This story is about Christopher, one of the members of the Templeton chess club, and Betty Parsons, a woman who lives nearby. It is classified within the Mature, May-December section, for persons who may like this theme. The story is long, but it doesn't have to be read all at once. There are demarcated sections, allowing you to read just parts of it at any one time. And, please do note, all of the characters in this story are at least eighteen years old.
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Betty Parsons' husband, Jack, had been deceased for a few years. They had been married for quite some time. The loss was naturally very difficult for her. The first few months were really terribly painful. Every room in the house brought back a different memory. They were lovely to remember, yet also so painful to recall.
But, time does heal wounds, even ones as deep as these.
And that's how it should be, how Jack would have wanted it. He would have wanted Betty to move on. He had even said so, in no uncertain terms in the last few months of his own struggle. The purpose of life is not simply to mourn and grieve. There really is so little time. Nobody knew that better than Jack.
Betty's friends were in fact encouraging her to now reenter the world, to start a new life, with someone else. She had mourned. It was time to move on. She was only half way through her own life. She should find a new partner to share the many good years that are yet to come.
Betty was still a very attractive woman, with much to offer a man. She was vivacious, engaging, bright, full of life, and very loving.
But, she wasn't quite ready for that yet. Somehow it did not yet feel right, or appropriate. She wasn't ready for that type of commitment, at least not yet.
Still, she did miss the company of a man.
Betty was a very healthy and active woman, with a very healthy and active body.
Of course, she was not adverse to a woman's helper. In fact, she was becoming quite skilled and adept with them. Until the last few months she had not realized how many different shapes, sizes, colors, and textures were available.
She liked using little ones to imagine that she was doing it with a young, innocent man. Of course, a young man doesn't necessarily have a small penis, but it did help with the fantasy. She also at times used the little ones for her bottom. She was rather embarrassed to admit that. Her husband had never tried or even suggested doing anything with her bottom. She realized now that they probably should have experimented a bit more.
She also had a really big black one for a fantasy that she wouldn't ever tell anyone.
She didn't like very much the battery operated vibrators. The vibration was nice. In fact, real nice. But she found the noise way too distracting, interfering with her ability to become absorbed within her fantasy. The sound was frankly unpleasant, just short of a dentist drill. Whenever she did use one her pussy would have to be buried in a ton of blankets to try to muffle the grating noise.
She would feel a bit embarrassed whenever she opened up her private box of helpers. Goodness, what if somebody stumbled upon them?! She kept the box well hidden within her closet, but what if she also suddenly died. She couldn't help but wonder what the reaction of her friends would be if they were to discover this shameful collection as they cleaned out her closet, or worse yet brought it out during one of these estate auctions in which the auctioneer roams through the house, selling each item as the crowd comes upon it within each room. Of course, why should she really care what their reaction would be, as she would be dead, unaware of and impervious to their shock. Still, one doesn't want to leave a legacy such as that.
The likelihood that she would die soon was, of course, pretty remote but, of course, that was how her husband had felt about his own life.
Then again, one can't live as if death was right around the corner. She was alive now and obtaining quite a bit of pleasure from her toys. She would get rid of them someday, when there was no real need for or interest in them. That day would come at some point. For now she relied on her little (and big) helpers.
As she did so one hot summer afternoon.
It was a nice day, in that it was sunny, but the temperature was a bit on the warm side. Well, actually, it was in fact rather hot. There was though a nice strong breeze.
She loved growing flowers. They were all just so pretty, so gay, so pleasant. Flowers spoke of fresh young vibrant life, growth, and feminine beauty. That helped, at least a bit. Gardening could provide such a nice boost to her mood.
However, the deeper into summer the more the work could become difficult and tedious, even exhausting. Today she was weeding. Pulling weeds in the hot sun can be rather draining, to say the least.
One of the more difficult plants was the milkweeds. Milkweeds were very nice for attracting monarch butterflies. She in fact had a garden devoted specially to milkweeds. But, this plant was indeed a weed, and very difficult to control. It was always attempting to spread to her other gardens, and its root system was horrific once it got a foothold. It spread in part by new sprouts coming up from the deeply embedded roots, and unlike most weeds the roots were next to impossible to fully extract. They were so deep and bulbous, and would invariably snap in the process of extraction.
She could use a weed killing spray. But, she hated poisons. It risked harming some of her flowers, and was generally poor for the environment. So, she had to dig, dig, and dig some more.
It was really very difficult work out in a hot sun.
Betty did not wear a brassiere when she gardened, particularly when she was in the backyard. Modesty while weeding was not really a priority. Comfort was her primary concern.
Betty though did have good reason to be concerned about modesty. She had been blessed with relatively large bosoms, which have also held up well despite the fact that she was no longer in her twenties (she would not reveal her precise age), and they were not particularly well hidden in the t-shirt she was now wearing. On the contrary, the t-shirt might in fact be a bit small for her, as it clung to her breasts like it was almost painted on. Every wriggle and jiggle of her bountifully buxom boobs was readily evident, as well as quite frequent, given her struggles to remove deeply ensconced roots with a shovel and spade.
Nor did it help that she was working up quite a bit of sweat. In fact, it eventually appeared that she might as well be entering a wet t-shirt contest, as the thin cotton became thoroughly soaked with perspiration to the point that one could even discern skin and nipple through the tightly clinging fabric.
She was at first a bit self-conscious about it, as she should. Certainly no one in the neighborhood would approve of one of the mothers providing such a wanton display of essentially naked breast flesh right out in the open. But, with the exception of the Hansun home, whose backyard was separated from hers by a picket fence, she was well hidden from view. The backyards of her next door neighbors were hidden from view: on one side by a tall hedge and on the other by an equally large privacy fence.
Betty continued her work, not wanting to take unnecessary time to go back into the house and change her t-shirt, only to have that one inevitably become soaked as well.
