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From the word go I was interested in older women. No, obsessed would be the better word for it. In those days, of course, that meant just about all women, if you disregarded the giggling, barely pubescent girls who seemed from another planet.
No, it wasn’t them I was interested in – it was their older sisters and mothers, and the mothers and aunts of my friends that fascinated me.
Take Dougie’s mum – and my fantasy was to do just that. Dougie was my best friend in Que Que (pronounced Kwe Kwe), a town on the main train line between Bulawayo and Salisbury (now Harare) in the old Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). At 18 I had no brothers or sisters so I loved the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the railway family’s home where Dougie and his three siblings (one younger brother, and an older brother and sister) lived in happy chaos.
And then there was Marge. Lustrous dark-brown hair, jutting bosom, shapely calves and infectious laugh, pushing 40 and probably 15 pounds overweight – my idea of the perfect woman.
Marge was of the opinion that one more mouth to be fed made little difference so I spent a lot of time there – and as she was pretty careless about dressing and undressing, she provided my first lessons in the female anatomy.
She seldom closed the door to the bedroom she shared with husband Bill, who said little and seemed to spend most of his time off in a train somewhere, so she was often to be glimpsed pulling a dress over her head, with tantalising displays of lace-edged, well-filled (sometimes bulging) white bras, sensible nylon panties, wispy halfslips. What would make my heart pound most was when she sat on the bed in bra and halfslip, a leg and panties exposed as she attached a stocking to her suspender belt.
Marge was not unaware of the effect she had on my testosterone-fevered libido, often teasing me about girls – that she was sure I would be a heartbreaker and how she wished she was 20 years younger.
“Those lucky girls, in a couple of years you’ll have to fight them off, and by that time I’ll be an old bag.”
“You will never, ever be an old bag,” I would gallantly reply. “You will be beautiful for ever.”
That’s the sort of talk that would get me crushed to her bosom, inhaling her fragrance. Not as stupid as I looked!
One night, Dougie and I came back late from a movie (the club of the Globe and Phoenix gold mine doubled as a cinema and movies were shown twice a week) with images of an almost-naked Brigitte Bardot still etched on our fevered brains.
Marge, it seemed, had had difficulty sleeping and was wandering around the kitchen in a see-through, low-cut nightie that left nothing to the imagination. Pushing sturdily against the gossamer fabric were two big brown nipples. At one point she leaned over the table in front of me, both breasts fully exposed. Bliss!
Then she mischievously asked me to fetch bahis firmaları another cup and I had no option but to stand up and hobble to the cupboard, trying vainly to disguise the way my cock was almost bursting through my trouser buttons. Dougie laughed himself silly, telling me to keep his mother out of my dirty thoughts.
As I sat down again, red with embarrassment, she said with a grin: “Don’t you go starching those sheets tonight. I’m going to check in the morning”. With a wink she went off to bed.
Sometimes she would wrestle with Dougie and me, which was a wonderful opportunity to “accidently” have a feel of those wonderful orbs. She would roll around and scream and hug us, her dress ending up around her waist, underwear in a tangle. It was great fun and she never got all tweezer-lipped if my hand strayed to those nylon panties and squeezed her bottom or if I stroked the soft flesh above the stocking top. As long as it was part of the game, it seemed I could cop all the feels I liked.
But that was it. Although it was fun, I wanted something more and I realised I wasn’t going to get it from Marge. However, as I was to discover, someone other than her husband, old Bill, was.
Once a month, without fail, Dougie, siblings and mother and father, went off by train to Gwelo, the much bigger town down the line, to do the big shopping. It was more than shopping, it was sort of a ritual and they all looked forward to it. They shopped, had lunch, went to a real movie house, and returned to Hicksville on the late train.
So when I arrived at their house one morning during the school holidays to fetch the swimming costume I had left there, I knew nobody was home. I rummaged for the key on the window ledge and let myself in via the door directly to Dougie’s room. I found what I was looking for and was about to leave when I heard strange noises. Surely not burglars in Que Que, that was unheard of!
The sounds were coming from the main bedroom, whose door was ajar. Tiptoeing on holiday bare feet, I tried to still my hammering heart as I moved silently up the passage and looked through the gap. Marge, clad in stockings and suspenders, was leaning over the bed, half slip around her waist, panties in a puddle at her ankles and her breasts hanging from her bra.
Standing behind her, thrusting as though his very life depended on it, one hand cupping a breast, was a grunting Ken Grey, the young stoker who lived in single quarters but paid to eat dinner with the family. The dirty sod, he had stolen one of my fantasies!
But this was so exciting for me. I had never seen people making love before and they were obviously getting a lot of enjoyment out of it, judging by the moans and panting emanating from the pair of them. Marge, in a hoarse whisper, was urging him on: “Ken, faster, faster, fuck, fuck.” And Ken obliged, pumping away like the 23-year-old stud kaçak iddaa that he was.
“I’m coming, coming, yes, yes!” Marge cried as he rode her to what I presumed was a climax (I wasn’t that naïve) but sounded like she was being murdered. As she collapsed on the bed Ken quickly kneeled beside her and stuck his big cock right into her mouth!
“I’m going to come,” he panted. “Suck me!” and she did, slurping and gagging as he aimed for the back of her throat. He shuddered as she wrestled with the python, swallowing and muttering, with some of the semen escaping from her lips.”Oh Ken, I love to eat your lovely cock,” she trilled as she licked up all the juices.
Of course, I was not unmoved by the happening. Rubbing myself in my excitement I proceeded to do some ejaculating of my own, into my underpants. But it was time to go before these two started to again become aware of their surroundings. I crawled back down the passage and out of Dougie’s room, locking the door silently behind me and then running like hell.
When I saw Dougie the next day I found out in an oblique way that his mum hadn’t gone with them to Gwelo, saying she was all stuffed up and miserable with a cold. Well, she was certainly stuffed up by something!
I’ve subsequently read stories of young guys blackmailing older women into sex but that never occurred to me. I never told anyone — particularly Dougie – about it. I was so disappointed in the woman I loved for being such a slut but I masturbated times uncountable over those images in my mind of what happened that day.
So my love for Marge remained unconsummated, but I never stopped desiring her and was bereft when she ran off to Salisbury with Ken a year later, leaving the family devastated and the town with plenty to gossip about.
My sights by then had shifted closer to home, which meant through the hole in the rubber hedge to the drycleaners my mum managed. My dad was off working on an oil pipeline in Iran and mum and I lived in one of the flats above the shop. Very handy.
Other than the staff who ran the big machine and pressed the clothes, my mum had a woman helping her at the front of the shop. Lorna was dark-skinned, with beautiful eyes. She had married young and although she was 26 (from my perspective that was quite old), she had a daughter of four, looked after by her mother while she was at work.
Lorna was fabulous, with a great sense of humour, and she always treated me as an equal. Once I got to know her I would pop into the shopto have a cigarette and a chat with her. In those more sedate days in Que Que, businesses closed between 1 and 2pm and my mum would go up to the flat for a rest. Lorna lived too far away, so she put her feet up in the shop, which meant we had it to ourselves as the rest of the staff always went out at lunchtime.
Lorna’s husband was quite a bit older than her and she confided kaçak bahis that he knocked her about a bit when he had had a few brews, which was quite often. As we got to know each other better I realised she felt trapped in a marriage with a man she had never really loved and, to crown it all, she was more than six months pregnant.
I had wondered why this essentially slim woman had a quite pronounced tummy, having only a basic idea of what pregnancy was all about (these were the days before the sexual revolution) I was fascinated by the whole idea, asking her more and more probing questions until one day she said she would show me her tummy if I promised never to tell anyone. Of course, I swore I would never talk.
Lorna always wore a white overall that buttoned down the front and as my heart pounded in anticipation, she unbuttoned it to the waist, revealing a sensible white bra that was filled to capacity, it seemed, a lovely rounded tummy and what I thought was the top of white nylon panties but turned out to be a halfslip.
“You can feel my tummy if you want to,” she said, smiling shyly. “You might feel the baby kicking, which is awesome. I can’t believe how big I’m getting. My breasts are usually much smaller than this as well,” she said, cupping her boobs over her bra.
She took my hand and gently ran it over her bulging tummy. Dredging up the courage, I said: “Can I feel your breasts as well?
I thought she was going to say no. She started to shake her head, then seemed to change her mind. “Yes, but remember your promise.”
I stroked upwards from her tummy, cupping a breast over her bra. “I have never done this before,” I said, voice cracking.
“I know, don’t be afraid”, she smiled at me and took my hand and put it inside her bra.
It was the most wonderful experience of my short life. Her breast was soft and round and smooth and the nipple rose to meet my fingers.
“You’ve made them hard,” she breathed.
“That’s not all that’s hard,” I breathed back.
“Poor Gordon,” she giggled, unzipping my shorts and sliding my cock out of my underpants.
Her touch was electrifying and she had barely squeezed it when, to my horror, I ejaculated. “God, no, how could I have done that!” I cried out, mortified.
“Don’t worry,” she said soothingly, “It’s natural for a young man. I feel flattered I had such an effect on you. What you must do is masturbate tomorrow morning so that when you come to see me at lunchtime you will be more in control,” she said matter-of-factly.
So I hadn’t blown it completely, she still wanted to see me tomorrow!
She had taken out a handkerchief and cleaned up the mess as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Then she pulled me to her and kissed me, pushing the tip of her tongue gently into my mouth, another first.
I sailed out of the shop, feeling on top of the world. Watch out ladies, I am on my way! I said to myself. And, yes, this did mark the beginning of a lifetime of close encounters with a reasonably impressive number of accommodating ladies.
To be continued if there is any interest.
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