George's Story

I had known George a while, but not very well. We shared a chat over a pint from time to time in the local pub, but otherwise our lives never overlapped. He was about 10 years older than me, although he looked much younger. He had taken up running in his late 30s and did at least four marathons a year, even now in his mid 60s. He was widowed after his wife died a year ago, very suddenly from a malignant melanoma. From diagnosis to her death was only six weeks. They had been married when they were both nineteen and had never been apart since.

I remembered his wife. A tall, plump blonde, she was the local eccentric. She went into shorts and tee shirt about May and dressed like that until about October. She had been I believe some sort of academic, but I never knew her field of study. When George was made redundant at about 55, with an extremely good settlement, she gave up her job and the two of them settled down to what looked like a totally hedonistic life. She was talked about in hushed tones by some of the village Mafia as that 'nudist woman', which was true. She had been a life long naturist. Bill didn't share her interest, except, he told me, at home. He enjoyed the site of his plump wife wandering around the house stark naked and was quite happy to do likewise, since it led as he put it to 'lots of shagging'.

I could confirm she was a naturist from direct observation once when I had to deliver a package left at my house by mistake. George opened the door, wearing a bathrobe, but over his shoulder through an open door I could see the smooth bronzed body of his wife as she vacuumed the dining room at the rear of the house. I didn't let on I had seen her, but I don't think either of them would have bothered anyway.

Anyway, when she died, George went to pieces. After the funeral, he told me he went home and steadily drank his way through all the booze in the house. After about a week it was all gone and he sobered up enough to realise he wouldn't last long at this rate. He showered and cleaned up the house, restocked the fridge and freezer and tried to put his life together. Until then he had steadfastly refused to speak to anyone. Once he appeared in public again, apparently behaving as usual, we all heaved a sigh of relief.

His life wasn't normal of course. The outward front looked normal, but at home he simply sat in a chair and stared at the wall. Some nights he didn't even go to bed, just looked at the wall until daybreak, when he would get changed and go for a run. He told me that it was only when he was running that he felt alive again. Without realising it, his daily circuit got longer and longer until he was doing around 30-40 miles per day. Two or three times a week, he would come home, have a shower then wander over the road to the pub for a pint and something to eat.

About six months after she died, he was in the pub as usual, sitting in the corner next to the fire, when a couple of the local yummy-mummies trotted in. He never named them but I think I know who they were. They stayed at home bored out of their minds, while hubby did something they couldn't be bothered to find out about in the nearby city. Their lives were in some ways even emptier than George's, with an endless round of coffee mornings, jewellery parties and drinks on the terrace. They might be seen occasionally in their designer tracksuits and sweatbands doing a couple of circuits of the village green, but normally the closest they got to breaking into a sweat was shouting at their cleaning lady for forgetting to clean the shower.

It was only once they had a gin and tonic each that they noticed George in his corner. One of them, let's call her Samantha, nudged the other, we'll call her Rebecca, and whispered something to her. George's public behaviour was well known to most people in the village, but Rebecca had arrived after his wife had died and Tracy was obviously filling her in on the back-story.

They trotted over to him in his corner.

"Do you mind if we sit here, its frightfully cold outside," says Samantha.

"Be my guest," grunted George, not really looking up from his newspaper. He didn't like his carefully constructed ritual to be disturbed.

"Tracy told me about your wife" says Rebecca, unaware that this was just not done. No one ever mentioned Grace, not out of sensitivity for George, but because they didn't know how to react themselves. Rebecca blundered on regardless.

"It must be very difficult after such a long marriage."

"It is." Rebecca scooted along the seat towards him and put her hand on his. "You are very brave." George looked up at her. He was a good-hearted bloke and knew she was just brainless not hurtful so resisted the temptation to tell her to bugger off and leave him alone.

"Life and death," he said. "Nothing we can do about it." A man of few words at the best of times, he didn't really want to get into a chat with this pair.

She persisted, though. "Do you find that your running helps? I love running."

Her friend looked on aghast as this brainless bimbo blundered on, ignoring the tugs at her sleeve. George knew of course that the topic of Grace never came up, just as his week long bender was never mentioned. It was too much to say he felt liberated by this one wittering on, but it didn't feel as bad as he had expected. He looked up from his newspaper. Rebecca had somehow got the message and was looking anxiously at him.

It was the wrong message though. "Is it too painful to talk?" she simpered.

Despite himself, George couldn't help warming to her artless concern. He put down his paper.

"It is painful yes. I was married for over 40 years. With that sort of relationship when one person goes, it is a huge hole in your world. Nothing will fill that hole so you work round it, you fill your time somehow. Jung said that Life behaves as if it were going on anyway and so it is better to just live on - to look forward to the next day, as if we had centuries left not years or days. Then we can live properly. When we are afraid though, when we don't look forward, we can only look back, and that way we petrify and we die before our time. Grace lived her life to the end as if she was going on forever. I owe it to her to do the same."

To his amazement both women began to weep. Samantha almost sobbing while Rebecca was sniffing back the tears. Both were deeply affected.

He stood up saying "It looks as if you both need another drink," and went over to the bar. By the time he got back with two more gins and a whisky for himself, they had pulled themselves together and were sitting rather shamefacedly side by side in the corner, Rebecca having moved over to take his seat beside Samantha. She made as if to get up but he motioned her to stay, dropping into a space on Samantha's other side. He took her hand and patted it. "I'm sorry," he said, "I don't usually come on so maudlin."

"That wasn't maudlin, it was remarkable. I wish I could apply that philosophy to my own life," said Samantha. She spoke with real intensity, almost venomous and Rebecca looked at her in concern.

"Sam? Are you OK?" Sam knocked back her drink, shuddered and gave the glass to Rebecca. "Another one Becca, please?"

Becca took the glass and went to the bar, coming back with two more gins and a whisky for George, although his first was hardly touched.

"Are you OK, Samantha?" he asked gently. He put his hand over hers on the table. She looked up at him, red eyed.

"I will be," she sniffed. "I think I had better have my drink and go home. I'm making an exhibition of myself here." So saying she threw back the third drink and stood up, slightly unsteadily. Becca stood up too, leaving her third drink untouched, then "Damn it" and she threw it back in the same way as Sam. The pair of them said their farewells and made an unsteady way to the door.

As they left, George looked over at the bar. The barman merely twitched an eyebrow but said nothing. George finished his drinks and about 20 minutes later left the pub to go home. As he walked onto the green, he could see the two women ahead of him, slowly walking down the road. They turned in to the lane on which George also lived and as he reached the corner they went in the gate of Samantha's house. Her knew her husband worked in London during the week so she was very much on her own most of the time. Perhaps the drinking he had seen was a regular thing, but not normally in public. As he passed the gateway he looked over and saw Sam, sitting on the doorstep, while Becca tried to get a key into the lock, without great success.

"You look as if you are having problems," he said, walking up the path towards them.

"I can't get the key to work," she said, "I think the lock must be broken." She was trying to fit a Yale type key into a mortice lock.

"I think it is the wrong one," said George, taking it from her gently. "That's the key to your house and this is Sam's" She looked at him vacantly and he realised the drinks in the pub had not been the first of the day, both of them were smashed out of their heads.

He bent down and took Sam's bag from her hand, pulling out a key and opening the door. Becca stumbled in leaving Sam sprawled on the doorstep. He hauled her to her feet and took her inside, closing the door behind him. He hadn't been in this house for 20 years. He and Grace had known the family who lived there, but they had moved on and a succession of short-term sales had followed. He looked around. It was well decorated, but somehow lacked any sense of being a home.

In the kitchen at the rear he heard the sound of a kettle and cups rattling, then a crash as something was dropped. He helped Sam stagger through and settled her on a stool at the table. Becca was standing looking bemusedly at a broken cup on the floor. She slumped down at the table as George helped Sam into the room. He found a broom, swept up the broken cup and then set to making coffee for the pair of them.

"I shouldn't drink like this," moaned Becca. "You and me both," said Sam, her head down on the table.

"How much have you two had?" asked George. Becca waved towards the sink, where there was an almost empty bottle of gin and an empty wine bottle. "Too bloody much" she moaned again.

"What time will anyone be home?" he persisted. "How the fuck do I know," she slurred. "Fucking dick heads, fucking both of them. Fucking gone to fucking Ireland fucking fishing. Fuck it." She collapsed back to the table her head alongside Sam's. Saddened but slightly amused nevertheless at this outburst, he carried on making the coffee.

By now though the two of them were totally out of it. He saw Becca slowly sliding sideways and realised he couldn't leave them safely on the stools, so picking up first Becca, then Sam, he half carried them through to the living room, depositing them on the sofa. They sprawled against each other, mouths open, legs splayed, inelegantly. He got his coffee and sat down facing them while he pondered what to do next. He knew from his own experience the damage that drink could do to someone in a depressive state so he was concerned for both of them.

As he watched, they stirred and Becca threw her arm across Sam's chest, her head subsiding further so that they lay with their faces only inches apart. They were both snoring now. George picked up his coffee and went back through to the kitchen. He washed up the glasses and the coffee cups and left them to dry. He realised he couldn't leave the pair of them yet, since if either of them vomited they could choke. He was stuck for the moment. He wandered back, checked they were OK, and then on impulse went upstairs. The house was large, six bedrooms in total. He wandered from one to the other. It didn't take long to realise that Sam and her husband did not share a bed. Only two rooms showed signs of occupation. One of them was clinically tidy. In the wardrobes were several men's suits, all dark grey, plus a dozen or so shirts and all in variations on pale blue. The bed was made up to millimetric precision.

The other room, at the back of the house, was a mess. Tights, knickers and other items of clothing were strewn everywhere. Any flat surface was covered with books. To George's surprise these were not light romances, but erudite studies in history and politics. He saw several books on philosophy, including to his even greater surprise a volume by Carl Jung. Sam obviously had hidden depths. He wondered if an inspection of Becca's house would reveal a similar story. He went downstairs to check on them again. Both had settled even closer together, arms wrapped around each other in a tight embrace. George smiled at the sight.

He looked at the table and saw Becca's keys where he had dropped them. Without thinking he picked up and went out. Becca's house was immediately next door and he saw that there was a gate between the two gardens. Moving quickly he slipped across the lawn, up to the front door and in. He looked around. Another show house, not a home. Upstairs were four bedrooms, and as he half expected two were in active use. This time the man's room was untidy, although not the mess of Sam's. Becca's room was full of personal items, but something about the room gave an impression of temporary occupancy, not a home. What books there were seemed to be, another surprise, about engineering design and architecture.

He quickly went back next door, carefully locking up behind him. The two women were still snuggled up together. Becca's skirt had slid up exposing neat white panties while her arm still lay across Sam's chest, almost inside her low cut top. Sam's arm lay in her lap. It was then that as George told me later, he did something very uncharacteristic for him.

"I saw the two of them there, relaxed like that. They were breathing more normally now, so I wasn't worried about leaving them. I could see Beccas's white panties and Sam's hand on her breast and for the first time since Grace died I felt my cock stir. They were both good looking women, you know and I was aroused."

"I didn't feel them up or molest them, although I have to admit that crossed my mind. I could easily have buried my face between Becca's thighs. I restrained myself but I was still aroused. Then, and I still don't know what made me do it; I gently eased Becca's panties aside. I could see her smooth shaved pussy and I felt hot and shaky. I took Sam's hand and slid it down inside the panties, so that her finger lay down the pussy, resting between two beautiful soft labia. I left them like that for a while just watching, then Sam wriggled slightly. I watched as her hand gently curled and the finger bulge inside the panties almost vanished as it slipped between the shaved lips I had seen. I almost came on the spot.

I left them for a bit longer, breathing hard by now, and then I took Becca's hand, easing it further into Sam's top and inside her bra. As I lifted the edge of the bra I could see the nipple with a large dark areola, something I always liked. I gently moved the hand so that the nipple fell between two of Becca's fingers. As her hand contracted with the movement, I saw the nipple start ever so slightly to swell.

I was really hard now, but I didn't do any more. I just sat back and watched them as the day wore on and it got darker. As they slept and the effect of the alcohol wore off, their bodies relaxed. To my delight I saw Sam stretching under Becca's hand, and the nipple hardening. Sam's hand had actually worked its way entirely into Becca's panties. She was moving it slightly in her sleep and as she moved, Becca moaned slightly. Her lips parted and I could see the beginnings of arousal. Her chest was getting flushed and her lips were becoming slightly engorged. She pushed her hips out against Sam's hand, and then I could see, to my delight, that Sam had pushed a finger inside. She was playing with her, while at the same time her lips parted. I could see fine strands of saliva from lip to lip.

Their faces came closer, lips almost touching. Suddenly Sam's eyes came open and she realised what was going on. Her eyes widened further, but she didn't stop. Instead she gently eased herself around to get a better angle on Becca's pussy. She leaned forward and kissed her, very gently on the lips, then lifted her other hand to stroke her cheek. It was only then that she saw me and simultaneously realised that Becca's hand was inside her bra. She was about to pull away but I simply put my finger to my lips.

She looked at me. Then, to my amazement she mouthed, "Unfasten my bra at the back." I stood up, my erection becoming painfully obvious, and tiptoed over, then slid my hand up her back and released the bra catches. It fell loose and as it did, Becca's hand moved further into place, holding the breast entirely in her hand, squeezing gently. Sam bit her lip in pleasure, before speeding up her fingering of Becca's pussy. I knelt next to them and watched as she slowly slid her fingers in, feeling for the spot. Becca was moving more now, her body twitching, her hips thrusting up so that Sam's fingers were forced deeper.

Sam slowly rotated her body so that her own pussy was facing me. She was wearing tight fitting trousers, but she eased her hips up and slowly unbuttoned the top, then slid the zip down. She slid her other hand inside and started playing with her own pussy, then taking her hand out she stretched out to me. I took each finger into my lips separately, sucking them hard, tasting the sour sweetness of her. She eased up again, still keeping an eye on Becca and started to slide the trousers down. Quickly I helped her, pulling them over her hips to reveal a wild bush of hair. I bent forward and nuzzled it, breathing in her smell. Becca was breathing hard now under Sam's careful ministrations. She never opened her eyes, but I can't believe she didn't know what was going on. Surely she must have realised there was a finger inside her.

I pulled down Sam's pants completely, her tiny panties coming with them. She had a wide flat stomach above this tremendous bush of jet-black hair. She was fingering herself again, slowly bringing herself to climax, watching Becca to see where she was, trying to time it so that they came together. She didn't quite make it, Becca erupted first, and then I dived into Sam's bush, tongue lapping at her wet sweet cunt as she came herself.

Without opening her eyes Becca threw herself back across the sofa, gasping for breath. When she did open them she looked not at Sam, but at me. She smiled and winked. I realised she must have seen me set them up, but deliberately never gave me any hint. I didn't care. Watching these two beautiful women coming to climax had been quite something. I still hadn't come myself, so had high hopes of more fun and games too. It was certainly better than staring at the wall all night.

It wasn't to be though. Sam looked at me and said, "I think you should go now." I was amazed. I was sure I would get a fuck out of one of these two, even if at my time of life I couldn't manage both. Becca looked disappointed too, but Sam simply repeated, "Please go now." She leant over to Becca and whispered something that made her go wide eyed. Becca whispered back and Sam nodded.

"OK" said Becca. "You can jerk off over me, but nothing else." I was disappointed to say the least, but that was better than nothing. Becca jumped to her feet and took off her top and bra. I realised that she used a bra to restrain her boobs, not to enhance them. They were incredible, huge, soft and round. They were the first ones I have ever seen that really were the size of melons and all natural. She sat down again and I knelt over her, pulling my aching cock out from my trousers. I tried to spin it out as I jerked off, but the the scene I had just watched made that difficult. Suddenly Sam bit my shoulder and grabbed my balls. I was trying to hold it in but couldn't and I shot my lot all over those superb breasts. I watched as Becca massaged my cum between them. I ached to bury my cock in there, but Sam hustled me off. As I left the room, I looked back to see Sam licking Becca clean, the other hand buried deep between in her thighs. Neither of them looked at me.