A Haunting

A Haunting

THE small town I grew up in was beginning to feel like a prison, so when a job came up in a town near the coast, I saw it as an opportunity to escape. Upon arrival, I booked into a bed and breakfast advertised in the local paper. It seemed ideal. The rent was affordable and it was only five minutes' walk to the factory where I would be working. But the bed and breakfast was not how I imagined it would be. Run by Mrs Kenton, it was more along the lines of a workers' hostel, with half-a-dozen rooms upstairs fitted out as bedsits. Everything in the building was older than me, including the other guests, who were exclusively male. That said, it did at least serve breakfast, with everyone eating together downstairs at a long table in the dining room. A full English; it came with fried tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon, sausages, eggs, black pudding and beans and as much toast and tea as everyone could manage before their departure for work, with Mrs Kenton bustling backwards and forwards from the kitchen.

Being in my early twenties, everyone seemed old to me, but I would guess that she was in her mid-fifties, though she may have been older. Small and wiry, she had jet-black hair tied up in a tight bun and she seemed to be always on the move, her wild eyes searching for things to do. Constantly busy, she rushed from kitchen to dining room to living room to cleaning cupboard to porch and back again, sometimes pushing a hoover, at other times carrying washing or, as was the case on the morning in question, plates stacked high with buttered toast.

"You went to the pub last night?" she asked, huge brown eyes staring straight at me.

I nodded. 'Don't speak with your mouth full,' my mother's voice warned from somewhere a long time ago.

"Any good?"

The cries of seagulls from outside reminded me of a group of girls who were near where I had been standing at the bar. They kept looking my way and cackling. By the third beer, I became certain I was the source of their amusement and left.

Swallowing what was in my mouth, I said: "I didn't stay long."

Mrs Kenton curled her bottom lip, then: "You need to get yourself a girlfriend, nice young lad like you should have no problem. There's a Juliet for every Romeo."

"I do hope so," I replied and immediately regretted the accidental emphasis.

Across the table from me another guest, a heavy-set man in his forties snorted. Placing the platter of toast on the table, Mrs Kenton caught the side of his head with her elbow: "That's enough of that," she snapped.

Everyone around the table chuckled. Mrs Kenton was not to be taken lightly. She ran her guest house like a military barracks. Breakfast was served at 7.30am sharp by the large railway clock on the dining room wall. Washing had to be placed in a bag, labelled and left outside residents' doors by 8am Tuesday. One minute late (again by the railway clock in the dining room) and it would remain there until the following Tuesday.

The washroom regimen was stricter still. Woe betide any guest who left the bathroom in a condition other than the one in which it was found. Mrs Kenton's ears were finely tuned to the distinctive sound of its doorlatch clicking home and within seconds of hearing it, she would be upstairs, ostensibly to see if any of "her boys" needed anything and checking that all was well -- but the true purpose of her visit was to establish exactly who was in the bathroom so that blame could be fairly apportioned later. And at 11pm prompt, all radios and TVs were to switched off. Not turned down, mind you, but switched off.

On the night of my desperate plea to the fates and the elbowing incident that followed, I was in bed as the call came along the corridor: "Turn 'em off now please, gentlemen," followed by the snap of the hallway light switch. The narrow shaft of yellow light along the bottom of my door disappeared. I had yet to organise the rental of a TV -- payday was still some way off, so the order did not apply to me. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to blot out the distance calls of seagulls. Then my room door opened and, just as suddenly closed. Propping myself up on my elbows, I stared into the inky blackness. Just as I opened my mouth to ask: "Who's there?" a finger pressed against my lips: "Hush!" a woman's voice whispered; quiet but commanding: "I wanted to have a chat with you about something that's been on my mind since breakfast. Now, don't say anything...well, you can't at the moment, I know, but it's important that you don't interrupt because you're young and you'll probably say something daft, so it's better if you don't say anything at all, all right?"

I nodded. Slowly, she sat down beside me on the bed, which let out a creak. Freezing in position, she looked towards the door, raising a hand in an appeal for silence (whether the appeal was to me or to the creaking bed remained unclear). Satisfied no one had been alerted, she slowly turned to regard me once again. In the darkness, I could see only her outline and her eyes, lit by flashes of light reflected from the streetlamps beyond the room's curtains.

"Right," she continued in a hurried, urgent whisper: "what I've been thinking is, 'here I am on my own, since my dear husband, God rest his soul, passed on, and here you are, on your own, neither of us by choice, but both of us under the same roof and so what should we do? I mean, you'd never dare say anything to me and I wouldn't dare say anything to you, I mean, why would a young lad look twice at an old boiler like me, but then I thought: 'All cats are grey in the dark' and if I explain that to him and tell him that I don't mind if he's not thinking of me while we're doing it...I mean I don't mind..."

Perhaps it was youthful inexperience or maybe lack of self-confidence that was to blame for my confusion, but for whatever reason, I had not the first idea what Mrs Kenton was talking about.

Seeing my blank expression, her shoulders slumped in resignation and then, with the finger still pressed firmly against my lips, she reached under the duvet and placed her other hand on my groin. My eyes went wide. Mrs Kenton leant in so close that I could feel her breath on my face. She began whispering again: "You're probably a bit nervous and don't know what to make of this and if you're a virgin, which I think you probably are -- don't worry, we'll sort that out in a jiffy -- you probably have no idea what to do next, which is fine, just leave it all to me. I know I'm not very ladylike and not to everyone's taste, but believe me...I've never had any complaints in the morning. And it's so much better if you lose your cherry to someone like me, who knows what they're doing, rather than to some young lass who'll probably mess it up. You don't have to do anything; I'll take care of it. All you have to do is lie still and stay quiet..."

The hand on my groin was moving slowly. Fingers were pressing rhythmically against the area beneath my balls, while her thumb was pressing, pressing, pressing against my cock in counter-time with the fingers pressing, pressing, pressing close to my anus.

"I used to do this to my husband, God rest his soul. Took me ages to come up with it. But it would have him ready for action in next to no time. Feels nice, doesn't it?"

Mesmerized by her glittering eyes and astonished by the effect her hand was having on me, I nodded vigorously.

"I used to make my husband, God rest his soul, come in the time it would take to boil an egg. I'd sort him out a couple of times a day. I mean, it's not like it takes any effort. He'd give me the signal if he was feeling randy and over I'd go, pop him out and get my mouth round the end just in time to catch it all and suck 'im dry. It was best to be quick back then; couldn't be wasting all day at it. I'm only using one hand on you because I don't want you coming just yet. Need to get it inside me. And there you are, already.

"Lovely.

"And.

"Stiff.

"Now pull your shorts down for me, there's a good lad."

I did as I was told, but as soon as the shorts were around my knees and before I could remove them completely, Mrs Kenton stood up, turned towards me and took her hand away from my groin, gathered her cotton nightdress around her waist, and then stepped over and onto me, straddling me and then settling down so that her warm wetness squelched softly against the underside of my cock, which was lying erect against my stomach. All the while, her finger remained firmly pressed against my lips.

"Now I want you to close your eyes and think of some girl you fancy -- can you do that? Close your eyes -- and don't say anything...now, where are you...there..."

Gripping the head of my cock tightly between finger and thumb, she pulled it painfully upright and rubbed it up and down her pussy, before lifting herself up slightly and then sinking down onto me, enveloping my cock in her tight, warm folds in one easy movement and for the first time in my life, I was inside a woman.

I gasped.

"There," she whispered, "I bet that feels better, doesn't it? Your cock's the perfect size -- not too long, but nice and thick so I can feel it inside me. I'm going to start now -- put your hands on my legs, that's it, and try to relax -- I know this is all a bit new, but you'll be fine..."

Squeezing her thighs together around my ribcage, she rose and then by relaxing, sank slowly back down onto me. Lowering her head, she covered her mouth with her hand and softly cleared her throat: "Excuse me," she whispered, "I was just having a little moment there."

"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now, but you mustn't say anything...although I want you to whisper very quietly 'coming' when the time is right, do you understand?"

Again, I nodded.

Placing both of her hands on my chest, the bed beneath us creaked slightly as Mrs Kenton began to slowly move up and down on me, her pussy's tight grip on my cock tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing and then suddenly she quickened and I whispered: "Coming".

Flattening herself against me, she pushed her pussy hard against me and ground her hips, sighing into my ear as my balls emptied deep inside her: "I thought you were...there...there...there..."

For what seemed like a long time, she lay motionless on top of me, her breathing returning to normal while my cock softened. My groin was soaking wet from the come slowly oozing from her pussy. Then she whispered into my ear: "Don't say anything, just nod. Have you enjoyed this?"

I nodded.

"Good. So it'll be okay if I pop in and see you through the week, but not on Thursdays, because that's when I go out with my friends and we have a bit of a drink, so I'm usually late back and not in any fit state to be taking care of you. But on other nights, I'll pop in and we'll sort each other out, how does that sound?"

Again, I nodded.

"Lovely. And remember -- keep your eyes closed and no talking. And don't tell a soul about this. Now, I'm going to borrow your shorts, otherwise I'll be leaving a trail down the hallway back to my rooms and since it's me that'll have to clean it up..."

With that, she pushed herself upright so that she was kneeling astride me, my cock slipping from her and landing on my thigh with a wet 'plop'. Reaching behind her, she felt for my shorts, and then dragged them off -- I raised my knees and lifted my feet to make it easier for her. Folding my shorts into a makeshift pad, she held them against her dripping pussy: "Wasn't expecting there to be so much," she whispered, "but I imagine you had quite a bit saved up?"

And then in no more than a couple of seconds, she had stepped from the bed, opened the door slightly, pausing to make sure the coast was clear and then she was gone, the door clicking softly closed behind her.

Turning on the bedside lamp, I looked down at my groin where my pubic hair was matted, wet and suddenly very cold. Carefully swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I headed towards the sink in the corner. As I cleaned myself up, I replayed in my mind what had just happened and took a deep breath: "Wow."

THE next morning, I arrived early for breakfast, hoping that I could have a quiet word with Mrs Kenton, perhaps to thank her or tell her how wonderful the previous night had been, but two of the other guests were already seated at the table. A few minutes later, and everyone was in place and Mrs Kenton was bustling around just as she did every other day. It seemed impossible to me that everyone wasn't aware of what happened last night; how could such a momentous event go unnoticed? Did I appear different? Did Mrs Kenton? Then the pressure began to weigh on me. Trying too hard to behave as if nothing had happened was making me edgy and nervous. I dropped my teaspoon onto its saucer after stirring my tea and everyone looked in my direction, including Mrs Kenton, who was laying out another plate of toast.

"Sorry," I muttered, staring into my cup.

"If you've chipped that, I'll add it to your rent," she said, in her sternest voice.

Outside, the seagulls were crying with laughter.

WHEN I returned from work and went to my room, the boxer shorts Mrs Kenton borrowed were neatly folded at the foot of the bed. They had been washed and pressed. Seeing them was something of a relief, because throughout the day, my doubts had been rising: "Did last night really happen?" Then I noticed something else. Resting on the pillow was a pair of red and white striped pyjamas. Old-fashioned, with a drawstring waist, they were just as neatly folded as the boxer shorts.

That night, I was freshly showered and shaved and dressed in my new pyjamas at lights out. As I waited in the darkness for Mrs Kenton's arrival, my cock was already hard and it was all I was worth not to reach down and touch myself. Earlier, I had been tempted to relieve myself so that perhaps I would last a little longer this time, but decided against it. Now I was aching, with pre-come wetting the front of the pyjamas. The alarm clock on the bedside table ticked loudly and every sound from the heating system heightened my senses but, eventually, as the time wore on, my eyes became heavy and I slowly drifted off.

When the alarm woke me the next morning, I was in a state of mild confusion. Mrs Kenton had not been so it couldn't be morning yet, could it? But it was six-thirty and time to get ready for work. My balls were still achingly full; a problem I resolved to take care of before breakfast.

At breakfast, it was once again as if nothing untoward had ever taken place; with Mrs Kenton hurrying about her business and the guests eating hastily. Had I done something wrong? Had Mrs Kenton had a change of heart?

That night when I returned to my room after work, it was just as I had left it except...there was an odour in the room -- a smell of cologne that I could not place; it was certainly not mine. Had one of the other guests been here? Since I had few possessions, there was nothing to steal, but I checked anyway -- my clothes were still in the drawers and the alarm clock was on the bedside table, but it was while I was at the bedside table that I noticed the smell was stronger. The pyjamas were on the pillow where I had left them, but not as I had left them. Someone (it could only have been Mrs Kenton) had folded them properly. Picking them up, I held them to my face. The smell of cologne was coming from the pyjamas. My cock began to harden at the thought of Mrs Kenton readying her love nest and my imagination began to run riot -- what would she be wearing? Perhaps the cologne was her secret signal? "Be ready. I'll be round later."

That night, I was in bed early, dressed in my cologne-soaked pyjamas and waiting impatiently when Mrs Kenton's voice sounded along the corridor. My heart jumped and I closed my eyes and waited. And waited. And waited. At some point I must have drifted off and began to dream. In the dream, Mrs Kenton was there. She was younger and smiling. I kept reaching for her, but for some reason I couldn't reach far enough. And then she came towards me and that was when I woke, slightly annoyed -- why do dreams always end when you least want them to? But my annoyance changed to surprise -- my cock was warm and wet and hard. Mrs Kenton was sitting on the bed with her back to me, pressing rhythmically on my perineum with the fingers of one hand, the other hand moving smoothly up and down my cock while she sucked greedily on the head, making more noise than any creaking bed. The myriad sensations were paralysing. Suddenly, she stopped. "Eyes closed," she whispered, pausing her ministrations and raising her head without turning to look at me, "and don't say anything...there's no need to tell me when you're coming...I'll know this time..."

And then she continued, faster and faster until I came silently and the hand working on my perineum quickly moved to cradle my scrotum, gently squeezing my balls as she sucked every ounce of come from me until I was utterly drained. Licking a finger, she carefully and slowly traced a line from my anus to the base of my scrotum, making me twitch one final time, releasing a last drop of semen, which she lovingly kissed away with a sigh.

Gently placing my softening cock back inside the fly of my pyjamas before giving it a soft pat, she stood and hurried to the door. Holding it open a crack, she paused for a moment, licked her lips and whispered: "Lovely."

Silently, the door quickly opened wider and just as quickly closed. For the rest of the night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling; through the sound of milk bottles and the dawn chorus and the postman at the letterbox and then the tell-tale sounds of Mrs Kenton preparing breakfast downstairs in the distant kitchen; pans clanging and cutlery being gathered from drawers and by the end of that long night, I understood the business with the pyjamas and the cologne and why Mrs Kenton insisted on silence and had never once tried to kiss me. Reaching under the bed for my rucksack, I went to the drawer and began to pack my things.