Dripping Taps

“What about we make an early night of it, Sid?” asked Freda, without much hope.

Sid looked briefly away from the television set and cocking one eye suspiciously asked, “What for, I’m not tired?”

“No, well, I just thought it’d be nice,” warbled Freda in what she hoped was a sultry manner, but hope had died even before it was properly born.

Sid had two standard answers to her requests, the one he’d just used, “I’m not tired,” or alternatively, “I’m too tired.”

“Na,” said Sid, slurping from his glass of ale and returning his gaze to the television set, “I’m watching the replay of the game.”

Making one last, but she knew vain endeavour, Freda tried wheedling. “Come on Sid, we haven’t done it for a long time.”

“My God, you’re not on about that again, are you? It’s disgusting at your age. What are you, a sex maniac?”

That speared Freda to the heart. “Sex maniac!” she exploded, “it’s two years since we did it and even then you didn’t make me come.”

Sid, secretly filled with guilt about his low level sexual performance, and knowing he couldn’t, as he put it, “get it up any more,” decided that attack was the best form of defence; “Why the bloody hell don’t you get someone else to fuck you and stop bothering me.”

In saying this he felt secure in the fact that Freda was fifty five years old and therefore, in his view, beyond getting a lover. “In any case,” he thought, “she’s always gone on about faithfulness to the marriage vows, so she’d never try it.”

As if to confirm his views Freda wailed, “How could you say such a thing to me, Sid, me that’s always been faithful?” She burst into tears.

“Aw, for God’s sake turn off the waterworks, Freda, I want to hear the commentary.”

“Eooow,” cried Freda, “I wish I could turn off the waterworks, every bloody tap in the house is dripping.”

“All right, all right,” yelled Sid, “when I’ve got time I’ll change the bloody washers, now let me watch this in peace.”

“You’re always saying, ‘When I’ve got time’,” retaliated Freda, starting her own offensive, “You’ve got nothing but time, and all you do is sit in front of that bloody thing or go to the pub, you bloody impotent sod.”

Hit on his raw spot Sid rose and yelled “One more word out of you, and I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

Sid sat down again, recalling past physical confrontations with Freda in which he’d come off the worst. For all that Freda was really a tender soul, she was also a lusty woman, and this was precisely what had attracted Sid in his young and potent days. “I like ‘em big and buxom,” he used to tell anyone who’d listen.

It was his misfortune that over the forty years of their marriage as he diminished physically, Freda seemed to grow more vigorous, especially in the desires of the flesh department. This no doubt was in part because he had a sedentary job before he retired, and spent his leisure time in front of the television set. On the other hand, Freda maintained rude health through her vigorous house working and gardening, in which activities Sid never participated.

So it was that he had a fifty five year old wife who was still burning for his bedtime attentions, and he the possessor of an ever drooping manhood.

Unwilling to demean herself further before her incapable husband Freda, resigning to the realities of life, departed the room and made her way to the marital bed chamber. “Sod him,” she thought, as she relieved herself with the dildo, now her constant bedtime solace.

Some time later as she lay wakeful in the connubial bed she felt Sid drop in beside her, and after considerable snorting and grunting go to sleep to snore the night away.

In the deep watches of the night Freda considered Sid’s words, “Why don’t you bloody well get someone else to fuck you.” She realised that Sid only flung down the challenge because he thought it safe to do so, but she began to weigh her options.

“Is it possible for a fifty five year old woman to get herself a lover?” she wondered. Perhaps the only sort of men she could expect to be interested would be men of her own age, but even if she did attract such a man would he not, after the first flush of passion had died, also suffer from that dread disease, Penis Wilt.

She decided that what she needed was a hot young lover. “If I was rich,” she meditated, “I could buy myself a young paramour to make dalliance with,” but alas, Freda was not rich.

She began to consider her female assets. Thanks to her hairdresser her hair was still nut brown and only a couple of days ago she’d had her roots touched up. The years had put a few creases in her face; two grooves ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth; two more lines were etched between her eyebrows; her neck sagged a little, but she had no double chin; being of solid build she was not scrawny, and her breasts, large and firm in youth, had now surrendered to gravity and child bearing and hung somewhat low, although the brown nipples were still ripe.

Her hand wandered down to her belly and felt the folds that pregnancies had endowed her with, then reaching lower she slipped a finger into her vagina thinking, “What a pity it is that people don’t realise that this is still as active as it ever was.” Sure enough, even at that moment, it was crying out for the right to perform that pleasurable function for which nature had so cunningly designed it.

Her legs, certainly marked on the thighs with the residue of child bearing, nevertheless retained some of the excellence that had once been theirs in younger days.

She sighed and wondered how many other women of her age were lying in their beds yearning for a fulfilment that seemed beyond their reach. “If only I had a Fairy God Mother who would grant me a wish.”

Freda wondered what she would wish for. To be forty years younger? For Sid to be restored to potency? To be granted a fiery young lover who would ravish her to death? But there was no Fairy God Mother, so all Freda’s hankering seemed in vain.

Now perchance there is a “Divinity that shapes our ends,” and having shaped them may be open to persuasion to change His/Her/Its mind. In past ages, people had worshipped the gods of Fortune, Luck and Chance in the hope that these gods would favour them, and does not every gambler putting his or her coin into the poker machine in this age of scientific rationalism, unknowingly still worship at the feet of these gods?

The wheel of fortune spins, and be it chance or divine intervention; it sometimes stops at some point favourable to our hopes and desires. Thus did Chance stride across Freda’s path.

It happened next day that Sid departed, as was his custom, to the local hostelry to quaff some foaming ale, and converse with other intellectuals of his own ilk, while Freda, ever the horticulturist, was working in her front garden.

Having done some watering she was wrestling with the tap to try and stop it dripping, when Mrs. Sadie Bertram, her neighbour appeared. After making formal greeting, Freda, still engaged in combat with the tap, let forth the following execration; “The bloody thing, it won’t turn off properly; its like every tap in the bloody house, drip, drip, drip.”

“Can’t Sid put new washers on,” said Sadie, unknowingly tactless.

“Sid! Sid?” Exclaimed our heroine, “It’s as much as the lazy sod can do to lift a glass of ale to his lips.”

Sadie, wishing she hadn't mentioned Sid and washers, felt sorry for Freda. “What if my Thomas came round and did them for you, he’s good at that sort of thing and he’s home today.”

“Oh Sadie, would he?” said grateful Freda, “I’d give him something for it,” she said, doing a quick mental calculation of her narrow financial means.

“I’ll send him round,” Sadie promised, and disappeared into her house.

Shortly after Thomas, Sadie’s son and a well set-up youth, ever ripe for a new venture arrived in Freda’s front garden bearing a tool box. “Got dripping tap troubles have you, Freda?”

“I’ve got more than taps dripping,” thought Freda, but replied demurely, “Yes, I bought the washers some time ago, but don’t know how to fix them. If I watch you I might be able to do them myself in future.”

Thomas began to say, “What about…” Then recalling his mother’s warning not to mention Sid, went on indicating the garden tap, “I make a start on this one? I’ll have to turn the main off, so if you’ll need any water during the next hour you’d better draw some off.”

Freda hastened into the house and filled an electric kettle and a saucepan, “Just in case,” then rejoined Thomas in order to watch him changing the washers.

With apparent ease Thomas dismantled and reassembled one tap after another, with Freda looking on. When it came to the last offending dripper he said, “Why don’t you try this one.”

Freda took the wrench from him and applied it to the hexagon that upon being turned would reveal the inner life of the tap. Unfortunately it was one of those defiant taps that over the years seemed to have welded itself into an unbudgable unity.

Freda battled with it for a few moments, then Thomas said, “It’s one of those, is it,” and so saying, placed his hands over Freda’s to add additional force to the struggle.

Freda felt a little thrill of pleasure shiver though her. Thomas’ hands felt firm and warm, and their touch brought on a little ticking sensation in her clitoris.

“Ah, if only those hands would touch more of me,” she thought. She wondered how tenderly they might fondle her breasts; stroke her mons; and touch her ever moist sex organ. “Would his lips be warm and soft? Would his tongue explore her mouth? His penis could be small, medium or large; it wouldn’t matter, just so long as it…”

The recalcitrant tap yielded to their joint effort jerking them forward in its sudden capitulation. The abrupt surrender of the tap and the jerk forward brought the back of Thomas’ hand in contact with the wall behind the tap, with a consequents scraping of flesh and a minor abrasion.

Warm youthful blood oozed from the wound and Freda cried out, “Oh Thomas, you’ve hurt yourself.”

Thomas, drawing himself up to his full manly stature declared, “It’s nothing, only a scratch.”

All her caring female instincts coming to the fore, Freda said, “I must put a plaster on it in case it gets infected.”

Macho Thomas protested, but Freda was adamant. Antiseptic was applied and a plaster.

During the course of this act of mercy hands once more touched, and Thomas, feeling the gentle caress of Freda’s ministrations, felt a slight twinge in his groin. There was something sensual about that touch.

Thomas, puzzled by this minor ferment in his nether region, went to turn on the main and then together they tested every tap inside and outside the house; all was well, not a single drip manifesting itself, “Except,” thought Freda, “were a washer wont help.”

“What can I giver you for your work, Thomas,” said Freda, knowing full well what she’d like to give him.

“Oh, that okay,” said Thomas airily, while viewing Freda in a way he had never experienced before, “It’s been a pleasure doing it for you,” he said out loud, but thought, “It’d be a pleasure to do something else for the old girl as well; she’s pretty good for her age.”

He felt as if he had a particular attraction to Freda’s breasts and Freda noticed his eyes glued upon them. “Got time for a cup of tea or coffee?” she asked.

“Certainly have,” replied Thomas, pleased to be able to linger on a bit longer so as to continue his survey of Freda’s mammary delights.

Freda set about tea making, considering how she might enhance Thomas’ clear interest in her bosom. Thomas had followed her into the kitchen and was standing watching her. Suddenly Freda gasped and clutched her left breast.

“What up?” queried an anxious Thomas.

“I’ve got sudden heart palpitations,” moaned Freda. “I can feel them right though my…my…er…ribs, you come a feel.”

Thomas approached and Freda seized hand and placed it over her breast. “Can you feel it?” she quavered.

“Well, to tell you the truth, no,” Thomas said.

“It’s the clothing that stopping you feeling it, try this.”

Freda manoeuvred Thomas’ hand up her jumper and cupped it over her bra enclosed breast.

“I still can’t feel it,” Thomas declared.

“It’s the bra, just a second.” Freda reached round her back and unclipped the bra which sagged down and enabled Thomas to at least partially embrace her left breast.

“Can you feel it now?”

Thomas at that moment was himself experiencing something like heart palpitations and there was a buzzing noise in his head. “Ah…yes…yes, I think I can,” he replied, referring more to his own condition than to Freda’s.

Our heroine in the meantime, although she may have been faking her palpitations originally, now, with Thomas’ hand pressing her breast, was experiencing the real thing. There was not so much a buzzing noise in her head, but it was more like a singing sound.

Thomas, in his search for her symptoms, had pressed closer and closer to Freda. She, feeling somewhat light headed and emboldened by his close proximity and her dripping sex organ, let her hand wander down to Thomas’ penis. Feeling it she said, “My God, you’ve got a big'un there.”

Thomas, not to be left behind in this contest to feel things, sought Freda’s mons and began to massage it. Freda countered by pulling down Thomas’ zip and grasping the naked flesh of the now hard and dripping phallus.

But Thomas was not to be outdone, and his hand roamed up Freda’s skirt, his fingers searching for, and finding, the wet valley of Freda’s female crevice. He then began to seek the source of this wetness by inserting a couple of fingers in Freda’s vaginal canal.

By now there was much moaning and gasping as they sort of danced each other into the lounge and onto the divan. The electric kettle in the kitchen, feeling itself abandoned and neglected, steamed for a moment, and then despondently clicked itself off.

Words, generally speaking, were superfluous in this situation, since both of them knew where they were heading. There was a flurry of undoing and removing garments until both were naked.

Freda laid back, legs as wide as she could get them, while Thomas gazed at the exposed sex organ. Freda reciprocated the stare, taking in the formidable organ on display.

“Fuck me, Thomas,” she wailed, “Fuck me hard.”

Like a hawk dropping on its prey Thomas plummeted down onto the willing quarry and thrust his fatal spear into her.

“Oh God, that’s beautiful,” shrieked Freda as she felt the huge shaft dig into her, “Hurt me, hurt me.”

Thomas obliged by squeezing a nipple and digging his teeth into Freda’s lower lip. This brought on a spasm in Freda that included a sudden contraction in her vaginal muscle. This in turn led to a howl from Thomas and a speeding up of his thrusts.

Freda felt the first shudders of an orgasm approaching and winding her sturdy legs round Thomas whimpered, “Fuck me to death…fuck me to death.”

Thomas did his best to comply with this request and as Freda’s orgasm took her totally in it’s agonising grasp, she convulsed so fiercely that despite the firm grasp of her legs round Thomas, she very nearly threw him off.

In an inspired way Thomas managed to counter this expulsion by grasping Freda’s buttocks with his hands and hanging on like the proverbial bull dog. This was all too much for the poor boy, and from being the predator he suddenly became the victim, and giving a loud howl he spat out semen into Freda’s depths.

They rocked back and forth in voluptuous embrace for several moments until Thomas had temporarily emptied his testes and Freda had exhausted her orgasmic aftershocks.

Lying in post-coital repose Freda made the comment, “Bloody hell boy, you know how to treat a lady.”

Thomas, once more not to be outdone, responded, “And you know what a gentleman needs, do you think you might have heart palpitations again about ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Very likely,” crooned Freda, knowing that Sid would be well and truly on his way to the pub by then. “Why don’t you drop in and have a feel?”

“I’ll do that,” Thomas responded with what sounded like considerable enthusiasm.

“You’d better go now,” said Freda, “Sid’ll be reeling in soon.”

Thomas departed rejoicing, leaving Freda to contemplate what she would teach Thomas the next day, and the next day, and the next day.

When Sid came blearily over the horizon of the family home he failed to notice the bruise flowering on Freda’s lower lip, and fortunately as Freda’s breasts were no longer on display, he had no chance of observing a slightly battered nipple. He went to the kitchen sink and started to wash his hands, then after a pause yelled to Freda who had gone into the lounge, “Hey, the bloody tap’s not dripping.”

“No, I had it fixed, I had them all fixed.”

Sid, drunk or sober, was ever the money calculator since he needed all possible resources for investing in the brewery came staggering into the lounge.

“How much did that cost?”

“Nothing,” jeered Freda, “Thomas fixed them so I paid with my body.”

Sid hesitated for a moment as his addled wits tried to encompass this statement, then he burst into bibulous laughter. “You should be so lucky,” he slobbered, “who’d want to get his hands into your plackets you silly old bird?”

Freda smiled a secret smile and said, “I can still dream, can’t I?”

Sid returned to his minor ablutions still guffawing.

Freda wondered if Thomas would like the taste of female love juice.