As I stepped into our driveway, I asked myself, “Did that really happen?”
Before I try to answer my own question, it probably makes sense for me to provide a little background.
I'm a seventy-one-year-old retired guy who is bored ninety percent of the time. I was “retired” by my law firm a year ago, even though I was a senior partner and still productive. The firm gave my caseload to a junior associate and at a going-away luncheon, to me, a gold watch.
I didn't play golf and I hated fishing. I didn't have a woodshop in the garage and I didn't want to tune the carburetor of a classic car.
According to my wife of forty-seven years, I was in a funk. It didn't help that I was sexually frustrated.
It was kind of pathetic. With no wills to draw up and no trusts to draft, I became the poster child for “Idle hands do the devil's work.”
If I walked into the kitchen and Julie was concentrating on washing the morning’s dishes, I'd fantasize about sidling up to her quietly. I'd wrap my arms around her and cup her 38DDs. I’d hump her ample ass and whisper into her ear, “Pull up your smock. I'm gonna fuck you back to the stone age.”
Of course, it truly was a fantasy. Julie and I hadn't fucked in over twenty years. Long before that she had pronounced both sucking cock and eating pussy to be “disgusting and demeaning.”
As one might expect, I had become pretty much an expert at jerking off. Not that it is overly relevant to the broader theme of this accounting; but my go-to method for an explosive climax was a tad pervy.
When Julie was out of the house shopping, I'd shed my khakis and boxers and head into our dimly lit walk-in closet, closing the mirrored door behind me. I'd straddle the wicker dirty clothes hamper, drape my balls along the edge, and face the mirror.
I'd sort through the clothes and retrieve a pair of Julie’s used panties, turning them inside out. While watching my face in the mirror, I'd bring the cotton liner to my face and deeply inhale Julie’s musky-briney essence into my nostrils. Her pheromones would sledgehammer something deep in my brain. I'd go from zero to sixty in seconds, hardening into full erection.
Reversing her panties, I'd use the silky surface to jack the shaft with my right hand, while I encircled the base of my cock and scrotum with the left. The veins of Mr. Johnson would gnarl and he would become violaceous.
While fantasizing about fucking Julie’s pink anus, I'd frantically pound my meat, slamming my balls into the side of the hamper.
Just thinking about the tightness of her backdoor would bring me to a climax. After quickly releasing my manual cockring, I would cup my left hand at the end of my prick and shoot several ropes of hot jizz onto my palm. Not wanting to make a mess in the hamper and while watching myself in the mirror, I would bring my hand to my mouth and lap up my warm seed.
I loved the taste of my own cum and would have swallowed even more; but unfortunately, I was a one-and-done kind of guy. Despite this thirst for cum, I did not consider myself to be gay or even an any-port-in-the-storm bisexual.
Let's get back to the issue at hand.
Approximately eighteen months ago, Nate and Pam moved from Hartford, CT to our neighborhood; two blocks up and down a cul de sac. Nate was an overweight jovial redhead with a pale complexion. When floating on his back in the community pool, he brought to mind Moby Dick.
Pam was the polar opposite. She walked or jogged daily, always past our house. If I were working in the yard, she’d smile and wave. I decided to get a better look. Don't get me wrong. I didn't believe in putting the moves on some other guy’s wife; I just wanted to look and not touch.
I started working in a street-side flower bed and coincidentally Pam started pausing for a few minutes to catch her breath and to chew the fat.
I got a better look. The best word to describe her would be “cute”. She was almost bug-like; maybe 5’ 1”, 95# or so, with very shapely legs and big tits. She reminded me of Sarah Jessica Parker, but with a less equine face.
I liked her a lot.
Let’s fast forward to this morning. My cardiologist prescribed metoprolol and forty-five minutes of aerobic activity per day at my last office visit. I’m too old to jog and I hate bicycles; so I started walking in the neighborhood. I actually relished the time out of the house and away from Julie. I walked rain or shine.
I considered bagging it this morning. It was cloudy and the thermometer hovered at eleven degrees. I drank a hot cup of java and headed outside wearing a knitted cap, a Columbia parka and a pair of ski gloves. I looked like Nannuck of the North.
My route took me down Pam and Nate’s cul-de-sac. Just as I was reaching the end and ready to head back, Pam ran out of the house to the mailbox. To say she wasn't dressed for the weather would be an understatement. She was slogging in untied Sorel snow boots and wearing only sweatpants and a crop top tee. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but her belly was exposed to the elements. Her erect nipples suggested she was braless.