Love sweet T.
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I first noticed her on a grey November’s day at the supermarket. As she loaded shopping into her car a huge bag of green apples fell from one of the carriers, hit the ground, split and fruit rolled everywhere; she must have been very fond of apples. Much of it tumbled, erratically in my direction, I scurried about gathering up the tumbling orbs and restored them to their somewhat flustered owner. I would never have looked at her twice, she could have been my mum but then she smiled and her face lit-up, rolling back the years in a trice.
“Thank you,” she said, “chivalry is not quite dead yet.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied and in the normal course of things that would have been that, me on my way to my exciting weekly shop for one.
A few days later, however, disgruntled by the overcrowded trains I encountered on my daily commute to work, I set off sooner than I needed to in the vague hope of sitting. As I stood on a far less crowded platform, I wondered if it really was ‘the apple lady’ waiting further along. It was certainly the same broad smile, she was chatting animatedly with a woman friend who, in her turn, was clearly laughing. In the excitement of actually finding an empty seat I instantly forgot all about her again.
Not the next day, come to think of it, it was the day after, a Thursday; ‘the apple lady’ was indeed walking towards me, down the platform. As she approached I chanced a thin smile and she replied with a hesitant, “good morning,” clearly uncertain if she knew me but not sufficiently confident to snub me.
I beamed back and replied with a cheery, “good morning,” I don’t know if she heard, I hoped that she had. She was blond with carefully trimmed hair, neither short nor long, cleverly framing her face to set it at its best advantage. True, she had lines around her eyes and across her brow, as well as deeply etched laughter lines but her skin was still soft and she had delightful rosy cheeks; whilst now still very attractive she had clearly once been a stunning beauty and when she smiled her faded glory returned instantly. I watched as she walked down the platform her short well rounded, though not fat, figure causing the hips of her tailored cashmere coat to sway provocatively. I noticed that I was not the only man who’s eye she caught.
As the days passed I saw her, on average, two or three times a week. Gradually, her good morning greeting acquired confidence until one morning she actually spoke, “Why do I keep saying hello to you, how do I know you?”.
“It’s because you dropped your apples.” She looked totally blank. “At the supermarket, a few weeks back, I was you knight in rusty armour, or at least a faded black leather bomber jacket, and blue jeans I appended not totally helpfully.”
She pondered, her face masking over with concentration. “Good Heaven’s yes. I remember you now.” She swallowed a retort and instead radiated that huge, drop dead, totally gorgeous smile directly at me. “I was making apple pies for my neighbours school fate, I had dozens of them. Well thank you once again but I’d better hurry and join my friend now.” And off she scurried. After that our ‘good mornings’ remained brief but were confident and cordial, and always terminated with that heavenly knowing smile. Very much later I discovered that whilst she had been, ‘the apple lady,’ to her I was, ‘scuttle-bum.’
That Good Morning was rapidly becoming the highlight of my day. I was supervising men in a office that was full of men, men who ran a factory that was full of men, a world of men in an unfamiliar town. I was not particularly well liked at work, I had been brought in to supervise the modernisation of the computers at the plant, the graduate whiz-kid supervising men who were all older than me, they resented it bitterly. Truth to tell, I got on better with the blokes on the shop floor, was introduced to their wives, drank pints with them and laughed at the comedians in their clubs; unfortunately, daughters did not appear to be invited to accompany their father to his ‘Working-man’s club’; given the typical script of a comedian I was not surprised, but then the spouses often laughed from deeper within their bellies than did their menfolk. And some of the jokes were filled with genuine bathos, ‘it were that cowed (cold) in we’re ‘ouse that a bad Winter ‘ud freeze t’locks clean off of t’shilling (gas-)meters.’ My salvation, at work, was that I was exceptionally good at my job.
Don’t get me wrong, there were women and girls working with the computers but they inhabited a big airy office on the opposite side of the town. Weekly meetings with their supervisor, Arlene – Arlene, who had six kids and looked like a shot-putter, accompanied by an, admittedly, female side-kick whom I had nick-named ‘the mouse’ – was my only access to their charms, regardless of my ever more desperate hints that an invitation to their Christmas party ought to be extended to me.
January third, an auspicious day, the day my life changed or at least improved; ‘the apple lady’ bid me “Happy New Year,” but today she stopped to chat. “My friend’s off on holiday,” escort dikmen she explained, “we work next to each other but they don’t like us gossiping so we chat on the way in. But this is silly, you don’t even know my name, I’m Tracy.”
“I’m David,” I replied. Reflexly we shook hands, all terribly formal, then both burst out laughing at our own ridiculousness. We chatted on the train. She and her friend worked in a solicitors office typing up endless legal forms and reports. She was divorced and from her tone I gathered this was not a topic to pursue. She lived in a grey semi, located in a grey street with dull neighbours who tramped grey pavements, a street where, for entertainment, the residents nipped out to watch the traffic lights change; a dreadful old joke but the radiant smile that suffused her face as she delivered the hoary old saw transformed it into a fresh and humorous witticism.
I detailed the delightful, all male, management structure under which I worked and she demanded to know how soon it would be before she could start under my command. She quipped, “it can’t be that hard to plug boxes into one another can it?” After a pause, she enquired, “what you don’t even have even a tea lady?” I confessed I had no idea where the mugs and that giant urn of tea came from each day, I conjectured that they must materialise and de-materialise like the Tardis. In a flash it was my stop and I said goodbye, rather reluctantly. As I exited the station I remembered her lovely hazel eyes but also felt awkward because, as she had unbuttoned her coat, I had taken the trouble to notice that she was possessed of a pair of bouncy and well rounded breasts.
The next time I saw Tracy there was something different about her but I could not define it. Perhaps a touch more make up, possibly a blouse and skirt rather than a dress, definitely more cleavage on display, I had to keep reminding myself not to gaze. Heels, she was wearing heels, not huge ones but high enough. Her scent had changed too, less floral and more aromatic. “Nice tie, all spick and span.” she commented.
I was expected to wear a suit for work and alternated between two shapeless affairs, one blue, one grey pinstripe but I’d taken pity on them and both were at the cleaners so I been enforced to wear my smart charcoal suit, over shiny black shoes and set off with a Liberty print tie. I reckoned that I’d get some stick about that tie from the blokes on the shop floor but I could take it and I had a quick brain that could dish it straight back; that’s why we got on because I could make them laugh. “You’re looking very fetching yourself,” I mumbled; I’ve never been good at complements, with girl-friends I had always had to plan and carefully rehearse flattery in advance and never noticed when they had had their hair done, well not unless it was a disaster.
“Yes we both seem to have smartened ourselves up for the New Year, perhaps it’s catching,” Tracey chuckled.
For a split second I was outraged, she was flirting with me, she was actually flirting; then worse still, I blushed, because I realised that I was guilty of exactly the same crime. I was subjected to that radiant smile but now I could swear that there was a wicked little glint in her eye too. Tracy did, however refrain from embarrassing me further, “you haven’t told me if you were given any good books for Christmas, I’m sure you’ll have read them all by now,” she had already gleaned that I was an avid reader. So in our smartened clothes we discussed books, like civilized persons.
Truly, I had no idea what my emotional attachment to Tracy might be. There was certainly an attraction on my part, almost an obsession. She was desirable enough, more than enough, and she really knew how to combine coy and sexy. I wondered just how old she was, a twenty five year old having an affair with a forty something year old; make no mistake it was not love, or at least not what I had ever experienced as love but it was more than straight-forwards lust; when I was with Tracy I felt completely relaxed and she appeared to reciprocate my comfort.
On the Friday, by coincidence, we met outside the station. Tracy sighed, “our last day today,” to my secret delight spoken in a decidedly wistful tone, “next week my friend returns.”
“I’ve really enjoyed chatting with you, I’ve finally made a friend here, I hope?” I ventured.
“You have. Tell you what. I was given some dreadful books as Christmas presents, come over on Sunday afternoon and take them off my hands. There’s a John le Carrie, too complicated for a simpleton like me, a James Clavell, I find him boring and a Douglas Adams that I’ve just finished. You can borrow that one.” I’d probably read them already but this was one occasion when I was not going to miss a hint a hint.
What I actually replied was, “I was given a David Niven, I certainly can’t read it, shall I bring it along with me? My niece gave it to me, perhaps he appeals more to women.”
“He most certainly does,” she simpered, “but I don’t know if he can write.” So the deed was done, we had agreed escort elvankent to meet at her house on Sunday afternoon, how terribly British and dreadfully civilised, a fateful decision negotiated through a conspiracy of complicity, but oh what a delicious prospect, I had that feeling you get when you hug yourself, butterflies in the tummy but most emphatically friendly butterflies. “Come at two, if that’s alright with you, here I’ll write my address down,” she only lived around the corner from me but she had a warm cheery house. I inhabited a cold, probably damp, dreary flat recently re-decorated by me in cheerful colours. A flat located over a dreary shop which sold surgical appliances to men in greasy looking coats, nurses in crisply starched uniforms and old women in long shapeless well-worn garments, coverall’s that might have been coats once upon a time. It was not a cheerful neighbourhood, at least not in Winter. Then I recalled Tracy’s description of her street, ‘grey semi, grey street, dull neighbours, grey pavements,’ she was obviously not enamoured of our district either.
Sunday afternoon, a bright yellow sun hung low in a cold blue sky and miracles occurred, the bulging black bin bags had not been torn open by abandoned scavenging pets, feral with hunger. Litter had not been dropped or at least there was an atypical absence of brown paper bags emblazoned with McDonald’s and Burger King logos, bags which inevitably spewed polystyrene cartons and tiny greasy envelopes across the pavement. There was a Kentucky Fried Chicken family bucket, wedged tightly behind the bus stop but, in all fairness, that had been there for weeks, practically an integral part of that suburban landscape by then. Tracy had been harsh about her neighbours, jasmine blossomed bright yellow in more than one garden, I spotted snow drops and tiny crocuses bringing soft cheer to the broad, tree-lined, avenue. OK, you still had to play dodge the dog-turd, especially as it became more middle-class but today it was a land of hope, even if the politicians were systematically eroding our glory.
I rang the bell, a ‘ding-dong ding-dong, welcome to suburbia’ peel. Tracy was a complete contrast to her train-trip self, sophistication realised: for a start she was not wearing a coat but a soft cream blouse, almost certainly silk, a knee length well cut black skirt and dark hose, shame about the pink fluffy slippers. “Hello, do come on in. Please, do you mind taking your shoes off, there’s so much…,” her sentence tailed off into a gentle shudder and a mild grimace.
“Dog poo. I know it’s dire out there. Are the dogs grey too?”
She spotted the allusion and laughed good naturedly. I wished that I had dressed a little more smartly instead of donning my usual uniform of black bomber jacket, blue jeans. Worse, under I’d slipped on an open necked shirt patterned with pastel pictures of a couple dancing, one which my mum had picked; now Tracy had deprived me of my one and only smart feature, black brogue shoes carefully polished to a high shine. We exchanged pleasantries and even a peck on the cheek which, encouragingly, was not an air-kiss but a solid smack of affection. She directed me into her front room whilst she bustled off to brew some tea,
I sat leafing through the books she’d left out for me. When she returned with the tray she set at it again, obvious flirtation. She offered me the plate of ginger snaps by leaning forwards whilst keeping her legs straight causing her breasts to tumble forwards, plainly showing off her more than ample cleavage. Once she had sat down, instead of holding her cup and saucer over her lap, she kept leaning forwards to lift them from the coffee table taking a sip and then returning them carefully, contriving to work her skirt a little higher up her thighs with each and every sip.
I rambled on about Christmas at my parents, searching frantically for things to say; my desperation not be caught staring up the small gap between her thighs, the gap that she was displaying so casually was tying my tongue in knots. My composure evaporated completely when it became evident that rather than tights she was wearing stockings. Once sure I had seen this, she stood, straightened down her skirt and offered me another biscuit giving me a second heavenly view of the tops of her breasts. As I took a ginger snap I lost it, I blushed.
“You seem all of a fluster today David, is there something wrong, anything I might be able to do to help? Perhaps it’s too warm in here for you and that’s making you drowsy;” her honeyed tone made my penis begin to swell, it was totally out of my control. “Here, perhaps it will help if you sit on a more upright, less soft seat,” and she indicated a plain unpadded stand chair, “a little further away from that hot radiator.” Now I was in a daze but I did as I was bidden. I was definitely being seduced, a wholly new and very exciting experience, clearly planned with meticulous attention to detail. Tracy placed a cool hand across my forehead, “my you are warm, you’re sure that you’re not coming down with something?” emek escort emphasis firmly on the word coming.
Well I can do innuendo too; “oh dear,” I reposted, “when I do come down with something I always seem to have to spend ages in bed.”
She was better though, “it would be terrible if we had both caught the same bug at the same time, infecting one another. Here let me take a closer look,” and she flipped her skirt up and straddled my lap facing me. I prayed that she would not feel my erection through my trousers but a little wriggle of her bottom, to make herself more comfortable, dispelled any such notion. “Well that’s better, isn’t it?” and she placed her mouth about two inches from mine, head cocked to one side, lips slightly parted.
I supplied the answer we sought desperately by placing my lips across hers and we began to jostle and joust tongues, like two love-struck teenagers. She was soon in control though. She positioned her legs so that she could swing her hips, using my pelvis as the pivot for her pleasure and forcing me to hold her tightly round the waist, with both arms, to prevent her from falling backwards. She wrapped her arms around my neck, held the back of my head with one hand and kept my face firmly clamped against her own as she pressed her lips hard against mine whilst we explored one another’s tongues diligently. She was not sensuous nor even passionate, she was desperate for intimate physical contact and forced me to keep my mouth glued to hers for an eternity. As we kissed she mashed her breasts against my chest and ground her hips into my groin, rolling her sex over mine. I was overwhelmed and just a little intimidated by the extent of this exhibition of pure animal lust.
“My God I needed that,” she exclaimed when she did finally permit us to break apart. She leant back, stared me straight in the face and barked “you stupid clod. You could have done that weeks ago.” Before I could even frame a reply she had rocked forwards, re-clamped her mouth over mine and resumed her hungry probings. When she broke for the second time she was flushed and breathless so instead of kissing her, I began to nibble her earlobes and nuzzle her neck. Her abrupt sighs, appreciative little pants and gentle hisses informed me that I was stoking the fires of her desire and she was getting hotter by the minute.
The repetitive grinding against my loins ceased and Tracy’s bum undertook a little wriggle and a jiggle and I sensed her doing something behind my head, something that was proving a little more difficult than she had anticipated it to be. Clearly she finally succeeded because her hips recommenced their regular rocking and her mews and coos of unrequited passion resumed. She arched her neck so that I was given better access to a spot that obviously gave her particular satisfaction and began to wriggle her buttocks again. She exchanged sides presenting the opposing patch of skin for my attention. At last I understood, she had been unfastening her blouse and was now removing it. When she sat back she revealed a real treat, she was braless.
Her breasts were every bit as full as they had promised to be. Not as large as some but completely free of sag, supporting her nipples so that they projected forwards pertly; dark pink contracted areolae with red teats standing out proudly like two miniature barrels. She stood and pulled my head against a breast directing my lips to an already swollen teat. I sucked like a hungry infant and the intensity of her lustful cries rose by a tone or two. For a while I took great care to lavish equal attention upon each nipple, in its turn, until I had established beyond doubt that the right was the more sensitive of the pair. At least I now had my hands free and could explore the full extent of her bust: tweak, stroke or roll the other nipple, weigh the orbs in my hands or simply massage their delicious plumpness. Despite her voluptuous response to my passionate ministrations, or perhaps because of them, Tracy was discretely disrobing further and when she stood back she was left in her black stockings and bright red suspenders, not merely braless but pantyless too; I though my poor stiff and throbbing shaft was about to explode, imagine the humiliation and embarrassment that would have caused me. Only later did she confess that it was a possibility that she had considered and had decided that my resulting distress would have rendered me putty in her hands and, oh, was she going to play with me.
Tracy was revealed as a true blond. The down upon her pudenda was soft and fine, when I later came to touch it, it was as smooth and silky as it looked. Her hips were a little broader than was fashionable and, when she gave me a twirl, her derriere proved to be a shade more padded than was perhaps à la mode; I was entranced, the real bonus with women as they age is the generosity of their figures. Skinny teens with flawless complexions may look good on your arm but, in general, it is well rounded breasts and buttocks that have the real appeal when displayed, in the nude, to a male who is in a state of intense sexual arousal. Such an ethereal bush was no cover for the lips of Tracy’s tender sex, already reddened and distended with fast coursing blood; I speculated that the clitoris they hid would be in an equal state of tumescence. My member was certainly turgid with the anticipation of events to come.
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