273 Visiting a Yorkshire Lady. pt1
The car towing its elderly caravan turned into the long lane leading he knew to her home, he had never been before but had scanned google maps and knew the route as precisely as his own hand, he had, in his mind travelled it time and time again over the past few months.
The combination rattling over the cattle grid, and finally crawled to a halt behind the remote but very cosy looking three bed house, once the farm house of this remote farm on the open moorland.
The dust of his arrival blew away on the June breeze as he rose from his driving seat, stretched his long frame, and looked around, he had covered near 200 miles today, from a very early start at his home in the midlands, to what to some would seem desolate, place. To him it was lovely, a private and remote hive of love and joy. He checked his watch 10 am, he had done well, a good clear
run, just heavies on the predawn motorways had helped, the few cars knowing the score.
He knew her and her family from the webb, knew them almost as well on paper as he knew his own family. He had written for this woman and her family for some years now, they trusted him, though they had never met, which fact he treasured beyond any other, knowing on the webb, that there can be many spurious goings on.
Mary, was no young dolly bird, at 60 odd she would be the first to acknowledge that, big breasted, well-shaped, yes, kind of face, sensual, and still especially to him, desirable, but till today, to him, just a picture on a screen, just a mental image, his distant exciter and in wishful thinking his lover, not that at 70 he could make love as such nowadays, even the little blue pills having failed, but tongue and fingers could still worship a lady, pessimistic as always, he doubted that this visit though would bear even that fruit, but hope springs eternal.
Her son Mark, now in his 40`s, he knew lived with her, and his partner Sharon, a well-rounded sexual goddess, who he knew was bi-sexual, as he knew was Mary, the three sharing each other in every very equal and exciting way possible.
Mary had lived here, firstly with her son some years before, in fact, since she had been widowed, though she admitted to him after about the first three years of them living together in this remote home, it had become an i****tuous liaison, and now, it had become a threesome, Mark took up with his chosen partner in life a few years ago. it had become a glorious commune, occasionally strengthened by one of her sister`s, who again was bi-sexual.
Taking the flower`s from the back seat, he approached the house with some trepidation, but to his perhaps a little nervous surprise, as he came to the back door, just before he could knock, the door sprang open, stopping him in his tracks.
She stood smiling, Mary, this goddess of his mind, this persistent dream standing before him on her very own back step. Her eyes sparkling, dressed in blue trousers and a faun vee neck-jumper stretched over the more than ample bust and wearing no make-up, her hair perfect and just a single string of pearls round her neck to compliment her matronly, but lovely look. He had so often distantly coveted this woman, while sat in his far-off home, clicking away on his key pad in his cosy little world, writing stories for her and the folks on the site from his safe little study.
Here though he was in her world, a desert oasis in a wide-open piece of countryside, stretching as far as the eye could see, just the distant hills, sheep, and the privacy of the remote place giving a feeling of it being the last place in the world, the one far-off village, lending a lie to the open landscape.
“Eddy… and looking just as your photograph!”, she sounded relieved, and continued “Come in, come in do, the kettle is on as always, how, was your journey” she gushed, before he could either speak or answer turning rapidly and covering her own shyness by leading her way into the old farm house kitchen, her fortress, her hideaway, her home.
He passed her the flowers, dark red roses, he had collected yesterday before leaving home, knowing from his notes they were her favourites.
Blushing a little she accepted them gratefully, and gracefully, kissing him briefly as gently as a butterfly, then turning to the kettle and brewing tea, it was not what he expected, but in truth he had had no idea what to expect.
She on the net, was a very sensuous woman, sexually forward, always leading him on. To the neighbours, distant though they were, as they saw her in her daily life, they would never have guessed, as in the village, she was thought to be a good helpful kind, neighbour, a staunch member of the WI, and a respectable widow woman. He, her scribe, the distant Eddy, he, knew her better, her stories told him of her deepest desires, her sexual achievement`s, her sensuous and i****tuous love of her son, and sexual relationship with her daughter in law, and her obsession with her sister, both sisterly in fantasy and recently in reality physically!
He realised she was just a little flustered, she too was meeting him for the first time, and he knew she was a little embarrassed. they had shared secrets, pictures even, some in under-clothing, some even of her most secret sexual parts, naked, but only one, which he treasured above all others, of her with her face showing, perhaps a mistake, perhaps he had once wondered a fake, though today had dispelled that thought, he had always coveted a naked or near naked picture of her complete, but so far it had not materialised, to his lasting sadness, there was still just this one small barrier. This one tiny step of total trust.
Now here they were, stood in her kitchen like two tongue tied teenagers, not knowing what to say, or how to begin to close the gap, faced as they were with reality, her father confessor, her scribe, to some extent lovers, her distant soulmate and his lovely subject.
She poured the tea, his black and sugarless, then they sat at the big old table, sipping at the Englishman`s cure all, saying nothing, just absorbing each other, appraising one another, each a little tongue- tied, now they were actually together face to face.
He told her of the journey, it was a place to start. She, in turn told him “Mark, her son, was working, and Sharon her daughter in law, was day off, but away, visiting Mary`s older sister, Dawn, in a village a few miles distant, probably diplomatically, knowing how things were with this first meeting. Neither would be home until tea-time!”
They were both glad of this one to one time, this initial enforced privacy.
Tea drunk, Mary asked if he would like to set up his van in the yard at the back outside the big barn used by a neighbour to store straw. He realised it was a way to allow her and in reality, them both, time to acclimatise a little, to ease themselves in perhaps. So, he agreed, and together they wandered to the car and caravan, swung it all around, and with her guidance, positioned it, he uncoupled the car, then adjusted the stabilising legs while she connected his tiny home to a convenient indoor electric point via one of the back windows.
Proudly he showed her round, he and his daughter having taken the old van and in reality, rebuilt it over the last winter. She sat inside on the side seat, looking round the interior, he sat opposite her taking her hand and gently squeezed it, saying that “he had wanted to meet her in the flesh now for some months,” and that “he was glad she had asked him, it showed her trust in him, he was flattered.”
In answer she silently leant forward and kissed him, the door opened, not this time a butterfly touch but a full-on sex-ridden, long, glad you’re here type kiss, that he knew he would happily have travelled all that way just to receive. His great arms enfolded her, as he joined her on the long seat, simply pulling her to him, urgently now, his hands roaming over her back and hers gripping his upper arms. Lips welded together now, they collapsed back in a fierce embrace, he below her, holding her tight, those breast, those fabulous, real, soft and magical breasts, like giant erotic jellies against his chest, her hip against his leg, telling him that this mirage was real.
She knew of course of his erectile problem, so she was not phased, by his lack of any hint of an errection, he however felt his short-comings keenly. In his mind the lack of stiffness was not in any way a compliment to this lovely, fantastically, sexy lady.
She broke free, stood, dragged him to his feet and led him, by his hand, back to the old house.
Again, in the kitchen, her kitchen her place of safety their lips came, together, bodies wrapped as one in a long-awaited embrace, tongues entwined, lips hot with passion, his right hand daring at last to fondle her left breast, gently finding that massively erect nub, said by her son to be 18 millimetres long when erect, he could feel it now and he knew the estimate was as near correct as makes no odds, the nipple stiff against the bra, that he instinctively knew would be white, as like the roses, she would have known it was his favourite colour.
Her head fell back, his touch even through the clothing, sending her messages of sexual joy, she knew instantly she was his, just at this moment, as time stood still, nothing else mattered, she was his, Eddy`s, her long awaited worshiper.
She began to remove his shirt, button after button, light kisses rained on his neck, both his hands slid up under her top, lifting the garment slithering it up her body over the smooth bra, then over her head and her arms, she, even pausing from her own ministrations to allow the soft top to come away smoothly by raising her arms, a gesture of surrender in any language.
The found, just as he predicted it was a big white bra, holding her magnificent rack in his view perfectly, his eyes like laser’s now attracted to those twin peaks, her magic nipples pressing the tips of the lacy cups outwards in a threat to the stitching and heralding her sexual excitement of the moment.
It was then they heard the van. she had forgotten the postman, Peter, her only regular daily visitor! As usual the red van bustled into the parking space at the rear.
With panic in her eyes she rose to greet the posty. Regardless, of her hair, in a trice she was back in the faun jumper, back to being the staid widow woman. he re-buttoning his shirt wondering if this dream was now shattered.
Usually for Peter the postman, it was for him a welcome tea stop, in the warm kitchen, or at the very least a moment or two on the doorstep swapping gossip, with this impressive lady!
Today it was a flustered doorstep greeting by a slightly flushed woman, her hair unusually a little dishevelled, blocking his entrance, and taking the mail in slightly indecent haste, exchanging just a few words about the caravan, who`s occupant she said was “a visiting distant relative, a cousin on tour” adding that she “was mid conversation on the `phone and must go.”
He nodded, said “he wouldn’t keep her then,” before returning to his van and driving away, no doubt a little miffed at missing his tea!
Luckily, he was not an inquisitive man or a deep thinker.
She returned to the kitchen checking he had left by the rattle of the cattle grid then throwing the few letters onto the table and removed the top once more, in a `where were we’ attitude. A very relieved Eddy saw her nipples had deflated but stooping to her breasts his lips soon kissed them better, and they rapidly re-erected as with a sigh she resumed her removal of his thin shirt, baring his bald chest.
Again their lips met, as his hands went behind her reaching for the clasp of the bra, long awaited hallowed ground, that with a practised flick of his fingers, had the garment losing its strength, the breast`s both sagged just a little, as unrestrained now the straps slid from the soft shoulders, she letting it fall to the floor from her lowered arms, while standing passively as he carefully surveyed her fantastic upper body, his eyes missing nothing. After a long second or two enjoying the view, his hands tracing their way over the soft breasts, in a way that said he loved what he saw, and that he was enraptured.
She knew her breasts fascinated most men, though few had got to enjoy them in the flesh, but, this was different, this was just as Mark her son treated them, this was not just interest, it was worship, it was a man paying homage, and to her, it was a most welcome and huge compliment.
She understood this fascination, she had it herself when dealing with Sharon or her sister Charlotte `s body, that feeling of lovely, warm soft flesh, the areolas tender and sensitive and that tempting nipple, that cherry on the cake, the centre of the universe, that natural target for a lover`s tongue.
Her eyes closed as he sucked on the left nipple as his hand caressed the right, her legs became a little weak, adrenaline pumping, her hands involuntarily gripping his head in a grasp that said `Yes… yes that’s it, yes!
His hands fell to her waist-band, nearly unnoticed, the lower clothes were slipping from her body, knickers and trousers falling away, together, helped by his gentle hand, shoes slipping off with the passing clothes, in a heap which she stepped from with the grace of a fawn.
Here in her own kitchen she stood for him, he still suckling on her breast like a baby, his warm hands sliding over her buttocks, soft and gentle, smoothly his once strong hands finding her dimples, and her tender spots, her curves and her swells. The cool summer air, reaching her damper more excited crevices, as she waited eagerly now for his touch, his discovery of the little ring she had, had pierced over her clit, for her husband all those years ago, his mark, as good as any brand, her token of undying love and her being his.
To her surprise she felt him leave the nipple and with some stiffness of his arthritic joints kneel and lower his face to her Mons.
Rattling the tiny ring she had shown him on the photographs, using his tongue. The abandoned damp nipple feeling the tiny breeze from the window now, the birds outside wittering as they gathered food at her bird table, sheep in the pastures calling, the world outside continuing in total normality, though here, here in this her own kitchen, she was standing passively, completely naked but for her jewellery, and a single string of pearls with a half dressed man she hardly in reality knew, sucking on her sex for all he was worth and she, a pillar of the local community, willingly letting him do so without a hint of remorse.. It was surreal, a dream, but it was magic beyond words.
Slowly oh so slowly her legs crumpled and they collapsed gently together, fluidly slithering to the cool floor, his tongue playing a tattoo on her clitorise, she began to groan, her hips rising to his onslaught, as finally she began to let herself ride on this wave of sensuous joy, her breathing becoming more laboured, as she began her orgasm, and she honoured him with a fountain of her juices such as until that moment he had never seen, his own wife not being a squirter, even when younger.
Without any touch, or caress whatsoever, with a groan of contentment, his own joyous spurt involuntarily filled his `y’ fronts, in a way that he hadn’t for a very long time. It was beyond words, they lay on the cold and hard floor for some time, neither wishing to be the first to move, or to break the spell, knowing in their hearts that, they could never manage that particular spontaneous act so perfectly ever again it could not and would not, ever be repeated.
Finally, by mutual unspoken consent they rose, she silently put on her clothes, he his shirt, and the kettle soon began to sing once more.
He knew he had another few days here, and it was set to be fantastic. And he didn’t mean just the weather.

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