Sheldon's Slutty Granny

May 30^th, 1992

Connie Tucker carried a basket full of granny bras and granny panties into the Medford Laundromat, the place she owned (along with the illegal gambling den in the back.) She threw her lingerie into a washing machine, added some detergent, plunked a quarter down a metal slot, and watched the sloshy soapy water spinning round and round. Nick Rafka strolled into the laundromat with a basketful of his own laundry. That hot ripped eighteen year-old hunk was the best high school quarterback in Texas; heading to LSU in the fall. Connie admired him with a naughty grin as he stuffed his Medford Wolves uniform into a Kelvinator Klean-o-Matic.

Nick "The Rocket" Rafka reminded her of Dale McCoy, another drop-dead gorgeous quarterback at the same school, class of 1943. Dale took her virginity under the bleachers on a muggy late spring afternoon, just like this one. He fucked her a hundred more times over the next three months, before he got drafted into the army. He landed at Omaha Beach on D-Day, and then he landed at Texas A&M, where he fizzled out as a second-string QB. He ended up a broke pathetic mess, stocking shelves at the Medford Woolworth's.

Connie Tucker used to be a slutty redhead cheerleader. Now she was a slutty white-haired senior, hungry for fresh young meat. She wanted to recapture a bit of her lost youth by scoring a "touchdown" with Nick, and taking the extra point all over her face. Her lingerie was dirty, and her mind was filthy.

"Hey there, Nicky. I see you're washing your football uniform," she replied flirtatiously with a sexy Texas accent.

"That's right, Miss Tucker. I got real sweaty last night while playing East Texarkana."

"I was cheering you on in the front row."

"Right behind the cheerleaders."

"I saw you checking me out, right after you checked out that ditzy blonde with big pom-poms," Connie giggled.

"I like redheads better than blondes. Even though your hair is snow white now."

"That's another perk for gingers. We get lots of play, and we never go gray."

"You're the hottest old lady I ever saw," Nick beamed. His face flushed with sudden embarrassment. "Sorry, that was weird, coming from a high school kid."

"I get it from everyone, honey. Hey, you're getting so big and strong. Do you mind if I feel your biceps?"

"Uh . . . okay," he croaked awkwardly.

She gave his rock-hard guns a good squeeze with her soft milky hands. A strong tingle of desire flared between her legs, enhanced by his oozing male pheromones. "Hoo-wee, those are some mighty fine muscles. You're getting strong as John Wayne."

"Who the hell is John Wayne?"

"Damn," she chortled. "How about Arnold Schwarzenegger? You heard of that guy, right?"

"Oh yeah, I loved Arnie in Terminator 2: Judgement Day. One of those rare sequels that's better than the original."

"Sort of like The Godfather, Part II."

"I've never seen The Godfather, I or II. But I love Godfather's Pizza."

"Me too," Connie sighed, feeling her age again. Meanwhile, Nick threw his navy blue boxer shorts in the washing machine.

"Nice undies, Nicky," she uttered sweetly.

"They're from Calvin Klein's private collection."

"Uh-huh," Connie murmured. What else is in your . . . private collection?" She tossed her shiny white hair and swung her wide firm hips, grinning seductively.

"Uh . . ." Nick gaped awkwardly, turning red with embarrassment. "Are you . . . hitting on me, Miss Tucker?"

"No duh, Mister Rocket."

"Oh my god," he snickered. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms gently around his neck, making him croak louder.

"I know you don't have a girlfriend right now."

"How do you know that?"

"This is a small backwater Texas town, where everyone knows everyone's business. I wanna play some 'ball' with you."

"Oh my god," Nick chortled. "This is like one of those stupid porn tapes in the back room at the Video Village."

"I've seen you renting that VHS smut behind your parent's backs, and I know you want to make those fantasies come true. I'm feeling so dirty today in this laundromat. Let's go back to my office so you can . . . clean me up."

"Holy shit," he groaned toward the fluorescent ceiling lamps.

"Pretty please, Nicky-boy? With a cherry on top?"

He cocked his head with a wry grin, like: What the hell, I'll probably never get a freaky chance like this again.

"All right, Coach Tucker. Let's go draw up some deep passing plays."

"Atta-boy," Connie beamed triumphantly. Nick walked eagerly toward a door marked "Employees Only." She slapped his ass like an NFL tight end. He opened the door and entered a hallway that led toward the illegal gambling den. Connie followed him across the threshold, pausing when she heard someone else entering the laundromat. She turned around and saw Sheldon Cooper, her annoying thirteen year-old science geek grandson. Sheldon had a smug grin on his face and a purple laundry basket in his scrawny arms.

"Good afternoon, meemaw."

"I'm busy, Sheldon," Connie grunted. Why the hell did he always show up at places right when she was about to get laid?

"I'm busy too. My parent's washing machine is on the fritz, so I had to walk five blocks over here with my laundry."

"Perfect timing," Connie muttered.

"That's a funny expression, 'on the fritz.' It originated with a comic strip called The Katzenjammer Kids, starring Hans and Fritz. Two naughty children who always stirred up hilarious trouble."

"Naughty kids, just like you."

"Hey, I'm not naughty. I'm a boy genius who does things his way, or the highway."

"Same difference, buster."

Sheldon frowned slightly with a bruised ego. "Quick question, meemaw: which organic laundry detergent would you recommend I use?"

"I only use cheap brand-name detergent. Screw that useless hippy-dippy organic crap."

"But the brand name detergents leave a harsh chemical residue on clothes. Scientific studies have proven that they cause a variety of skin disorders, including eczema, dermatitis, psoriasis, and even melanoma. And those artificial perfumes may smell like a beautiful meadow in the Bavarian wilderness, but they wreak havoc on your respiratory system."

"Is that so?" Connie grunted.

"Very much so. This laundromat is like a ticking time bomb of caustic carcinogenic polymers. Cheer," he added sarcastically.

"Well, Mister Cooper, here's four little words that you really need to hear, but your parents are too nice to say. Shut the fuck up!"

Connie slammed the door in her grandson's face, and hurried toward that hunky quarterback. Nick waited impatiently near the end of a hallway that led to the gambling room. The tinny sound of slot machines were faintly audible through a heavy metal door marked "KEEP OUT!"

"I know there's an illegal gambling den behind that door," Nick said with a twinkle in his eye and a hard-on pressing against his zipper. "My dad goes there every night, and so does uncle Owen and aunt Betty."

"Good for them, having a big fun sin to repent for with Pastor Jeff." She grabbed his right hand, pulled him into her office, and shut the door. "Here's something else to get down on my knees and repent for."

That seventy year-old vixen dropped down on her knees on the dingy linoleum floor. She unzipped his pants, yanked his six-inch teen dick out of his boxers, and shoved it right in her mouth.

"Holy fuck," Nick groaned in disbelief as she rocked her head back and forth, sucking hard. "Quarterbacks get banged by everyone."

Connie laughed with a mouthful. "Especially in Texas."

She picked up the pace, twisting her head all the way up and down his thick white shaft while growling fiercely.

"God damn, you freaky old bag. You suck dick better than Mandy McAllister."

She pulled out abruptly, making a funny poof sound. "Are you fucking serious? Mandy cheated on Georgie with you?"

"And about twenty other guys."

"Damn, this town is crazy as fuck."

She resumed the blowjob with a vengeance, ramming her face against his hairy crotch over and over and over. Her neck muscles were strong as steel after five solid decades of fellatio. She sucked off about three thousand men over the years, in the heart of Dixie County. She quietly thanked Richard Simmons for keeping her in tip-top shape in her twilight years. Sweatin' To The Oldies.

Nick took off his shirt and unbuckled his pants, letting them fall to the floor. She yanked down his boxer shorts and sucked his balls almost painfully hard, making him groan louder. She batted those testes teasingly with both hands, drawing out the suspense. Making this wild tryst last.

"Fuck yeah, bitch. Toss my balls like Troy Aikman. How 'bout them Cowboys?"

"They're going all the way again, and so am I."

"I wanna fuck the shit of you, Coach Tucker."

"I'm the kind of girl who likes it on top. Lie down on my desk."

"Yes ma'am. I love women who take control, like Janet Jackson."

He got up and parked his nude ass on top of her cheap fiberboard desk, resting his head on a pile of Penthouse magazines near a Rolodex. She shucked off her loose-fitting granny clothes and tossed them on top of a filing cabinet.

"Awww daaaamn, Connie. You're hotter than Robin Brown, Penthouse Pet of the Month."

"That's a lie, and you know it," she giggled. She hopped on the desk and straddled his muscular thighs between her bony knees.

"Fuck me fast and hard, coach. Throw a deep bomber dig seam right up the slot, ace gun formation."

"Yes sir, Mister Rocket."

She hawked a big loogie on his six-inch jalopy, smearing that lubricating spit all over the fleshy white shaft with her right hand.

"You never heard of John Wayne, eh? Well, I'll show you who the fuck he was."

She mounted his "saddle" and rode that ripped horse like Secretariat. Literally fucking his brains out.

"Yee-ha, ride 'em cowgirl!" she shrieked joyfully, smacking his left thigh for good measure. "I'm drivin' this buckin' bronc right into the fucking sunset!"

Nick growled triumphantly, living out his wild taboo fantasy of fucking a hot old hag. He smacked her ass harder, making her yelp.

"Giddyup, you slutty fuckin' cowgirl!"

She gladly obeyed his order. Her sagging cellulite-laden thighs smacked loudly against his rock-hard quads. Bouncing like a basketball on a football prodigy.

"Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah! God, your dick feels so fucking good, so deep in my pussy. You're the fucking best, Dale!"

"Who the hell is Dale?"

She brushed off that awkward slip of the tongue, and kept pounding away. Squeezing her vaginal muscles tightly on his prick while working her clit with her right hand. He smacked her ass harder.

"Giddyup, bitch! Make me bust a nut right up your granny twat."

"You better cum on my face, boy. Shoot me up like Hondo!"

"Who the hell is Hondo?"

She brushed off his ignorance of classic cinema. Riding her fine young stallion relentlessly on the open range, with her wrinkly d-cups bouncing hypnotically. Nick was good at holding back his load, unlike most teenagers. Pacing himself for a mile run, like a jockey at the Kentucky Derby. She finally stopped bouncing three minutes later. She hopped off the desk and bent over against a metal cabinet full of bills for the laundromat/"gaming parlor."

"Get over here and fuck me real good, Mister Rocket. Pound my pussy like a Wild West cowboy."

"I reckon I will, Missy," he quipped. Connie smacked her own ass invitingly. He grabbed her sagging posterior with both hands, and rammed his QB rifle up her withering postmenopausal twat.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit!" she shrieked ecstatically while getting hammered like hell. "I haven't been fucked this hard since I was fifty."

"Welcome to The Golden Years, Blanche!"

He smacked her ass ten more times while bashing her booty into the filing cabinet. Rattling that stainless steel against the drywall. They both worked up a nice sweat on a muggy afternoon, despite the air conditioning. It was the best sex she had in twenty years, ever since that random one-off with an auto mechanic named Jake Jeudy, in the back seat of her broken-down '68 Plymouth Roadrunner.

Nick growled so manly as he kicked it into high gear, fucking that seventy year-old as hard and as fast as he could. An incredible orgasm burst through her desperate quivering body, making her squirt all over the cabinet and the linoleum floor. Making her scream like never before, seeing stars on the bland white walls. (The customers could obviously hear her in the gambling room on the other side of the wall, but she "got busy" in her office on a regular basis, so they just rolled with it while rolling those stupid slot machines.)

"Oh god, I'm gonna cum so hard!" Nick groaned. "Get down for the snap, Tucker. Shotgun formation!"

Connie spun around and swooped right down on the floor, landing with a painful thud on her old kneecaps. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth wide.

"Here comes a jet blitz, you slutty southern belle! OoooohhhWAAAAAAAHHH! HOOOOOO FUUUUUUUCK!"

She laughed playfully as a big bitter wad splatted right on her tongue. More and more jizz rained down on the rest of her face. Alpha male machismo filled his balls to the brim. They finally emptied out on her chin, but he kept jerking off at a rapid clip, groaning comically. Guys could never get enough of that skanky "seasoned" hottie. She fingered all that hot youthful splooge into her mouth, and swallowed it all down with a sweet smile.

"Now there's a touchdown for the highlight reel," she remarked in the heavy afterglow.

"Fuck yeah, coach. That was like a 99-yard punt return, with a two-point conversion."

They got dressed in a pleasant haze, reluctant to return to the real world in a small boring Texas town.

"Can we do this again sometime?" Nick asked.

"Anytime you want, Mister Rocket. My 'laundromat' is open every day from 8 AM to 11 PM. Stop by whenever you need to . . . clean up."

"I'll stop by again next week, after my big game with North Tyler."

"Same bat time, same bat channel."

"Bat channel? What the hell are you talking about now?"

"Never mind," she muttered. "Bring your football helmet along next time. That'll get me extra horny, like I'm fucking Batman."

"Yes ma'am, Coach Tucker."

They strolled back out to the main laundry room, and she blew him a kiss good-bye as he exited to the parking lot. Forgetting all about her legitimate customers. The only one there was . . .

"For shame, meemaw. For shame," Young Sheldon said sternly, standing next to a Kelvinator DryMaster 2000. "That quarterback is young enough to be your grandson, and dumb as a doornail."

"Maybe so. But you better not tell anyone about this."

"You know I will, granny. My highly astute scientific mind refuses to let any scandalous information go unanalyzed and un-networked."

Connie snarled at her irrepressible grandson. "Listen here, you punk-ass Stephen Hawking wannabe. You're gonna pretend that footballer was never here, or I'll prove the big bang theory by whoopin' your ass."

"No you won't. You're my meemaw, and you love me too much."

Connie sighed defeatedly. "You're right, kiddo. I'm just as crazy as you are."

"Quite true. You remind me of that sassy redhead secretary in Ghostbusters."