tagMatureRemembering Mrs. Faulkner

Remembering Mrs. Faulkner


I'm going to do what they say people of my age (the thick end of sixty plus) are best at; I'm going reminisce about my youth. For me this was towards the end of the nineteen-fifties, when rock-and-roll ruled over drainpipe trousers and drape jackets and everyone jived to Elvis, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, etc. In England it was the time of the 'ton-up boy' who rode motorbikes with British names and who wore leather jackets liberally sprinkled with metal studs. It was also the time when the hardest drug was nicotine, 'puff' was something you ran out of, and 'speed' was what you tried to get out of your bike. My God, but they were good times, and I'm so glad that I lived through them.

It's been said that they were innocent times, and in many ways so they were. Not because we were inherently less adventurous or mischievous than our descendants, but simply because we didn't know as much, and respect for the older generation was very much a part of everyday living. If someone a generation in front of you told you to do something, you did it, regardless of who they were, and you did it without even thinking about it. You'd been told by one of your elders and that was that.

Of course, sex was something that we liked then just as much as younger folk do now (in fact, be honest, if we hadn't, then there wouldn't be any younger folk), but we started later and knew less. Formal sex education had much to do with rabbits and little to do with people. We were told what happened and what equipment we'd got, but not how to make best use of it. That we found out by gossip, hushed conversations behind the bike sheds and fumbled experimentation. Half the things that we now do in bed as a matter of course were thought of then as sexual deviations, if we thought about them at all. Needless to say I grew up knowing a lot less about the female orgasm than I did about the compression ratio of a Triumph Bonneville.

The story I'm going to tell you is about my surprising discovery that women actually enjoyed and needed sex as much as men, and didn't just put up with it for the sake of their partner. It is, in effect, the early story of my own personal sex education and how it came from an unexpected source.

I had known Mike for as long as I can remember, we had grown up together, gone to school together (though he was a year in front of me), rode bikes together, first with pedals and then with engines, and we'd started dating together. We were, as they say, mates. This story starts when I was eighteen and he was nineteen and we'd both joined the darts team at the local pub. It was a cheap night out with a few beers and the 'away legs' got us to pubs we wouldn't otherwise have visited, and it was one night a week when we could get drunk without worrying about driving home. Yes, we did think about it - not because drink driving got the same bad press as it rightly does today, but because our bikes then had narrow wheels and crude suspension and were hard enough to keep upright even when we were sober. Ending up in a ditch or wrapped around a lamppost could be both painful and expensive.

One particular night we'd been playing a home match and were on our way back from the pub, not drunk but just a little bit merry. We'd had a good night, our team had won the match and Mike had won a shaving mirror in the raffle. It was a warm summers night and we stood outside my place smoking, chatting and laughing before I went in and Mike went on to his own home a few hundred yards further on. That was when the taxi drew up and Mrs Faulkner, a neighbour from just up the street, climbed out. Actually, when I say climbed out I really should say fell out, because she was well and truly pissed.

Mrs Faulkner was a woman in her late forties who must have been quite a looker in her day and who still had a reasonable figure then, but who had taken to the gin when her husband, Jim Faulkner, had been sent on holiday to one of Her Majesty's hotels for seven years after being found guilty of taking part in a big horse racing swindle. Jim was a nice guy really, but he owed more to brawn than brain and his ready fists and dubious connections with the local underworld had got him into trouble with the law on too many occasions, and now his wife was taking his absence badly. Mike and I stopped gossiping to watch her stumble across the road and then trip over her own feet, falling flat on her face just outside her own gate.

"C'mon." Mike said, nodding in her direction. "We'd better give her a hand or she'll do herself a mischief, silly cow."

I took one arm and Mike took the other, and between us we hoisted her to her feet and sort of frogmarched her down her own path.

"Thanks, lads," She said thickly when she reached her door. "I guess I've had a drop too much tonight, but I'll be alright now."

We let go, standing attentively to one side, not yet convinced that she'd make it inside. We were right, she fumbled in her bag for her keys, swaying like a tree in a storm, and then when she finally found them, she dropped them on the step.

"You watch her." Mike said. "And I'll get the door open."

He crouched down searching for the dropped keys while I stood with my hands ready to catch Mrs Faulkner the minute she looked like falling on him. She swayed forward, and I moved in reaching out to catch her by the arms from behind to steady her. But then, with the random agility that only drunks possess, she managed to put a foot out to stop herself from stumbling, overcompensated, and fell backwards into against me. Naturally, my hands missed there intended target and somehow managed to encircle her, landing one each on both of her breasts. I was mortified, but I couldn't let go or she would have collapsed onto the concrete path.

"Oh, you naughty boy, you did that on purpose." She giggled and clapped her own hands over mine. I'm not sure if she intended pulling me away or what, but all she succeeded in doing was pressing them more firmly against her boobs.

Thankfully, Mike had managed to find the keys by then and pushed open the door so that, between us we could manoeuvre her through the hall and into her living room, my hands back safely on her arms. I just hoped that she wouldn't call the cops for attempted rape or something; you never can tell with drunks, can you. I must admit though, her breasts felt nice and my cock had responded appropriately. What a bummer, turned on by a drunken middle-aged neighbour.

We deposited her safely on her sofa and then looked at each other with 'now what' expressions.

"I suppose we ought to make her some black coffee." I suggested, eventually, and we made our way into the kitchen.

I think that really we just wanted to get away, but duty stated that we should at least make a token effort to help her. We put the kettle on and spooned instant coffee into a mug.

"Should we call your mum in to help put her to bed?" Asked Mike, while we waited for the kettle to boil.

"Not bloody likely." I told him. "What if she says I tried to feel her up?"

Mike grinned. "Well at least you got a quick feel of her tits for your trouble, and that's more than I got."

We lapsed into silence. I was thinking about the sensation of having my hands on Mrs Faulkner's breasts and how nice they felt, and I think Mike was just feeling jealous.

"Right." He announced decisively after a minute or two of stirring the coffee mug. "Here's what we'll do. We'll take this through to her and stay to check that she drinks it, I've put some cold water in so it's not too hot. Then we'll hang around for another ten minutes just to make sure she doesn't sick it back and choke her stupid self, then we'll leave her to it."

That sounded like a reasonable action plan so I agreed. "Okay. The sooner we're out of here the better."

I was still worried about having touched her breasts. And before you tell me how infantile that sounds for an eighteen year old, remember we're talking about a time when you just didn't feel a woman's boobs, even by accident, without there being consequences.

We took the coffee through to the living room. Mrs Faulkner was sprawled in the middle of the sofa with her eyes closed, half on and half off the seat and with her dress having ridden up to show her stocking tops (and surprisingly shapely legs). We looked at each other, looked at her legs, and then went one to each side of her and pulled her up into a normal sitting position, returning her dress to its proper position on the process.

"C'mon, luv. Drink this." Mike held the mug to her lips.

She stirred, opened her very bleary eyes and looked straight at me. "Oh. Hello Dave. Was it you who copped a feel of my tits?"

I'd hoped that she'd forgotten.

"It was by accident Mrs Faulkner." I told her, hoping she'd believe me.

"You'd have fallen down otherwise." Mike told her.

"I don't care." She giggled and looked round at Mike. "Did you get a feel too?"

"No. Mrs Faulkner."

"Have a feel now then." She told him in drunken seriousness, grabbing hold if his hand and plonking it across her bosom.

She's pulled him a little off balance and, because he still had the coffee mug in his other hand he could only lean on the hand pressed tightly against her breasts.

"There! That's nice isn't it?" She asked him, completely missing his frantic signals to me to take the mug.

Neither of us was completely sober, and it briefly crossed my mind not to take the coffee from him just to see what he did, but in the end I reached over and took it from him. He extricated himself and sat back, red faced with embarrassment.

"What's the matter, don't you like them?" She asked him, clearly miffed.

"Yes, Mrs Faulkner, but you're a married lady."

"Married yes, but where the hell is he when I want some?" She sat back looking maudlin, so I passed her the coffee. She took it without a word and drained it, her drunkenness held at bay by sadness. We weren't quite sure what she was talking about, but she soon made it clear.

"You'll learn as you get older, both of you, that even women need a bit of the old physical now and again." She sat in the middle looking blearily from one to the other of us.

Suddenly she lurched to her feet, with both of us leaning forward in case she fell, the stepped unsteadily to the middle of the room.

"Okay. Well if you won't play with my tits I'll have to show you what you're missing." She announced to us, reaching behind and pulling down her zip.

Her dress was on the floor before we had time to react, immediately followed by her bra, leaving her standing in a pair of bikini briefs (very daring for those days), a suspender belt and stockings. Her breasts were full, with hardly any sag, and tipped with large brown nipples that stared back at our astonished gaze.

"I would take the rest off, but you don't ruddy well deserve it." She told us haughtily.

Mike and I both plonked ourselves on the sofa in an effort to at least seem to be keeping out of the way. "No please don't." I pleaded as I sat down.

"I won't. If you won't touch my tits then you aren't going to get the chance to touch my cunny."

Both Mike and I were appalled, very excited and completely turned on, but still appalled. We didn't know what to do. How do you deal with that sort of situation? If we left there's a good chance she'd follow us into the street and then all hell would let loose. If we stayed she might get it into her boozy brain that we were interested.

I suppose in a way we were interested, we'd both got giant erections at least. After all it's not every day an attractive older woman invites you to feel her up, and I think the only thing that stopped us was the fear of consequences. In the end we did nothing, we just sat in front of her staring at her semi-naked body.

"Oh sod it, you might as well get the full works." She told us finally and hooked her thumbs into her briefs to pull them down. "Nobody else seems to want a look."

Of course, she was already having trouble staying on her feet, so trying to take off her knickers only ended with her falling over the minute she lifted one foot from the floor. She finished up sprawled across myself and Mike with her knickers around her knees. I got the lower half, with her naked bottom curling across my chest, and her thighs, complete with half removed knickers, over the arm of the sofa. Now I had a girlfriend then named Jean, who I shagged fairly regularly, but she'd never let me see her cunt, and now here I was with the bare behind of a married woman nearly shoved into my face and the lips of her hairy mary in full view. I was too damn shocked to react.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, Mike did react, pushing her so hard that she rolled off and landed with a thump on the floor. I found out later that she'd had her face in his crotch and was promptly trying to undo his fly.

"If you wanted me lying down you only had to ask." She giggled drunkenly, waving her legs in the air to finally take off her reluctant underwear.

"Mrs Faulkner." Mike began, firmly. "You really shouldn't be doing this."

"It's Doreen, and why not?" She asked him, as if everything was normal. "I felt your cock and you've got a great big boner, so why not make use of it?"

She lay back and opened her stockinged legs, showing her wet cunt to the world. "Come on lads, both of you can stick it in me. But just not both at the same time." She gave way to another fit of girlish giggling at that thought.

I was tempted, my God I was tempted. You have to remember, I was then blessed with the libido of an eighteen year old, and the confidence to go with it. I looked at Mike and he looked at me, then we both shrugged simultaneously.

"Why the fuck not?" He asked me.

"Yes, why the fuck not, if that's what she wants."

"First there gets first go." He said suddenly and started ripping his clothes off.

I followed, shrugging myself out of my things in double quick time, but he'd got a head start and he threw himself between her legs while I was still trying to get my pants off. He fucked her like a rabbit and it didn't take him long before he was grunting and gasping and I knew he was filling her cunt with his spunk.

"I liked that." She told him as he rolled off and climbed shakily to his feet. "Shame you couldn't last a bit longer. I could have done with more than a squeeze and a squirt, but better a little bit than nothing at all."

Mike flamed with embarrassment at her criticism.

I had the advantage of having 'sloppy seconds' (my first!) to slow me down and of knowing I had to take my time, so I thrust into her at a steady but regular pace, determined not to shoot too soon.

"That's better." She said, her breathing quickening and her fingers digging into my shoulders. Sex seemed to be sobering her up a bit.

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe something different, but it seemed much the same as when I shagged Jean. I suppose I thought that I'd feel her passage full of wrinkles or something, it being so much older, but it wasn't, it was lovely and soft and smooth and warm, and I was thoroughly enjoying it. I held out a lot longer than Mike, but it was good enough that very soon I felt myself getting close to cumming.

"I'm going to cum soon." I told her, expecting a complaint.

"Good, so am I."

I hadn't expected that answer. I didn't even know that women did cum. If Jean ever did, then I hadn't noticed and she hadn't said. This unexpected news knocked me out of my stride and my impending climax temporarily disappeared again as I tried to come to terms with the idea of a woman cumming.

But I kept on shagging her, and even put on a bit of a spurt trying to get my climax back. She began to moan sexily in my ear, each noise a little bit louder than the last. Now I knew she really was going to cum (though I didn't know quite what that entailed) and that put me back on track, my balls began to tighten and I got ready to shoot.

Just as I got to the point of no return, just as I pulled back for that last all important stroke, she called out, yelling that she was cumming and her pelvis started to buck underneath me. I plunged into her, my spunk pouring from my cock as I came, and her fingernails bit into my shoulders leaving great long furrows in my skin as she reached her own climax. It hurt like hell, but for some reason I didn't care, in fact it made things even better and I came harder than I'd ever done before.

I remember looking at her cunt after I'd pulled out, wondering if she came some kind of spunk like I did, and if so where was it? Did women really cum? And if they did sometimes shoot a load, then how would I know the difference between my cum and a woman's? It was many years later that I found that some women actually can ejaculate and what exactly it was all about.

"If that ever happens again, I don't care who it's with, I'm going to go second." Mike told me afterwards. "That looked like the best shag ever, and I tell you what, your legs were more wobbly than hers afterwards." He was probably right about that.

Doreen fell asleep on the carpet after I'd climbed off, and so Mike and I got ourselves dressed and quietly left, making a vow that we would never tell anyone what had happened and that we wouldn't even mention it between ourselves. We didn't think that Doreen would say anything, even if she could remember it, just in case her husband found out, and as nobody else knew so you would think that would be that, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong.

Nothing happened for about a week, but then on the following Wednesday, as Mike and I left my place for a night on the town we were waylaid by Doreen Faulkner. She was stone cold sober this time and looking grim faced.

"Come in lads." She pointed to her open door. "I think we've got something to talk about."

'This' I thought to myself, 'is when brown stuff and fan get acquainted'.

She indicated that we should sit on the sofa and then perched herself on the chair nearest the door, whether to stop us escaping or so that she could get out herself I'm not sure. This time she was neatly dressed in a soberly cut skirt and blouse, with nothing to show what was underneath.

"Right you two. You took advantage of me the last week, didn't you? Now I want to know -- who have you told?"

"Nobody, Mrs Faulkner." I tried to sound sincere instead of just plain scared.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mrs Faulkner."

There was no way we were going to let that get around. To youths of our age a woman in her forties was ancient and we'd never live it down if our mates found out. She didn't need to ask, that was one secret that was absolutely safe.

"You can imagine what would happen if Jim found out, can't you? She asked us.

We could well imagine. He might have been locked up, but a lot of his hard-case friends were still walking free, and most of them carried knuckledusters and razors as a matter of course. We both nodded our reply.

"Good, so let's keep it between ourselves, eh?"

We nodded again, relieved that she wasn't about to tell him herself.

"But I'm still very pissed off with the pair of you about what happened. Didn't you think to use a rubber? How do you know you haven't made me pregnant? And how do I know you didn't give me a dose of clap?"

We stared at her blankly, we used condoms with our girlfriends (mostly), but we'd never even thought about using one with her, and now it was coming back to haunt us. We must have begun to look worried, because she spoke to reassure us.

"Well, don't worry, rubbers aren't needed, I never have been able to have kids and I don't expect either of you has anything nasty, have you?"

We shook our heads dumbly.

"Now, what I want to know is, what are you going to do to make amends for shagging me without permission when I was pissed?"

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byOtazel© 8 comments/ 122040 views/ 16 favorites

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