the days she'd said that she went in, but she'd obviously changed her habits, so I'd decided that I had to respect that obvious change of heart and I'd left it alone. But it must be going on for two years since that last time, it was somehow pleasing to know that she still remembered me.

But I can't think about both Jen's mouth and Stella, not at the same time, not now.

But Jen had one more thing to say. 'Yes. Stella. She said I should look you up.'

And she went back to it. But I begin to feel a shift in her body language, as though talking had broken her mood.

She felt stiffer, less relaxed.

There's a determination in her actions, she wanted to finish, wanted me to finish, to get to the end.

And that feeling of determination kept increasing; her movements getting faster, harder, more staccato, it's as though she's no longer enjoying herself and just wanted it over. And that meant that I was no longer enjoying it, but I was too far gone to change the outcome.

But there isn't any pleasure in it anymore: no twists, no swirling tongue, just straight up and down with hard, gripping fingers, it had become borderline painful.

I tried to relax, resisted fighting it, just let it happen. She needed it over so I needed it over.

I exploded. Pumped rope after rope of thick spunk into her mouth.

But there was still no pleasure in it, it's just a mechanical act, a release, a relief.

Five minutes later I'm walking back up the lane in the pitch dark listening to the night and thinking.

She hadn't made a sound when I'd cum, barely acknowledged the act. She'd sat back with cum still leaking out of me, had wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and climbed to her feet.

She'd smiled weakly and said, 'I'll see you tomorrow then.'

I'd taken that as a dismissal, hadn't really been able to think of anything to say, so I'd just said something like. 'Sure thing.' And left.

It wasn't a happy ending.

Tomorrow would be interesting. Or maybe not, maybe she would cry off. I intended going down, if she'd have me, I really didn't want to leave it like this.

I woke the next morning feeling quite good considering how much wine had been drunk. But the evening had ended on quite a sobering note. It had been a poor end to what had been a good day.

We'd swapped phone numbers at lunchtime so I fully expect Jen to text or call to cancel, but I hadn't heard anything by nine so I walked down.

Jen's front door is wide open when I arrive but I knock anyway.

She walked into the hall. 'Morning David, come in. I've made coffee, let's go into the conservatory, I'd like to talk.'

Oops, looks like she's breaking up with me. For some reason the thought made me smile.

'What are you smiling about?' She asked.

'Oh nothing, just a random thought.'

She sat down and looked at her coffee, she didn't look comfortable.

She took a sip then said, 'Thank you for still coming down this morning, after my behaviour yesterday I really didn't think you would. I've been worried sick all night, I can't believe the way I jumped on you like that, I am sooo sorry.' She took a deep breath. 'Bob was not the easiest man to live with, he wasn't violent or anything, wasn't abusive. He just wasn't interested in any kind of emotional or physical relationship. We had the boys and that was the last time we had sex, the last time we kissed, he just wasn't interested. I used to count the days: it quickly became weeks, then months. Then, after a while, I stopped counting, what was the point. Sometimes I'd try to work it out; how long it had been, Jonathan's forty-one now so what's that?' She asked herself, then sighed. 'I'd say to myself, "have an affair, go and find someone, it can't be that hard." But then I'd just lose the will, couldn't be bothered with the effort, with the drama. Then yesterday was such a lovely day, one of the best days I've had in such a long time, you were brilliant, so helpful and uncomplicated, didn't try anything on, didn't say anything stupid.'

She took another deep breath. 'And then last night......I got carried away in the moment, in the easiness of us,' she chuckled, which was nice to hear, 'a bottle of wine or two didn't help. And then......well, and then. I don't really know what broke the mood. I guess I'd sobered up a little, maybe it was mentioning Stella: I'd told myself not to do that. Maybe I got frightened; thought that I'd spoiled something, our short friendship, I hadn't even asked you if I could......'