Mrs Grace I
- 3 years ago
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Mrs. Grace And Me free porn video
‘Alas! That all we loved in him should be, /But for our grief, as if it had not been, /And grief itself be mortal.’
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
To the people of Rosella Grove Mrs. Grace was something of an enigma. She lived alone yet she wore wedding and engagement rings and used the title ‘Misses.’
The window peepers of the Grove kept her under surveillance in the hope of some scandal, like a man or men visiting Mrs. Grace. No such visitors were ever seen apart from people making deliveries or optimistic Jehovah Witnesses.
What was factually known about her was very slim, she worked at the university in the classics department. This was known because Arthur Wainright who lived in the Grove was studying at the university and he’d seen her there. He added, ‘She’s got a PhD and they say she’s a real brain.’
She shopped at the super-market late every Wednesday afternoon, she went jogging every morning at 7-30 a.m., and when meeting people she was polite but a little remote.
At 1 p.m. every Sunday afternoon she was seen to drive her car out of the Grove, to return around 5 p.m. This gave rise to the rumour that she went to see a lover.
Her house, or more accurately cottage since it was called ‘Rosella Cottage,’ was an oddity in the Grove. It was of mid-nineteenth century vintage and had been built by a market gardener. In the nineteen sixties the developers moved in and put up what they described as ‘Executive Residences,’ one of which was eventually occupied by me and my parents. Mrs. Grace’s place, ‘Rosella Cottage,’ was the only evidence that the district had once been all market gardens.
Whoever the owner of the cottage was when the area was ‘developed,’ must have frustrated the developers by refusing to sell the place that stood on about half an acre of valuable land.
Mrs. Grace, so I learned, had moved into the cottage in the late nineteen eighties and, as the locals said, ‘She’s done a good job on the garden.’
She must have been very young when she moved in, because when I and my parents moved into the ‘executive’ house next door in 1993 she appeared to be in her late twenties.
I shall return to Mrs. Grace and her appearance, but it will help the reader if I give some background about myself and my circumstances, because it is associated with how I first met her and how our relationship developed.
* * * * * * * *
I was fifteen when we moved into the Grove. My father, Edward Haines, was a competent architect but no more than competent. He was not destined for great things. My mother, Valerie, was also competent in her chosen profession, a librarian, but was never likely to rise to the dizzy heights of State Librarian. The local library was her portion in life.
On the other hand, I Trent was, according to my parents, destined for great things. Unfortunately their view of my future did not accord with mine, and this I’d better explain.
When I was six years old I fell passionately in love with curly dark haired Judy, a girl in my class at school. I never told her of my love, in fact I was an incredibly shy child and never spoke to her at all, I simply adored her from afar.
That part of my life came to an end the following year when Judy was no longer in my class – she was not even in the same school because her parents had moved away from the district. Nevertheless I always associate Judy with the establishing of my zeal for history.
It came about because in that year of my Judy adoration our rather pretty teacher, Miss Hunt, drew on the chalk board a picture of boats on the River Nile in the time of ancient Egypt. She was a damned good drawer and I’ve often wondered since why she wasn’t an artist instead of a teacher. The point is, however, that from that moment on I was hooked and have remained hooked ever since on things historical.
Oddly, ever since I have associated my infatuation for Judy with my zeal for history.
At first my parents were surprised at my sudden interest in things ancient, and mother, at my request, brought home books from her library about, as I put it, ‘Those old things.’ As birthdays and Christmases approached my request was always for history books.
All went well until I entered high school, and that was when parental attitudes changed.
Since in their view I was to become an engineer, architect, physicist, doctor, or at worst a dentist or lawyer, I was told ‘It’s about time you stopped reading all that rubbish, it’ll get you nowhere.’
Like most teenagers I only listened to parental advice and admonitions so that I knew what the opposite was, and did it. I think beneath my incredible shyness was a very determined streak that only emerged in times of adversity.
This determination is perhaps illustrated by recounting my confrontation with Gorilla Thoms.
* * * * * * * *
The principal of our high school was Colonel Bransden, known to us boys as, ‘Old Brandyballs,’ one year, no doubt under the impression that he was still with his regiment, he decreed that all we boys should learn to box.
Learning usually implies teaching. If that is so our teaching in the pugilistic art was sparse indeed. It consisted of us being marched to the gym, our names being written on pieces of paper, and the teacher drawing them out from a bowl in pairs. This determined who we would have to fight with.
I naturally hesitate to say I was scared, but I had never had a desire to batter anyone or to be battered. When I saw that I was drawn to fight with Gorilla Thoms I had a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Gorilla was the biggest, strongest and stupidest boy in our class, plus he was the class bully. I had always managed to steer clear of him, but he was popular with most of the other boys in the sense that they saw it was best to keep on the right side of Gorilla.
Being shy, and therefore among the least popular boys in my class, there was much amusement when it was revealed I was paired off with Gorilla. All, including myself, were anticipating the battering I was about to get.
Equipped with boxing trunks and gloves we stood in the middle of the gym and were instructed to begin.
I was the same height as Gorilla but much slimmer, he was built like an army tank. I had one advantage over him, my sport was running, and that meant I could run away from him faster than he could catch up with me. Eventually however, he got me cornered.
The onlookers were cheering Gorilla, ‘Give it to him Gorilla,’ ‘Go on, give him one.’
He did give me one – a stinging blow that because I managed to move slightly landed on my shoulder.
I’ve heard of people seeing red, and I suppose that’s what happened to me, or at least I got fed up with backing away. Gorilla was distracted by the cheers of his supporters and was grinning at them. I suddenly sprang on him and started to hit him anywhere I could reach.
I saw the look of amazement on Gorilla’s face and he momentarily lost whatever concentration he’d had. I landed a punch on his eye and Gorilla snorting with fury swung a punch at me that if it had landed would have sent me to the other end of the gym.
Luckily it missed so I hit him again, this time on the nose. To my horror blood started to run out of his nostrils. For a moment Gorilla didn’t seem to notice this, and took another swing at me that once again missed. Then he noticed the blood and started to yell, ‘Sir…sir…’es broke me dose.’
Gorilla was taken away to have his ‘dose’ fixed and not long after that event the boxing lessons were cancelled. I never learned the full details, but apparently Gorilla’s parents threatened to sue the education authorities, the school, the principal, the teachers and my parents because I’d broken their son’s dose (I mean nose). They also suggested that I should be sent to a sort of kid’s detention centre because I was a menace to society
Thus ended my one venture into the art of pugilism.
* * * * * * * *
My victory over Gorilla did not exactly add to my popularity, but thereafter I was treated with some caution. The positive aspect was that I gained in self confidence, and this led to my first foray into experimentation with females.
Word of my bout with Gorilla got around the school and some of the girls were very impressed. I do not wish to boast, but I had the choice of several willing girls, but I’m afraid I chose badly, no doubt because that choice was the easiest.
Mavis Bird was my first choice. She was in fact the first choice of many of my male peers, and so I had to take my turn in her hectic schedule.
Here I must explain the arrangements for sexual contact among us students.
About two minutes walk from the school was the remnant of what had once been an extensive forest. All that now remained was a small patch of woodland with dense undergrowth, its official name was ‘The Copse.’ To we high school students it was ‘Bonking Wood.’
During the lunch recess and after school students, usually in pairs (mostly male and female but not necessarily so), could be seen making their way to Bonking Wood. Anyone passing the wood on foot could have heard groans, moans and squeals emanating from the undergrowth.
It was thither that I went with Mavis to learn yet another art, that associated with the female body.
The problem with Mavis was that she would not go, as she put it, ‘All the way.’ She was, she said ‘Saving that for Mr. Right.’
Deep kissing, breast fondling, nipple sucking and genital licking were permitted, the latter I did not particularly enjoy but Mavis insisted because as she said, ‘It’s only fair.’
The grand finale was for her to suck my penis until she felt I was about to come, and then she’d stop sucking and finish me off with her hand.
Those who have experienced this arrangement will know of the frustration it engenders, and I’m afraid I disgraced myself with Mavis when on one occasion, just as I was about to come, I put my hands behind her head and made her take my sperm into her mouth.
When I released her she screamed at me somewhat thickly, ‘You filthy beast, I’ll never let you near me again.’ Fortunately she kept her word and I was permanently off her hectic schedule.
Mr. Right turned out to be Spotty Drake. The appellation ‘Spotty’ derived from the suppurating pustules that adorned his face. He was in the final year of high school and head prefect. He made Mavis pregnant and under pressure from her parents he married her. I believe he has made her pregnant four times since then and blames her for ruining his life.
* * * * * * * *
My next visits to Bonking Wood were in company with Louise Probert. She in her way was as frustrating as Mavis.
True she went ‘all the way,’ but there was no foreplay. Any attempt on my part to deep kiss, breast fondle, etc. received the reproach, ‘Stop the mucking about and get on with the fucking or we’ll be late back to school,’ or, ‘Hurry up, my mother will be wondering what I’m doing.’
Louise served my youthful purpose for some time and at least I wasn’t sharing her with a dozen other guys.
Things took an unpleasant turn when one day Louise told me she was pregnant. She said that we might as well go on fucking because I couldn’t make her more pregnant than she already was, but for me the charm had suddenly gone out of the relationship.
It was further de-charmed when she pointed out that after the baby was born she would go on the pill until we got married, and then I could give her more babies, because after all, we were made for each other.
All this led to some sleepless nights, and when I did sleep, I had nightmares about being married to Louise.
It ended well – more or less – when Louise told me it had been a false alarm, but I wasn’t to feel disappointed because there would always be a next time.
I made sure there was no ‘next time’ when, as delicately as I could, I ended the relationship.
Louise did not take this at all well and accused me of having taken advantage of her. When this did not get the sought after response from me she went on to say that she would charge me with rape.
Fortunately she did not carry out her threat, and the following week I saw her heading for Bonking Wood with Gorilla.
If you are wondering what the school staff thought about all this Bonking Wood sexual activity, without being privy to their thoughts, I suspect that they were happy to have afternoon classes of peaceful hormones. After all, it did make for easier class discipline, if not concentration.
My narrow escapes with Mavis and Louise led to me making the decision that I would in future lead the celibate life. If there was to be any future copulating, then it would be with ‘Miss Right.’
With that explanatory digression I can now return to Mrs. Grace.
* * * * * * * *
We had lived for a couple of years in Rosella Grove and I’d had little do with Mrs. Grace. Like her I always took an early morning jog along the river bank and frequently met her. We did no more than bid each other good morning.
I was vaguely aware of her as a reasonably attractive woman but no more than that, and so, if I now give a fuller description of her it must be understood that it derives from my later experience of her.
There was a quality of intangibility about her. She was of medium height, say about five feet five or six. Contrasting strongly with her dark complexion, which was rather like a permanent tan, she had golden blonde hair which she wore in a single plait or, occasionally set free to hang like a curtain on either side of her face and spilled over her shoulders. The golden hair and dark complexion made an interesting and eye-catching combination.
Her features were small and regular, a straight little nose and with what people call, ‘a generous mouth,’ set in an oval face.
Her most striking feature was her eyes, an unusual grey in colour, and when turned to gaze at you, rather disturbing.
For jogging she wore tight shorts and what I thought looked like a man’s singlet, but which my mother insisted was a camisole. Since while jogging she wore no bras I could see that her breasts as they jiggled up and down. Not overly large, they were about the size of half grapefruits with rather sweet looking nipples. Her legs were elegantly long and slim.
To my youthful eyes she was neither ugly nor beautiful, but there was a quality about her that could not be denied or ignored and drew your eyes to her again and again.
To my ears she had a singularly lovely voice, soft and clear like a small silver bell.
Truth to tell I did have the occasional enjoyable fantasy about her, but I was naïve enough to believe that with what was probably a thirteen year age gap between us nothing sexual could ever eventuate even if I’d had the courage to make an approach, and besides, there was my vow of celibacy only to be broken when Miss Right arrived.
My closer acquaintance with Mrs. Grace came about through our jogging. One morning as I jogged I came upon Mrs. Grace sitting beside the path nursing her ankle.
The path was bitumen but near where she sat the edge of the bitumen had crumbled away and on putting her foot on the non-existent bitumen Mrs. Grace had twisted her ankle badly.
I asked if I could help her and she said that she didn’t think she could put any weight on the injured ankle.
Remembering some rudimentary first aid I took my top off and dipped it in the river, and then wrapped it round the ankle.
I said I would help her back to her place and with her leaning heavily on my shoulder we slowly made our way back along the path. The closer we got to her cottage the more heavily she leaned until her body was pressed to mine. Since my torso was bare this pressure proved to be
rather seductive, and in addition she had a delightful fragrance.
My vow of celibacy did not mean I was no longer susceptible to females, and by the time we reached the cottage that susceptibility was making itself very evident.
I started to wonder if the stories Tubby Weekes told about older women and younger men were true. But then, the way Tubby told it, the women were all ‘Dirty old sluts who are gasping for it.’ Somehow Mrs. Grace didn’t seem to fit that description.
Having got her as far as her front door I thought that would be the end of the matter, but still clinging to me she said, ‘Would you mind helping me in and making a cup of tea?’
I helped her in and found myself before the gates of paradise. The mildly salacious thoughts I’d been having about Mrs. Grace fled. Every available wall was lined with bookshelves crammed with books. At a glance I could see that many of the books were on the subject of my heart, history.
I settled Mrs. Grace into an armchair and raised the injured ankle on an ottoman.
Under instruction from Mrs. Grace I found some towels and wetting them began to apply them to the ankle that was now swollen and discoloured. Following further instructions I made the tea and sat down opposite her.
There had been no time for social niceties up to that point, but now Mrs. Grace said, ‘Your name is Trent, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your mother has talked about you to me. I suppose we should have got to know each other before this.’
I didn’t respond directly to that but said, ‘You’ve got a lot of history books.’
‘Have I?’ she said, ‘yes, I suppose I have, I just haven’t noticed, I buy what I need and…are you interested in history?’
I then talked enthusiastically about books and history while occasionally replacing the towels.
Mrs. Grace said that it was unusual for a young man to be so interested in the subject, and that most of her students only did classical studies as a sort of filler subject.
I displayed my ignorance by asking if classical studies involved history and received a mini-lecture on ancient literature.
Mrs. Grace said that I could borrow any of her books I was interested in and that was indeed to pass through the gates of paradise.
* * * * * * * *
Mrs. Grace having given me virtual carte blanche where her library was concerned, she seemed to take an ongoing interest in me. The fanciful image I had of her was of someone who, dying of thirst in the desert suddenly comes upon an oasis.
This was confirmed when one day she told me she got so sick of students with their lack on any real enthusiasm for her subject. And so it seemed that there was a fair exchange, she loaned me her books and I provided her with an enthusiastic learner.
I not only became a regular visitor to her house, but almost a daily one. I had never met a woman like Mrs. Grace before, intelligent, well educated, knowing her subject thoroughly and wanting to give in the intellectual sense. I was always welcome even when she was working, just as long as I limited myself to browsing her library for the next book I would borrow.
I suppose my experience with girls and women was somewhat limited at that time in my life. My sexual adventures with Mavis and Louise had been just that, sexual. Beyond that they had nothing to talk about apart from raving about the latest pop star. The other girls I knew at high school followed the same pattern. They might be good to look at, or not, but from my perspective they had nothing to talk about worth listening to.
As for older women, there was my mother, but once I’d started high school she, like my father, had repeatedly discouraged me from pursuing that which interested and absorbed me most.
Then there were the other women in the Grove, none of whom interested me particularly, except perhaps Mrs. Patterson who was blonde, big breasted and buxom of figure.
I’d had a few fantasies about her, but her husband was built somewhat like Gorilla Thoms, but I think he was more intelligent than Gorilla and, so I was told, he was extremely watchful where his wife’s communication with other men was concerned. If there was ever a next time for fisticuffs I might not be as lucky as I’d been with Gorilla. In any case I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea how to approach Mrs. Patterson to ask her to help me fulfill my fantasies.
Liesl
- 22.03.2022
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