Sharing My Landlady's Bed

Sharing My Landlady's Bed

This story concerns the sexual relationship that develops between Robin, a young accountant, and Penelope, the sixty-something owner of a lodging house.

It contains descriptions of anal penetration and rimming, so please pass by if that's not your thing.

Comments welcome as always.

Sylviafan

It all started with the annual trip to Manchester to audit our biggest client, but the events described here would never have happened if my bosses hadn't been such disgusting skinflints. So thanks, guys, you did me a favour!

I'm Robin, a twenty-three-year-old accountant working for a medium-sized practice in Bristol in the south-west of England. It's not a bad firm to work for; the office is pretty vibrant with plenty of staff around my age and a good smattering of attractive ladies in their twenties and thirties. And there's the annual beano to Manchester.

Our outfit mainly services small companies and singleton practitioners but we've got one client who's a Public Limited Company, so it's a big deal for us and we put a big team onto their annual audit, which takes place in the first two or three weeks in January.

Last year I made the team for the first time. I'm not chartered yet, that's a couple of years away, but I'm qualified to do audit work and besides, the company always sends a couple of partners to oversee the junior staff.

Because it's a hundred and seventy odd miles from Bristol to Manchester, the audit team are accommodated in hotels during the week, with the option of driving home at weekends. Partners get a swanky boutique hotel and the rest of us get a room in a decent chain hotel like a Hilton or Marriott. This year, it turned out, the company secretary had found out that if the junior staff were accommodated in Bed and Breakfast lodging houses, the company could save quite a lot of money.

Well that was all very well, we're all accountants and appreciate a good cost saving when we see one, but part of the fun of going away was the camaraderie in the hotel bar in the evenings. Many a good drinking session took place last January and to cap it all, I spent a night with Lucy, our corporation-tax advisor.

This year we were scattered about the city wherever there was a free room. I was allocated a room at the Hollyhocks Guest House, a three-bedroomed terraced house in Old Trafford run by a Mrs Penelope Gregson. It looked dire when I looked on Google; there were certainly no hollyhocks to be seen. The only crumb of comfort was that it was only half a mile from Manchester United's ground, so I might get to see a mid-week game.

I arrived there about six o'clock in the evening of the first day of our audit. It was dark and I'd missed my way a couple of times even with sat nav, so I was tired and irritable and not looking forward to spending the first of far too many nights in a crappy B&B. At least dinner had been thrown in (if that's the right expression) so I wouldn't have to go out again.

I locked my car, walked up the short path to the front door and rang the bell. After about thirty seconds the hall light came on and the door was opened by a lady I assumed was Mrs Gregson, although it was difficult to see anything of her as the porch was in darkness and she was back-lit by the hall light.

'You must be Mr Barber,' she said in a voice that was rich and soft and low-pitched.

'Yes,' I agreed, surprised at her accent, which didn't sound anything like inner-city Manchester, in fact I wondered whether English was her first language.

'Come in,' she told me and I followed her in with my wheelie case.

She turned to face me and I got my first good look at Penelope.

How can I describe her? So much has passed between us now that it's difficult for me to be objective but I'll do my best.

My first impression was that she was tall and dark-eyed and self-composed. A lady of almost my height (five-feet-nine) with naturally dark hair, dyed a uniform black, presumably to hide the grey. It fell to her shoulders in a mass of curls and framed a face that was still striking despite the depredations of time: full lips, an aquiline nose and sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes surmounted by thick, black eyebrows. Her complexion had a mediterranean hint and was supplemented by lipstick and heavy eye make-up which couldn't quite disguise the crows' feet at the corners of her eyes nor the lines on her cheeks and her upper lip.

She wore an oyster-coloured blouse in some shiny synthetic material, taut across her bust, and a nondescript skirt that fell to below her knees.

'How was your journey?' she asked in that soft voice of hers. 'Was it Bristol you came up from?'

'Yes. I drove up early this morning. The roads were pretty clear.'

'You've been at work all day?' she asked. 'You must be exhausted!' She handed me a wooden key tag with two keys on it. Take your case up and I'll get on with some dinner for you. Yours is the room at the front.' I hefted my case and turned to the stairs. 'I bet you'd like a cup of tea too, wouldn't you?'

'I could murder one,' I agreed, smiling at her.

'Come through when you're ready,' she said, disappearing down the hall and through a door at the end through which I glimpsed a brightly lit kitchen.

My bedroom was ok as B&B rooms go: a double bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a sink in the corner. There was also a chair and a tiny table next to the window that I could work at in the evenings, if there was nothing else in the way of entertainment.

I did a bit of unpacking then left the case on the bed and went down to the kitchen where my landlady, now wearing a calico apron, indicated a mug of steaming tea on the scrubbed pine table. 'Your tea's there and dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Is steak and kidney pie alright for you? Your company didn't mention any dietary requirements.'

'Lovely,' I replied.

'And I've made an apple pie as a bit of dessert.'

'Thank you... er...'

'Penelope. And you're Robin, if I recall.' Unexpectedly she held her hand out and we shook and I noted the veins on the back of her hand and her dark-red painted nails and felt her tapering fingers grip me briefly. 'Let me give you a quick tour while the potatoes are finishing off.'

I followed her out of the kitchen and down the hall into the sitting room at the front of the house where there was a sofa and a couple of easy chairs facing a television. There was also a coffee table and a bookcase stuffed with paperbacks.

Then she showed me upstairs which was really just the bathroom and three bedrooms. 'If you want a bath,' she told me, 'let me know and I'll put the water heater on. But I'd rather you just had a shower, it's ever so expensive to heat the tank.'

'Have you got a full house at the moment?' I asked as we went back out onto the landing and I looked at the closed bedroom doors.

She gave me a small smile. 'No, it's just you. I had got someone coming for the whole of January but they cancelled just before Christmas.' She sighed. 'January in Manchester isn't the best time for Bed and Breakfast businesses.'

We trooped downstairs and back to the kitchen, passing a door on the left that had a sign saying "Private". 'That's my space,' she told me, answering my unasked question. 'If you need anything, just knock. I'm generally around if I'm not shopping,' she added a bit sadly.

In the kitchen she walked over to the back door and I joined her, looking through the window into the darkness of the garden. 'There's a table and chairs out there if you feel the need to sit in the garden in January.' She looked at me with those heavy-lidded eyes and then her face broke into a smile and I laughed and she laughed and, just for a second, a little thrill of excitement ran through me as I looked at my landlady.

I ate at the kitchen table while Penelope washed up the cooking utensils. When I'd finished the steak and kidney pie she produced a golden-brown apple pie from the oven and cut me a generous slice, putting it down in front of me with a jug of double cream.

'Wow,' I said appreciatively. 'I'm going to have to increase my exercise regime while I'm here,' I smiled.

'There's nothing on you,' Penelope smiled back. 'Not like me,' she added, rubbing her stomach with one hand, though she looked alright to me. A bit of padding on her hips and bum maybe but that's age related and not always a bad thing, if you ask me. I prefer a bit of meat on the bone.

After dinner I bade her goodnight saying I was going to work in my bedroom and have an early night.

'What time would you like breakfast?' she asked.

'Would seven be too early?'

'No, that would be fine. I've got fresh fruit and cereals or I can do you a cooked breakfast?'

'Fruit and cereals sounds fine,' I told her. I'm not a big fan of sausage and bacon at seven in the morning. Then I went up to my room and finished unpacking. It was nearly eight by then so I got my laptop out and typed up all the notes I'd made during the day and answered a load of dull emails and then I used the bathroom and went to bed where I fell heavily asleep.

It was cold and bright the next morning as I sat in the kitchen eating my breakfast and my landlady fussed around me and asked if I'd like to take some sandwiches for lunch. I said, 'yes please' and watched her as she stood at the counter and buttered bread and sliced cheese.

She looked rather nice from the back, I couldn't help noticing. Her hips were wide but nicely curved and her bum was shapely and not enormous. Probably a bit saggy under that skirt I grinned to myself.

I finished my cereal and she made us both a cup of tea and came and sat down at the table opposite me.

'What's on your agenda today, Robin?' she asked in her soft voice, looking at me with her dark eyes with their sleepy lids.

'We're auditing United Metals over in Salford,' I told her. 'There's a team of twelve of us.'

'Is it interesting?' she asked.

'Auditing? No, not especially. Though it's nice to be away from the office for a couple of weeks.'

'I'm surprised your company don't put you up in hotels.'

'They used to,' I admitted. 'Then they found out they could save some money.'

Penelope smiled. 'I should be grateful they did. If it wasn't for you I'd be empty till March.'

'What do you do when there are no guests?' I asked, curious.

'I read a lot and watch a lot of television and go walking in the park if the weather's nice.'

'Is it just you here?' I asked, gently.

Penelope sighed and put her hands palm down on the table, her red nails stark against the pale wood. 'Yes, just me.' She told me that her husband had died ten years ago and she had no children. She spoke quietly, without self-pity, telling me that the B&B business was what kept her going both financially and emotionally.

'It must be hard work?' I sympathised.

'Oh, I don't mind hard work. Though some of the guests can be difficult. If not downright rude,' she added. 'I've learned not to let it get to me.'

I felt a wave of sadness for her at her lonely and difficult existence. Surely she had friends around to support her. I came to a snap decision.

'Do you drink wine?' I asked and she stared at me.

'Yes, sometimes. Why?'

'Well I'm going to be here for a couple of weeks and I thought I could bring a bottle of wine back this evening and we could have a good old chat and... well...' I tailed off.

'That's a lovely idea, Robin. But are you sure you want to spend time chatting to an old biddy? Won't your colleagues be going out on the town or whatever it is you do?'

I left the house soon after that and fifteen minutes later I was pulling into United Metal's car park.

The day passed in a blur of work. I caught up with some of the team at lunchtime in the canteen and they described their lodgings and landladies or landlords to me and I realised that I'd rather fallen on my feet at Hollyhocks Guest House. It was as I had suspected, we were scattered about the city and no plans were made to meet up in the evening so I didn't feel that I was missing anything by stopping in and talking to my landlady.

I stopped at a corner shop near the lodging house on the way home and realised when I went inside that I hadn't asked Penelope if she drank red or white, so I picked up a bottle of both.

I let myself in, left my laptop bag in the hall and went through to the kitchen where my landlady was sitting at the table preparing vegetables. She was wearing a floral dress today, a little tight across the bust, I thought. In fact it looked a tiny bit too small all over and I guessed that Penelope's wardrobe probably wasn't very extensive.

'White or red,' I asked, holding out the bottles.

As it turned out, we drank the white with the fish pie we had for dinner and afterwards we sat at the kitchen table and sipped our way through about half of the bottle of red while we talked on into the evening.

I look back on that evening as the beginning of my relationship with Penelope, although I didn't so much as kiss her goodnight. She asked me about myself and I told her about my childhood in Bristol and my family and friends. She listened quietly and asked me lots of questions and laughed at some of my stories. Then it was her turn, telling me about her Greek parents and coming to England when she was ten - she could remember her life on the Greek island of Skiathos - and having to learn English. Of course, she still spoke Greek fluently and we laughed as she tried to teach me a few stumbling basics. She told me about her marriage and her life in Manchester, which had been happy until her husband's premature death.

And as she talked I looked at her and saw an attractive, mature lady. A lady with a pleasant, matronly figure and a sexy voice with a hint of foreign syntax in her speech. A lady with heavy-lidded eyes and full lips that I increasingly wanted to kiss. A lady who listened and smiled and looked at me with her dark eyes.

I didn't try to kiss her that evening. We talked until nearly eleven and then I said goodnight and went up to my room and brushed my teeth in the sink. I got undressed and slipped under the duvet and reached for my cock which was almost fully erect and had been leaking fluid into my underpants all evening as I sat at the table with Penelope.

I stroked my shaft and told myself not to be so foolish. Penelope and I had swapped ages - she was sixty-five and I was twenty-three. What on earth did I think was going to happen between us for goodness sake! She was old enough to be my grandmother. Although strangely that wasn't such a negative thought. And yes, I did find her attractive, despite her age. And sexy, too, with those sultry eyes and kissable lips.

I imagined kissing her and squeezing her full breasts. I tried to visualise what she would look like naked. Would she have a thick, black bush between her legs as I imagined Greek ladies would have? Would it be shot through with grey? Would she shave? I hoped not.

I gripped my cock harder and rubbed faster, sliding my foreskin over my glans on a sticky film of seminal fluid.

What would she smell like down there? What would she taste like? How would it feel to penetrate her, to push my cock into her cunt?

I gasped as my orgasm erupted through me, spurting jets of semen onto my chest and stomach and leaving me limp and messy.

'If it's ok with you,' I said the next morning at breakfast, 'I'll stay here over the weekend rather than do the drive down to Bristol. It'll save me a lot of time and I can do some work on my laptop,' I explained in justification.

'That's fine,' said Penelope. 'Your room's hired for seven nights a week anyway, and it'll be nice to have some company at the weekend,' she added with a smile.

'Yes,' I said, seeing my chance. 'Maybe we could go for a walk in the park if the weather stays fine. And perhaps we could go for a drink afterwards, or some lunch.'

'Well that sounds lovely,' she replied, 'if you're sure you want to spend a bit of time with an old crock like me.'

We didn't do any more drinking that week, but we did linger over dinner and usually chatted a bit afterwards and I got the feeling that Penelope was enjoying my company and was pleased that we seemed to be getting on well. Of course, there is a world of difference between chatting to your sixty-something landlady and making a move on her. I hadn't quite decided if I was really going to go through with it but I was now masturbating every evening and most mornings as I thought about Penelope.

Saturday was cloudless and bone-achingly cold. I asked Penelope if she was still up for a walk and she said she was so we wrapped ourselves up and left the house and walked a mile or so to Alexandra Park which is a large, Victorian municipal park with a big boating lake and a cafeteria.

We walked round the perimeter three times over the space of about two hours and then we retreated into the steamy interior of the cafeteria and I got us coffees. The walk had been very enjoyable. Penelope and I had talked about life in Manchester, life in Bristol, books, politics - you name it. And I had thoroughly enjoyed her company, which only added to the increasingly strong sexual attraction that I felt for her, even swaddled as she was in a quilted anorak, a headscarf and a bobble-hat on top of that.

'Not like Greece?' I said at one point as we stood by the lake and she shivered at the sight of the cold water.

'Not like Greece,' she agreed, quietly.

On the way home I suggested we stop for lunch in a pub and after a bit of persuasion she agreed. The place we found was quiet, in the saloon bar, although there was a football matched being screened in the public bar. We had soup and a ploughman's and I drank the local bitter and Penelope drank white wine. Stepping out of the pub in the early afternoon Penelope shivered again and I offered her my arm, which she gripped with her gloved hand. And so attached, we walked the half-mile to the lodging house, my brain whirling at the intimacy of our closeness.

Inside, we stripped off our coats and scarves and gloves and Penelope shivered again. 'Goodness it was cold out there!'

This seemed like the opening I had been waiting for. 'Let me warm you up,' I said, holding out my arms.

She stepped up to me hesitantly and I put my arms around her and drew her to me for a hug, her chin on my shoulder, her curly black hair tickling my cheek, her arms loosely around me. I held her in an embrace for a couple of minutes which doesn't sound long but it is if it's the first time you've hugged your landlady. Then I relaxed my hold and we looked at each other from about six inches away. I could feel the warmth of her body against me, feel the swell of her bosom and the faint smell of her perfume. Her eyes were on mine, the lids heavy and dark with eyeshadow, her lips slightly parted.

I leaned to her and kissed her, my eyes closed, feeling the softness of her lips against mine. My heart was thumping in my chest and the blood was rushing to my penis, swelling and stiffening it. It was just a little kiss, lips against lips, but I was intensely aroused.

I pressed my lips harder against hers and opened my mouth slightly and Penelope broke off and took half a pace away from me. We were both gasping as though we'd been running.

'I'm not sure we should be doing this, Robin,' she said quietly.

Which in my experience means "I don't want to do this". I should have been disappointed but as it was almost exactly the response I had been expecting I could hardly complain. But neither would I be giving up so easily.

'I'm sorry,' I said, contritely. 'I've had such a lovely time today I think I got a bit carried away.'

'That's alright, Robin,' she replied, giving me a kind smile. 'I've had a lovely time today too. Would you like a cup of tea?' The universal panacea - a nice cup of tea.