I waited nearly a year after getting the come-on from the woman next door before getting inside her knickers. A year wasted? No doubt!
The fact that Pat was 75-years-old was not the reason for the time lapse. I love old pussy. If I were to compile a list of my all-time top 10 fucks, at least seven or eight would be with women over 60. Pat, it would transpire, was a top three lady.
The proposition I had ignored for so long and to which nearly ignored completely, came at the back end of a long evening function being held on the wedding day of another neighbour's daughter.
The combination of energetic dancing and too much to drink had taken its toll. Pat had to more or less drag me on to the floor, thrown her arms round me and pushed herself close. Her newly-styled short, tight-curled white hair matched a close-fitting white blouse which housed two large, enticing breasts. Her perfume was expensive but way too powerful.
To this day I have no recollection of the three songs to which we danced, though I can clearly recall what she whispered into my ear.
"I really like you," she said.
"And I want to show you how much. Come round sometime and I'll give you a nice big thank-you for being such a lovely neighbour."
Looking back, I should have asked her to elaborate but her words had come as such a surprise, I was close to being speechless. I did, however, have an erection. Given how close we were, she could not fail to notice my state of arousal. Without moving sufficiently to draw any attention she pressed herself firmly into me, rotating her hips ever so slightly. Through the fabric of our clothes, her cunt was warm.
I felt an almost overwhelming urge to respond with a string of four-letter words, impress on her my strong wish to fuck her.
When our dances were over we went separate ways though, before she left, Pat gave me a knowing smile. It made me feel embarrassed.
I did not see Pat at all the following day and the day after that, when we spoke briefly, she was still nursing a hangover. Neither of us mentioned the dances nor the conversation.
I assumed it was the drink that had been talking and she was probably keen to forget the whole episode. Later that week, I had my first wet dream about Pat.
Leaving aside the mess, I guess there's no such thing as a bad wet dream; though if you wake up to sticky sheets with no recollection of a dream it can be frustrating. Pat, however, was at the centre of a very vivid and extremely intense dream.
It was a warm, summer evening. The two of us were side by side, naked in long, dry grass. We were close to a gypsy style caravan and the air was filled with exotic scent.
Gnarled fingers with cracked nails took a firm hold of the protruding sex flaps to reveal the bright pink interior. Then it was pink on pink as my tongue made long strokes along the length of the old lady's vagina. The sound of wind blowing gently through the long grass and leaves in the trees was eclipsed by moans of pleasure
Slowly, I eased myself on top of Pat's naked form. Entering her warm wetness was effortless and as soon I had penetrated her to the hilt, I refrained from movement.
I remember trying to remain motionless, setting myself a challenge of stopping myself attaining orgasm. Although she was underneath, Pat was the one doing the fucking. And how! Her warm, wet grip enveloped the whole length of my shaft, her steady deliberate rhythm sending my whole body into a state of ecstasy overdrive. Even when I sensed climax was inevitable I tried to summon all my mental powers to hold it at bay.
As often is the case with my wet dreams, I woke as my orgasm was about to take hold. I was half asleep, laying on my front, my cock pointing upwards. The intensity of the first spurt took me by surprise and hastened my waking. The first ejaculation was followed by three or four of almost equal force. When my climaxing finally ended, I found myself laying on a warm, wet patch the size of an irregular A4 sheet of paper.
Four hours later and half an hour before the six o clock alarm was due to ring, I rolled on top of my wife and recaptured some of the magic of the reverie.
Pat's vision, erotic or otherwise, never entered my night time inner imagination again though she became high up on my list of favourite fantasy masturbation sessions
Some 10 or 11 months passed before my dream came true, so to speak.
Gordon, better known as Jock, was the third husband of twice-widowed Pat. Ten years her junior, he was generally a very personable man, but given to sporadic bursts of extremely heavy drinking sessions, after which he usually became violent. He also made several trips each year to Scotland to spend time with family.
It was during one such excursion, I made my move on Pat.
Working from home, my workload tended to vary considerably from one month to the next. I was in the middle of a particularly quiet spell, bored and horny.
When Pat answered the door, she didn't look surprised to see me but a warm smile gave a strong hint she was pleased I called round.
She offered me a seat before settling alongside, keeping a foot of space between us.
"Did you come round for any particular reason," she asked, making eye contact and holding it.
