A Dickens of a Tale
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Mary was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am about to relate.
Mary had been my wife for over twenty years, mother of our kids, confidant, no doubt the best thing that had ever happened to me. She was not, I hasten to add, perfect, nor was I, by any means, and we had the usual ups and fortunately few downs. However, one morning, Mary just didn’t wake up. This isn’t about her death, and there was nothing traumatic about the whole episode – I pretty much sleep walked through the process of calling 911, ambulance response, later pro forma police response, supportive neighbors and friends going through the mourning and other legal wrap up and such. At the other end, some months later, I found myself pretty much accustomed to being single again, but I hadn’t taken any steps to enter the social world. I had enough money from insurance and turning over my business (while maintaining an income stream from it). I still went to the small office I’d kept, and one assistant who was mediocre at best but put up with my occasional idiosyncrasies. I even had the occasional consulting job if I felt like it, thanks to that business having carved out a niche in an industry that sometimes needed niche advice.
I wouldn’t say I was exactly “happy” per se, but I certainly wasn’t depressed – just pretty much on automatic much of the time.
Oh, and the kids are grown and flown, had been great during the funereal chapter, and were now back with their own careers and concerns. After some months, realizing the price of gas and such, I increased my walking a good bit. I played enough golf to keep my business contacts in touch, since business had become pretty much my primary interest – but for the sport and social part of it, I really couldn’t have cared less. I was as on track as anyone could be in my situation. If pressed in conversation, I would admit to missing the presence of a female in the house, and each time I said that I knew silently there was more I missed, like the comforting hip to rest my hand on as I drifted off to sleep at night, and of course the fucks. But I just wasn’t up to dating, not yet. The internet gave me adequate and free sexual fantasy and outlet for my still active hormonal needs, and even let me investigate ideas I’d known not to mention to Mary, most of which confirmed earlier suspicions that those predilections just didn’t do it for me (for instance homosexuality, cross-dressing, anything with pain or humiliation) – turned out I was pretty vanilla after all, well, at least for the most part…. All in all, I considered myself fortunate.
That said, the day in question was a cold, bleak, biting one. I’d gotten up early, inspired (or misguided), bundled up, went for a long walk around town (too nasty for golf), cleaned up, read the Journal and surfed the market movements, and had a meeting with my financial advisor who was trying to get me into some options in the market, something I’d been pretty good at playing with in the past. By the evening, I was back home, reheated some soup for supper, and settled on the couch in the living room to read a bit. I had the gas logs in the fireplace going and was comfortably clad in only sweatpants and a denim work shirt. I expected to read a bit, then see if I was motivated enough to work some on that novel I keep flirting with getting serious about.
True to form, however, the reading and warmth led to drowsiness and soon to one of those deep sleeps.
I awoke sometime later to the rarely employed front door bell ringing. Checking the clock, I saw that it was 1 a.m.! Who in the world would be knocking at this hour, my bleary head asked me. I struggled to my feet and headed to the door, bit by bit realizing that the long sleep had actually refreshed me. I got to the door to see through the peep hole an attractive female, dressed in jeans and a loose sweater, shivering on the porch.
“Hello,” I think I offered, noncommittally, opening the door.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, especially at this hour, but I saw your lights on” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m Belle, your new neighbor. I just moved in across the street – in fact, I saw you the other day when the movers were here, but I was too busy to introduce myself then. Listen, I’m so sorry to ask, but I’m still unpacking and the movers just stacked boxes and left, and some of them are just too high for me. Is there any way I could impose on you to give me a hand getting a few of them down? I’m determined to straighten things out as soon as I can, and . . . “
I watched her as she spoke, and when she paused I quickly replied, “Hello, I’m Ben. And of course – that’s what neighbors are for, right? Come in out of the cold, let me grab some shoes, and we’ll go take care of things for you.” In that amount of time I’d easily registered that she had medium-length, dark blonde hair, was maybe 5′ 4″ or so, and was nicely proportioned from what I could tell. There were breasts under there, but not discernable as to size or firmness, certainly nothing bodacious, and I could see her jeans were tightly bahis firmaları covering nice legs leading to an ass I looked forward to following to check out further. Her age was indeterminate – maybe early 30s, maybe 50 – I really couldn’t tell. Certainly younger than I, but maybe not scandalously so, my id reasoned.
I slipped on some boat shoes over my bare feet, not expecting to be out for long, pulled the door behind us, and we walked straight across the street, up the porch, and into the opposite townhouse. I thought for an instant that I knew the place was empty but hadn’t really even known it was on the market, much less noticed any “sold” signs or moving trucks – tells you how attuned I was, I guess.
We entered into a crazy quilt of furniture all set up, flanked by stacks of those standard moving boxes, stacked clearly above her reach but within mine (I’m not tall, but 5′ 10″ does make a difference over 5′ 4″. None of the boxes was labeled – she must have had a pretty lousy moving company, and I wondered if she really had the money to be in the neighborhood since it was somewhat upscale and mortgages were tight these days.
“So, all of them down to on the floor?” I asked.
“Oh, thanks – no, if you can just get the top ones, I can get to the rest later. It’s just those way high ones that scare me, since I don’t know what’s inside each. Be careful, some may be heavy with books or china, others light with just stuff – they packed everything, just didn’t label, and I had to see to something else so wasn’t there when they did, and – oh well, we’ll see if I really got taken or what as I find what’s inside them.”
As I started lowering the upper row of boxes around the room, I reflected that she must be a really trusting soul – I’d be damned if I’d have signed off on someone trying to pull that sort of lousy service on me. I hadn’t built a success in trading commodities by getting taken by crooks – that was for sure. Farmers like to come off all aw shucks, but when it comes to dealing in their corn, they’re a fierce lot and you’ve gotta be tough sometimes – it’s business! Ah, well, anyway, back to it: I felt a bit sorry for her, but also felt pretty good that I was being able to help out someone, something I’d not done much of since Mary had died.
There were more of the boxes than I’d registered at first, and I went from room to room, lifting down, setting in orderly rows. Belle scurried about, unpacking and putting things away, and between boxes and scurries, we got to know a bit about each other – not much, but that I was widowed and retired, she a work-from-home analyst who’d taken to the village and moved for its advantages. She didn’t mention marital status. Although I noted she was ringless, I wasn’t about to ask – that and a woman’s age and weight being topics I learned long ago not to pursue.
The heat was on and it was a lot warmer than in my place, and I was getting warm as I worked. I guess Belle was too, and I immediately noticed when I saw she’d shed her sweater and was now toiling in a tank top that was conservative but which left little doubt that she was braless and that her breasts were very nice from what I could guess – I was thinking B – to – C cup, with just enough movement to confirm the braless thing – plus, her nipples were pressing against the material. I was thoroughly enjoying the sight and was enjoying feeling my dick starting to swell when I realized I didn’t have on underwear. If I grew much more, I’d be displaying, and that she’d probably be horrified thinking I was some perve if she noticed, yet that I’d be disappointed if she didn’t. Notice, that is.
I turned back to my work, determined to keep at least this first meeting above board, as I was already thinking of maybe pursuing things and changing that on another day. Chivalry first, then maybe light friendship, then the rack – nice progression, I thought. I also thought for a moment about Mary and remembered we’d both said when one of us survived the other, the survivor should “shed the chains” as she put it, of our marriage, to live life fully again. I reckoned I didn’t have chains to shed but did register that I wasn’t exactly living life fully again and that Belle’s tank top was indicative of one part I was missing.
I finished, re-calmed, and called to her, “I think I’m about done – anything else I can help you with?”
She came around the corner from the next room, smiling gorgeously. That smile really lit her up, made me realize she was indeed attractive beyond the mere physicality I’d been hornily honing on. “Thanks so much, Ben! I’m afraid it’s going to be a mess around here for some time to come, but I’ll have you over for dinner when the dust settles as repayment.”
“No need,” I said, “but that’s a nice offer, and it was no trouble at all. I’ll be running along – good luck with all this, and if you need more help, you know where to find me.”
“Now, where did that coffee maker go? I may expire in the morning if I can’t wake up to a good caffeine fix!” she said to herself, opening a box and looking through it.
Turning kaçak iddaa back, I said, “They sure didn’t do you any favors packing, did they? Here, let me look through some, and you look through some – we’ll find it.”
She didn’t say anything, just accepted my presence I guess, and as she started at one end of the rows in the living room, I started at the other, using my never-travel-without smallest of the Swiss army knives to cut the tape as she used something or other else. She discovered a table lamp, I some books and bookends; she the kitchen drawer of knives and spoons and things (which really pleased her) mixed in with a set of towels, I a magazine rack with the magazines (Time – ok, More – ok again, Cosmo – oh, kay! – an Agent Provacateur catalog – major OKAY, I didn’t even know they put out a paper catalog!), all still in it wrapped in a sheet; she a case or so of wine bottles (she hooray’d and put some in the fridge). Then I delved into my next one. We’d been laughing while we opened, about it turning into a treasure hunt and we were both thoroughly enjoying the fun of it, with my stealing looks down her top at those ever-more-tantalizing breasts and/or looks at her ass as she bent over to dig into the packing in a box.
Then I hit something of a jackpot: pulling back the tabs, I looked down into a sea of multicolored lace and sheer fabric. Pulling one piece up, I saw I held the strap of a very flimsy bra, peach-colored, sheer, and what appeared to be an underwire half-cup that would cradle yet expose the nipples above it. I quickly checked and it was marked 34C, so now I knew, and my cock took a lurch inside my sweats. Looking for the same color, I found and pulled up a peach and similarly sheer pair of panties that revealed on further inspection that they were “ouvert,” having been designed to be subtlely open at the crotch. Whoa – another lurch as I imagined her in them and reflected on just what she would be like to own a set like that in the first place. Digging further into the pile of black and white and pink and even sky blue, I found – the coffee maker, amidst all the underwear, thankfully wrapped, since I could see some loose grounds in the packing.
I stood up, holding the coffee maker (bigger than a pot, one of those fancy ones but not huge), not immediately registering that I still had the peach set of lingerie dangling from one hand while I cradled the pot in both. “‘This what you’re looking for?” I asked.
“You found it!” she exclaimed delightedly, then stopped short and gasped, “And is that what else you found?!”
I realized I was holding the bra and panties and stammered, “Sorry, the coffee maker was in the middle of a bunch of this stuff. I guess the movers had a pleasant time packing,” I murmured, more to myself, but the I realized, loud enough that she’d heard it.
“Why, you’re blushing – that’s sweet,” she said, coming over and taking the coffee maker out of my hands. I stood there, still holding the lingerie, not sure just what to do with it now – toss it aside, offer it to her, lay it down gently? No really smooth options, I figured.
“So, do you like fondling women’s underwear?” she smiled at me, her eyes dancing in delight of having me so embarrassed. I thought maybe she should be embarrassed, but not for now it seemed. She was interesting, to say the least.
“Actually, yes, I guess I do, one of those ‘what’s not to like’ things,” I offered, struggling to regain control. “Although it’s a lot more fun when it’s attached.” OK, now I was pushing – too far?
She laughed at that, “I guess so, at least for men!”
Determined not to let this opportunity die, I continued, “And for women?”
“Well, I think we buy it to make ourselves feel attractive, then like to model it for someone who appreciates that, then like to be delivered from its grasp. Some of those things are definitely not made for comfort – or at least not for the comfort of the wearer!”
I hadn’t registered that my cock was slowly but determinedly growing as she spoke and I thought about her in peach, modeling.
She looked at my sweats, saw the bulge. “You appear to like this discussion as well as those!” she laughed, nodding at the bra set I still hadn’t put down.
“So,” she continued, “did your wife like lingerie as well as you?”
There was a brief moment between us when I think we both considered if she’d crossed a line, bringing up Mary. I considered, I know, and I flashed back to Mary telling me if she beat me through life, for me to thrive and enjoy, not to mourn her beyond my own healthy recovery. I also registered that maybe she made the remark to bring me back down to earth and erect (now there’s a verb) a barrier. I also reflected that I felt emotionally recovered, silently thanked Mary for her memory and for her future wishes for me, and plowed on.
“Actually, she was not a big fan of lingerie, despite my entreaties. She preferred the lights out, straight to it, preferably Saturday morning on the dot kind of stuff. It was great once we got going, don’t get me wrong, but no, she didn’t do lingerie. kaçak bahis I bought her some stunning stuff, only never to see it worn. I remember doing then putting away laundry as a nice surprise for her one day, only to find in her drawer a set similar to these, but with the tags still attached. She was terrific in a lot of ways, but no, not in that respect. And so, after awhile, it just wasn’t part of our relationship, and then sex itself waned a bit, and I suppose at least in part due to that, I focused more on business, and built quite a nice life for us, so I’m not sure it wasn’t a good thing in the long run.”
I realized I’d gone a lot farther than I’d intended and faltered, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s sort of like not honoring her to tell that sort of thing.”
“Maybe, Ben. Maybe.” she answered quietly but intently. “And maybe if she were here she’d want to have you have some closure for that part of you that she couldn’t bring herself to help when she was here in the past, and that whatever baggage she had inherited in her youth and the daily grind kept her from exploring with you.”
I was taken back by that, and stood silently, thinking through it.
“So,” she said cheerily, breaking the somber tone, “actually, I think I’d better finish the unpacking. No telling what kinds of other naughty things you might come across in my stuff! ‘Tell you what – if I can find enough kitchen ware, how about if I cook you some breakfast – I make wicked holiday turkey dinner, but maybe we can settle for French toast, and we can test the coffee maker’s surviving the move?”
“No way you’re going to get that organized and unpacked in a couple of hours, not to mention your lack of sleep” I laughed, relieved that the tension had passed. “Instead, how about if you get some rest tonight and then come over to my place in the morning – I even know where the coffee maker AND the coffee are, and I’ll cook us up something simple and ever so manly?”
“It’s a deal!” she smiled and held out her hand. It took me a moment, but then I realized what she was doing and dutifully deposited the bra and panties in it noted her laughing eyes, turned, and left. I felt light as a feather, and when I got back to my place, I decided to shower. Then, feeling refreshed and sleepy (go figure), I plopped down onto my bed, smiling, feeling as though I’d had some burden lifted – maybe not all the way, but definitely lifted.
I may or may not have slept – if I did, I don’t recall either fading off or waking up. All I knew was that suddenly, there I was at my front door, opening it for her. It was still dark, for crying out loud. What, did she never, ever sleep!? Anyway, I welcomed her in, put her down parka in the coat closet, and set off to collect a southern gentleman’s breakfast’s worth of eggs, grits and bacon and, of course, coffee.
As I started sorting out ingredients, I took another look at her. She appeared to be freshly showered, smelled great – some vanilla mixed with wintry something, and now had on a short pleated tan skirt, a white blouse that was certainly not suitable to winter, and sandals – sandals, in this cold?! At least I had on a t-shirt and the same sweat pants. I was thankful for us both that the place was warm inside.
I actually can cook more than just gruel, and so I did, and we feasted on plenty of it and washed it down with fresh, strong coffee. She watched me quietly, occasionally remarking on something, but generally just being there, and it felt like we were both very much in the moment, as they say.
After that, we adjourned to the living room and took seats at opposite ends of my couch. It’s that same one I dozed off in – very comfortable and big enough to accommodate more than two.
“Have you given any more thought to what we touched on earlier?” she inquired, I suppose testing the waters.
“Actually, not really – but now that you mention it, I can see your point. I always thought Mary would have been happier if she’d been more open to exploring with me, but maybe that’s just my projecting a rationale for wanting to drag her down to the depths of my depravity,” I chuckled, carefully opening another door while waiting to see her response.
“You know, if I were she, I’d have joined you there, or I think I would – depends on those depths, I suppose. Care to expand?” She was smiling again – good sign.
“Well, nothing really kinky – I’m not into pain of any sort, no child pornography, nothing vaguely illegal or even what I’d really call illicit.”
“OK, that’s what’s not – what is in those depths?” With that, she slid closer to me on the couch. I looked and saw that somewhere between coffee and now, a couple of buttons on her blouse had come undone and I could see the center front of peach-colored bra, along with a bit of the swell of her breasts. Whoa! She’d worn the very lingerie I’d been fondling earlier, that we’d joked about – I jumped happily to the conclusion she was up for my exploring that lingerie in situ. Remembering that the bra was really sort of a half cup thing, I stared mightily at her chest, trying to confirm she’d actually worn that and being typically male in trying to make out any available details of her breasts. She didn’t miss my stare, busting me by asking, “I mean, other than the obvious?”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32