Tiny beads of perspiration formed on Stephen's brow as he stepped off the bus into the rare March heat. It had been an extraordinarily long day, and week, for that matter, and he was so thankful for this being his last house call of the day; in just forty-five short minutes, he would be free to enjoy a weekend of sleep, television and junk food. His aching feet throbbed from within their constraints at the thought.
He trudged along the pavement, beneath the early evening sun to the home of his final "customer". Stephen was atypically young in his line of work and knew of only a handful of other males in the profession. It was a place he had never imagined himself to be at the age of twenty-three, but he was ever thankful of having any job at all and even more so for having one which he was good at and enjoyed. He had been exceptionally pleased when his boss had mentioned, at a recent appraisal, that a few of the "regulars" were very pleased with him indeed.
Upon reaching the door of the lovely Mrs. Atkin, for whom he had a particular soft spot, Stephen gave a sigh, knocked lightly on the door and let himself in. The house was small and cluttered with ageing furniture and assorted knick knacks, the origin of many of which Stephen had often wondered at on his thrice-weekly visits. A grandfather clock, most definitely made prior to his conception, chimed five times as confirmation of his punctuality.
"Mrs. Atkin," he called from the hallway, "It's me, Stephen." She was usually in the lounge-come-kitchen watching television when he arrived but the sound of the ancient set was curiously absent today. Pushing through the ajar door, he found her in her usual spot on the couch, completely silent and still. The television was off and the only sound was the low hum of a neighbour taking advantage of the warm weather by cutting his grass. Stephen found it a terribly strange scene.
"You alright there, Mrs. A?" No answer. He raised his voice and stepped further into the room. "Mrs. Atkin?"
The elderly woman started at the surprise given her by the intruder. So intensely concentrated had she been on her crossword puzzle (and so low had her hearing aid been turned down) that she had been completely unaware of the young man's entry to her home.
It took a moment of calming down before she could get out the words, "Why, good evening, Stephen. You frightened me near to death, just there."
They laughed and he apologised, crossing the room to stand in front of her. His emerald eyes met her still-sparkling sapphires and he flashed the old broad a warm smile before asking, "What's it to be today, then? Is there something you're wanting in particular or shall I just improvise with whatever you've got?"
"Aye, just fire in, son. Just something simple, I've no' much of an appetite today."
"Was it Gillian seen to you this morning?" He inquired, off-handedly, sauntering to the kitchen to check the log book. "She's a habit of overdoing it."
"The heavy-set, blonde lassie, aye." She placed the crossword on the table beside her and grabbed hold of the cane that was propped against the settee. A feeble attempt at rising from her seat was quickly given up on and the cane returned to its resting place. "Am I your last, am I?"
Stephen gave an affirmative murmur and turned his back to the aged woman, to begin preparing her evening meal. An unexpected by-product of his work, as a home care assistant, was that he had become quite a nifty little cook; perhaps not quite balancing out the arse of the ninety-four year old man he had had to wipe that morning but still a bonus. As he worked, Mrs. Atkin watched his every movement from behind thick bifocal lenses, quietly smiling to herself.
When everything was cooking, he turned back towards her and surveyed the perfectly-ordered room.
"Right, that'll be ready in about twenty-five minutes; is there anything needs doing in the meantime, Mrs. Atkin?"
Another reason he liked coming to Mrs. Atkin's was that she always kept her home very neat and tidy, despite her disability; there was rarely very much for Stephen to do and so he got to often got to relax for a bit and have a chat with this rather interesting lady.
"No, no," came the expected and welcomed response, "You just come 'nd take a load off, son." She patted the vacant seat next to her with her frail, wrinkly left hand, the wedding band given her by her late husband still faithfully present.
Stephen, coerced by his still throbbing feet, obliged his kindly host, joining her on the faux-leather two-seater, met with, "You're looking awf'y tired, Stephen. They're working you far too hard."
"Och, I'm a'right, Mrs. Atkin, it's just a lot of walkin'. It'll be better when I get my car back."
"A young lad like you needs tae blow off some steam noo and again."
She conspicuously placed her bony fingers on his thigh; strangely, he did not immediately recoil from this peculiar action. "Maybe your needin' some help wi' that..."
Her eighty-seven year old hand shakily slid to his crotch and began weakly massaging his flaccid member through his black work trousers. This caught him off guard and he jumped back slightly in his seat, more than a little shocked by this sudden turn of events. Words failed him, as Mrs. Atkin grinned a false-toothed grin at him, though his mind raced too fast for him to properly comprehend the station.
His foremost thought was of losing his job; it may well be an unprecedented case but he was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to have his cock rubbed by a patient. He couldn't afford to lose this job, nor did he want to.
Quickly his mind gave him a metaphorical skelp round the lug - why was he even thinking of the consequences when he should be busy being physically revolted by a woman more than fifteen years his grandmother's senior fondling his genitals? Literally no good reason for why he was not bringing to a halt this situation was forthcoming.
Yet it continued. Indeed, horny old Mrs. Atkin was now fumbling with his zipper in an attempt to release his gradually hardening organ. Was he so hard-up that, even given the source, he was enjoying any sexual attention whatsoever? Was he so sex-deprived that he would allow this living relic to touch him in his most personal area?
It was now coming on six months since the last time Stephen had had sex and it was beginning to take its toll on him. It was easy to convince himself that he was just too busy with work and life to get involved with anyone but, calling a spade a spade, he just wasn't getting any. Surely no length of dry spell could drive him to his, though.
Looking down, he found that the crafty pensioner had managed to get her hands on just what she was after and that his semi-stiff pole was being worked over with delicately soft hands. It was as though he was having some surreal dream and, as he watched, Stephen found himself powerless to do anything to stop the proceedings, or even to look away. In his mind, he imagined this was like what an out-of-body experience felt like.
Almost before he knew it was happening, Mrs. Atkin had popped her teeth out in a manner Stephen feared was intended to be seductive and lowered her head to his lap. Her gummy mouth covered his head and she began to suck as though it were a Werther's Original; the sensation was better than anything he had known in his life, until now. The professional, mind-blowing blow job continued for several minutes and, in his state of unsurpassed pleasure, Stephen pushed out of his mind the knowledge of whose lips and mouth were responsible. Twenty-seven or eighty-seven, it didn't matter any more; head like this came along, if you were lucky, once in a lifetime.
Evidently sensing his approaching orgasm, Mrs. Atkin removed her skilled mouth from the phallus and stared up at the screwed up face of her carer.
When his eyes opened to meet hers, she spoke to him with a matter-of-fact tone, "Now, if you want that every time you come over, you're going to have to do one thing for me - one good, hard fuck."
There was so little humour apparent in her face, that he almost laughed but, as he soon came to realise, she was as serious as her demeanour implied. Stephen was conflicted; letting an old lady show her gratitude was one thing but giving her one was quite another.
It was the fresh memory of what he had been offered that finally swayed his decision. The risk to his job was already at its peak and, though this may have been six months of over-familiarity with his right hand talking, sex was sex at the end of the day. Besides, he felt bad for the dear woman; it had never really crossed his mind, but of course one's sex drive does not necessarily disappear as we grow old. She had obviously been gagging for it since her husband departed and, with such fresh meat dangled in front of her, an ember had been reignited. It was Stephen's job to assist the elderly and even though this was probably going above and beyond the call of duty, giving Mrs. Atkin a good shag was arguably in his remit.
While all this was being mulled over, the odd couple were positioning themselves to end each of their personal record dry streaks - six months for one and sixteen years for the other. When a fresh tube of K-Y Jelly was produced, Stephen realised just how cunning she had been and that this had all been carefully planned, perhaps for weeks. He couldn't bear to look as he rubbed it over her entrance in preparation for what, from an outsider's perspective, would surely be a less than attractive scene.
Still barely able to look at what (and who) he was doing, he slid between the two flaps of skin and began to tentatively thrust in and out of the ancient woman, afraid he might break her. She pulled up her skirt further around her hips and began to lose herself in the near-forgotten feeling of a hard cock deep inside her. They got into a good rhythm and she began to gasp with each strengthened plunge.
"Come on, Stephen, gi' me all you've got." These words, spoken like a seasoned slut, spurred the young man on, turning gasps into moans and yelps of pleasure.
He was a good fuck, if he did say so himself, and at this stage, he had nothing to lose by raising his game. HIgher and higher they both climbed towards their climactic peak, growing louder as they went.
"Oh, Mrs. Atkin!" Stephen yelled out, lost in the throes of mismatched passion.
"Ca... Call me... Muriel," she said between laboured breaths.
"Oh, Mur... Mrs. Atkin!" He refused to admit to himself, even now, that he was sticking it to anyone old enough to be named Muriel. "I'm going to come; should I pull out?" A instinctive and, in retrospect, stupid question.
"Don't you fucking dare," came the reply, "This is a new skirt. It's no' like I'm aboot tae get pregnant now, is it?"
With three final shoves, almost forcing her off the couch, Stephen came long and hard inside a pussy that pre-dated his family home, his eyes rolling back in his head as he did so. They stayed like that for a minute, floating lazily down from their high.
His used member flopped from between her saggy lips, a trail of semen retaining the connection for just a second longer. He stood and tidied himself up, while she rolled her tights back up and straightened her skirt. Then, like a frying pan to the head, it struck him that Mrs. Atkin's dinner was still cooking. He dashed across the room and managed to salvage the meal just in time, leaving him with the melancholy reflection that his stamina was hardly enviable.
An uncomfortable awkwardness passed between them as he served her the meal and went about cleaning up in the kitchen in silence. His mind was a-spin with fresh thoughts of termination and, more poignantly, self-loathing. He could not wait to be out of this house; he desperately needed to wash the grim mixture of old lady and shame from his body.
"Is it Monday you're back, Stephen?" Mrs. Atkin asked as sweetly and innocently as an eighty-seven year old who hadn't just been fucked senseless by her home help.
"Aye, Monday." She winked at him and he gave an involuntary shudder which she failed to see. "I better get off the now actually; Gillian will get your dishes in the morning. See you Monday, Mrs. Atkin."
Making as quick an escape as he could, Stephen took a step into the still bright evening and shut the door, breathing a long, deep sigh. Disbelief at what had just happened washed over him but the memory was too vivid for it to have been imagined. Then he remembered that gummy blow job and could not suppress a smile.
"I'm just doing my bit for the elderly," he told himself, making what felt like a walk of shame to the bus stop. "Just helping an old woman out, that's all..."
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